by Robina Marks
The word ‘elipsism’ refers to the sadness that we feel because we are unable to see how the now that we live will turn into the history that will be after we pass over. It is the curse of all generations, and also of ours, that we may influence, but cannot tell how our individual and collective actions may become realised-or not-in the future. All that we can do is to seek our own true intention, pray for wisdom and guidance, and then do what we can with what we have within our lifetime. And not betray the hopes and the aspiration of our people’s quest for a better life within the epoch of our own time, and within our own generation.
I was thinking about this on what would’ve been Patrice Lumumba’s birthday on July 2. I was visiting the public museum called De Silva museum, in a city called Porto Novo, a place that the first Portuguese colonisers named, meaning ‘New Port’, and which they developed as a port for the horrific transatlantic slave trade. Eventually the French took control of the city, and through its policy of assimilation in their colonies, quickly sought to stamp out the use of local language to replace it with French. Although all of this happened way before Frantz Fannon developed his own theories on the colonised-coloniser subject, this must have been part of his reflection when he wrote, ‘the business of obscuring language is a mask behind which stands the much bigger business of plunder’. And Ngũgĩ too, sees language, rather than history or culture, as the enabling condition of human consciousness: "The choice of language and the use of language is central to a people's definition of themselves in relation to the entire universe”.
But back to the De Silva museum, with its fascinating history that was shared with me by its octogenarian, Karim de Silva, a Muslim man after which the museum is also named. And whose own history within his own lifetime spans the turbulent times of change during the last century. And so the museum is replete with all kinds of fascinating memorabilia that tells the history of his family. And it’s a contested history, steeped in the antecedents of the trans-Atlantic slavery. The founder of this strand of the family, like so many others, was a white Portuguese slave trader, thus the name de Silva, and who bore many children, and who in turn were enslaved and shipped to Brazil. Today, the vast majority of people of color in Brazil can trace their genealogy back to the more then three million enslaved people that were brought to Brazil from mostly Benin, but also from other parts of West Africa.
But I digress.
What I really wanted to talk about was not the undoubtedly fascinating history of the de Silva family with its roots in the colonised -coloniser relationship, and the way that this relationship still shapes patterns of kinship, belonging and exclusion. And I could tell you about the portraits of the family that spans back more the a century, the ornate Napoleonic style chest of drawers, the ivory inlaid pieces of furniture, the bronze angels and archangels, the mummified animals, the collection of bikes and cars that chronicles the history of transport...so much that was fascinating.
Instead, I want to tell you about a moment of discovery that nearly made me collapse with sad loss. There I was, becoming slightly bored and feeling hot and hungry, when I saw a simple, dusty, glass cabinet standing squeezed against the wall. The first thing that I noticed was a huge black and white picture of Patrice Lumumba staring out at me. And surrounding him were three shelves of various items....a few jackets, cufflinks, rings, watches, half empty bottles of perfume, a hat made out of leopard skin, his pocket watch, an amulet that couldn’t protect him, a key, his trademark glasses, a few neck chains, a comb, a razor...all neatly displayed into a veritable shrine of personal belongings. Surely not all that makes the measure of this man, but all that remains of his personhood, but not his vision! I was utterly dumbfounded, and could barely find the words to ask the young tour guide where it came from. He responded that the owner lived in Zaire at the time, and had been friends with Patrice Lumumba, and that together with Mobuto Sese Seko, used to meet up and just hang out. And he told me that when Patrice was assassinated, de Silva wanted to have some keepsakes of him, and so some items were given to him, and others he bought from people who had already looted his house. I was completely undone, and asked to be left alone so that I could pray for the soul of this man who carried the hopes of so many, suffered betrayal of the worst kind, and whose violent death shook us all. I recalled what we knew about him-he’s turbulent few months as Prime Minister, the reports of his betrayal by a man he regarded as his friend, pictures of his beaten up body paraded through the streets, reports that his body was dissolved in acid so that he’s death site might not become a shrine, and finally the most heart wrenching site of them all-his widow, torn by grief marching down the streets of Leopoldville bare breasted, sad and defiant, in the traditional manner of women to show their rage and their grief.
When I eventually sat down with Mr de Silva, he told me the story. And it felt as if we formed this strange tableau that witnessed the grief of an old man, and the sorrow of a younger women. At one time he just started sobbing, and I embraced him until the waves of sadnesses ebbed. It was a simple story of three friends who met up from time to time-Patrice, Mobuto and himself. Young men talking about life and politics and girls and the future. And then of course politics took over, and fast forward a few months later, Patrice is captured and assassinated. And it was in this moment when he talked about Patrice’s death, that he broke down into tears. And he explained that he believed that if he, as someone older at the time, had not participated in their many conversations about political change, that Patrice might still be alive, and might have chosen a different path. And I told him that we all have our own path set out for us that we must walk. And that we cannot change the past, but that that we can change the future. That we might never know what further greatness may have been of Patrice Lumumba’s future, but we do know his past and his vision for the future. That the best way to honor his legacy was to recall his vision, and thank him for his truth and his contribution. And that Patrice fulfilled his own historical mission of his generation, and to the best of his ability. And that he didn’t betray that mission. But was betrayed instead.
As for Benin? Today primary schools are taught to recite a verse at the end of every week, taken from the letter that Patrice wrote to his wife, Pauline, and while he was in prison. This is what they say:
“Cruelty, insults and torture can never force me to ask for mercy, because I prefer to die with head high, with indestructible faith and profound belief in the destiny”.
The life and legacy of Patrice Lumumba, who taught us how to be brave in the face of injustice, to be strong against the might of oppression, and to be steadfast against betraying the cause of his people.
May his souls continue to rest in power, and rise in glory.
His day is not done.
( The writer is a South African Diplomat)
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