Revolutionary Postcards
Mao Zedong wrote poetry
witnessing
the rivers, the mountains, and the
shining faces
of the Long
March.
His poems paint stark pictures
of determination, desperation
defeat, and destiny.
He wrote immersed in his hope
that the Long March
would succeed,
while it was still an open question.
Here, though, it’s just a little box
of postcards,
an offering of possibility –
little moments stolen
in the midst of movement(s),
where collectives take action in shack settlements,
in rock-strewn scrub land,
in the edges of lush forests,
in a wide open salt-tanged
lagoon.
These actions speak, in tones and timbers, over and over again –
like a record revolving without end –
“Nothing about us, without us!”
Maybe not the Long March,
but certainly here for the long haul.
Decision
A wind that topples the camp chairs –
A wind so strong we ask
the campers to
raise their voices;
raise their voices for a Free
Palestine!
Kids who last year maybe
knew nothing of this conflict,
but now know images of dead children
in the arms of dead mothers.
And so they’ve flowed from
their cozy, warm beds
to sleep for weeks in an
encampment on the
campus quad.
“How can we talk of graduation when this year in Gaza
no university is left standing?”
reads a sign by their hand.
The wind lifts their voice out into the
city like seeds – a small hope against a tide of
genocide.
Flagstaff House
(A snapshot taken in Accra, 2007)
It stands now, behind its walls – broken down – its security checkpoint – empty – and its razor wire – rusted crusts of decay; it stands now in the middle of a forgotten field, a memory lapse in the middle of Accra. No one walks there for fear of his spirit, for fear they will be marked down by the betrayal of others. Or rather, only one man goes there, his old zookeeper, who comes every week to see if he has returned, spends the night enfolded in memories in the front room off the portico.
This house once stood for a nation; turning his back on the Castle, its colonial days and burden now shed, Nkrumah built this grand yet functional state house. To this day, even its shell and skeletal remains still show the skill and care that went into its construction. Two long dining rooms for state dinners, a beautiful wood-lined open verandah for the taking in of evening air, a billiard room – the only piece of furniture that remains, its bulk too heavy to cart away – an indoor pool to cool off in the mid-afternoon sun, a library with big windows for light, and outside a vast garden for walking, on covered paths and in the open.
Stories and images come to life, even in this old abandoned shell:
He walks out every morning, stands on the Black Star on the front walk, under the covered drive and waits for his car to be driven up. What does he think in these moments? Is he already transforming under the pressure of constant CIA-sponsored assassination attempts? Is he already imagining who will betray him next? Or is he simply meditating on the day ahead?
He stands on the long balcony out back and watches as his children play on the swing set – still dangling to this day on rusted fibres in the middle of overgrown bush. Does he picture in his mind the future ahead for his children, does he question his chosen goal of freedom for all of Africa instead of freedom only for Ghanaians? Does he see unfolding the turmoil of the coming generations, where this regime will overthrow that? Does his vision capture all this and try to ignore it, as he stares across his piece of peace in the world of war? Does he for one moment wonder if his iron fist should be opened and turned into a handshake for someone else, someone new?
On the verandah downstairs, he is sitting with Malcolm X. They are talking about Malcolm’s newfound direction, a direction that sees the possibility of peace. He reminds Malcolm that America is not the only place where this struggle needs to be won, that these issues are bigger than nation-states, and that the future of Africa as a whole needs to be enfolded in this path. Malcolm leaves thinking deeply and almost collides with Mohammed Ali on the front steps. A verbal word lashing ensues – the stinging bee and butterfly song-dance of betrayal – as Nkrumah looks on from his portico. Perhaps he is shaking his head, in hope and uncertainty if all this can truly come to pass.
About the author:
Jonathan Langdon is a writer, activist and Professor who teaches adult education and development studies at St Francis Xavier University, in Mi’kma’ki or Nova Scotia, Canada. His educational background includes a PhD in International and Adult Education, a MA in Creative Writing, and a BA in International Development and English Literature. He is currently the Canada Research Chair for Sustainability and Social Change Leadership. He has published two books, and numerous academic articles and chapters that examine the themes of social movement learning, decolonizing pedagogies, and climate justice. Jon has shared his poetry and prose excerpts in poetry readings in Ghana and Canada. Jon currently lives in Kjibuktuk/Halifax.
Isele Magazine 
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