My past is here where I see my foot prints
on this red of volcanic soil I try putting on my canvas
on open ground under soothing shade of mango tree
where I took my first steps from our back-door
to dream play laugh stumble get hurt feel pain
beginning of inkling of difference between wrong and right
our front-door and garden faced barbed wire fence
verandah wall had broken glass to ward off intruders
the old railway house in Macupa is store of associations now.
Here came first my grandparents
to work for the railways
later my 90 year old ancestor
a blind displaced widow from
our village Kanjrur in Punjab.
Land of five rivers of green rice paddy and
yellow brown wheat
land of diverse language costume, ancient religion and history
here Sufis and Guru Nanak taught both Hindu and Muslim
to be tolerant to each other
to remove caste barriers
to prepare and share food together.
Many punjabi immigrant workers left their villages
now under the boot of colonialism
suffering from hardship and poverty
to settle in Vancouver, California, Malaysia and Kenya.
Here they came in contact
with nationalists anarchists and marxists
who called for Ghadr rebellion in 1915
against the Empire.
Many returned to Punjab
to be jailed and hanged
but seeds for revolution and freedom were sown.
Youth was aroused and awakened by Bhagat Singh
with his call of Inquilab Zindabad
carried to every village and city
but Hindu and Muslim unity led by Gandhi
degenerated and led to bloodshed
and partition of Punjab in 1947.
Miracuosly my old ancestor
escaped made homeless and in need
now looked for support
from her family who made Macupa their home.
It was much later in my life
I realized significance of being forcibly
made to leave home
land people and history.
Mombasa is an island of coral
washed in deep green blue
by vast Indian Ocean
baked in sun to white and black
lapped by salty warm humid breeze and
fanned by tall slim coconut trees.
Old swahili city and buildings with
carved doors and balcony
neglected in ruins now
sights for tourists taking photos.
Harnessing changing rhythms
of monsoons old dhows sailed
up coast of Africa to Arabia, India and China
blending costume food taarab shayari
and philosophy of swahili.
Now these memories
are alive to possibilities of future
as scholars poets and activists struggle to remind us
the need for individual responsibility
for immediate local and global awareness.
As the hegemonic neoliberalism today
triumphantly makes false claims
for self interest and consumerism
for end of socialism and history
for white supremacy and zionism
for islamophobia and
with arrogance and ridicule is dismissive of
the just challenges to market fundmentalism and
the hungry rioters for food.
Sieze the time now
for the just must destroy this system
before it destroys us.
Dare to struggle
for socialism today
Take power my comrades
my brothers my sisters.
In the belly of the Western metroplitan beast
from London to Los Angeles
Paris and Rome
black immigrant workers are struggling to find
their collective voice against the police violence
and fascist manipulating and control of our daily lives.
For sure they must find
just historical narrative and make alliances
which will put an end to this system
of racial capitalism and slavery.
Kenya today is divided into two nations rich and poor
rich are few and poor are many, the divide is stark
rich live in leafy suburb behind tall steel gate alarm and guard
their garden profuse with green and air fragrant with flower
signs of comfort and self satisfaction
poor live in leaking shed
of tin plastic gunia and mud they call home
air is foul and colour drab
here feel swamp of desperation and hunger.
They feast and dream in Karen and Muthaiga
we sweat and bleed in Mathare Dondora and Ngara
they rule control and manipulate us
we work live and die for them.
No God wants such unjust country
No slave endures this for long,
Are we the leaders we have been waiting for?
From Macupa to Ngara of my early childhood to youth
from fog of colonialism to cheerleaders of false freedom and promises
when Makhan Singh was isolated and neglected
when Pio Gama Pinto was threatened and murdered
any dissent was not tolerated
humble poor peasant and worker
defiant journalist student and lecturer
was humiliated detained and tortured
our movement driven underground and in exile
where dream of socialism and hope
for freedom was kept alive.
The movement is finding its voice once more
eyes ears words and are focused against impunity
we speak for social justice
we organise for political education
schools for our communities
where lives of activists and socialists like
Kimathi Pinto and Makatilili are portrayed
their values are made relevant for today
their historical role as liberators is narrated
extracts from books read out
now old Lumumba Institute is reborn as
Ukombozi Library and
Jukwaa la Ukombozi.
Here I came to rekindle and relive
those days and places that made me
a growing feeling of homecoming
reflecting and imagining our future
our socialist dream to fulfill
and work for.
Here I saw few and met of old and new
radical writers teachers poets historians and
grassroot activists with feet firmly planted
against prevailing degrading conditions
to reimagine better future
to regain control of our history
to remake ourselves in struggle for liberation.
Farewell my brothers and sisters
for allowing me to colour my emotions
paint my black radical thought
in bold of my choice
thanks for inviting and sharing
your delicius roti and chai
both your generosity and dedication
touched me deep
thanks for giving me all this and more
and for this my humble poetical attempt
an endeavour in love.
Lal Salaam,
Inquilab Zindabad
For I now realize why I should be back.
HARSH PUNJA
8 NOVEMBER 2018
NAIROBI.
With slight changes to the original.
30 OCTOBER 2020.
ROME.
