It’s been so long since I’ve written. It’s a warm feeling, being able to sit in some form of serenity and share an experience. I write songs, essays — speeches from time to time — but when was the last time I was able to produce a stream of consciousness? I don’t mean a literal one — although that narrative mode will be on the cards at some point.
This short tale takes me back a month or two. Fun fact. Every time I’ve tried to record this story, be it orally or written, it vanishes. For instance, on the train ride home, I recollected my agony via Apple Watch on a slightly packed train from Brixton to Kent House Station. In me trying to save my recollection, I ended up deleting it. Solid. Tried writing this on a document somewhere and now I cannot seem to find said document anywhere. Is this serendipity? Is there a reason why I’ve been divinely signposted towards Medium? I guess we’ll never know. History is important. It is important that as human beings, we can create conduits that can make, manoeuvre, and maintain history. Whatever that may be. For even at the tender age of 21, certain memories begin to escape me. It is now, more than ever, that I understand the term “sands of time”. Like grains of sand, recollections of sorrow, jubilation, and inquisition escape from the crevices of my palms — retreating into the wind. Alas, let me proceed with the foundation of my question, where did the space go?
I had met up with my older cousin for a trip to a garden store. We had journeyed to Waterloo in hopes of picking up some resources that would help me to take better care of the plants that had been gifted to me by Janine Nelson, the Learning Director at the Garden Museum. I’m currently working alongside her in curating an oral history project around sowing roots: Caribbean heritage in South London, which aims to “deeping our understanding of gardening as a complex- and often contradictory- cultural practice that has shaped families, communities and Empire across time”. Becoming a plant father was the last thing that I had in mind, especially after dealing with the emotional, physical, mental and spiritual turmoil of writing a dissertation. A dissertation set around the history of anti-colonial, anti-racist thought. Several of my peers will tell you that for the past year and a bit, decolonisation has become my personality. I would beg to differ. It was clear that this was exactly what I needed. But more on the misadventures of horticulture another time.
The garden store didn’t go exactly to plan. For starters, it turned out to be a cafe which sold some indoor plants. The snake plant, the philodendron… standard plants to spruce an interior. After getting some consultation as to why my Aloe vera (his name is Babacar) was browning up, the quest had been completed. I was redirected in the direction of the B&Q’s, the Homebase’s etc etc. It was on our way back from the Cafe that we had the idea of riding bikes around. This is where things took an interesting turn.
We rode to Brixton. Man, where do I begin? When we think about radical, restorative liberation efforts… we need not look any further than Brixton. About history, Brixton could be likened to that of Harlem. I use that for two reasons. First and foremost, Harlem was the hotbed for the culturally, politically, and psychologically defining efforts of the Harlem Renaissance during the 1920s. This was the same thing in Brixton in the 60s and 70s as the area served as a foundation for liberatory, humanist efforts. By humanist, let me make a distinction. I speak of revolutionary humanism which is grounded in the liberation of human beings and their livelihoods, their lifeworlds, and their lifestyles. Not the humanism that finds itself numb to the idea of colour-blindness. Heavens no. Secondly, because of the threat that both historical sites currently face — gentrification which continues to engulf and displace… essentially eroding the history that surrounds these areas. It’s almost as if there are two worlds. I can’t speak for Harlem, as I’ve never been. However, I came across this piece from 2019 about the displacement happening in Harlem at the moment. Brixton is all I’ve ever known, and this current iteration of the ends looks feels or sounds nothing like my home. Let me elaborate on what I mean by this two-world situation.
A few weeks before that, there had been a shooting in Brixton. At the scene, we saw about five police vans and rioting paraphernalia. No, not an ambulance for the young person that had been shot. No, not a mediator to ease the pain of their friends and fellow partygoers. Just the feds with riot shields and batons… All that chaos taking place on one road. Then we have the road just before it — where we have people having the time of their lives, as they enter fancy cocktail bars with no care in the world whatsoever. So, which is it? A lawless part of the city or a tourist attraction?
But that isn’t this story — allow me to proceed. We cycle up past Marcus Garvey Way and I find myself introducing my cousin to Marcus Garvey and his ideas of organisation and self-determination… This then led me to the story of the Black Panthers, primarily that of the Chicago chapter, headed by Chairman Fred Hampton. Coincidentally, that’s when it had dawned on me that we were near 38 Shakespeare Road, which was the house that the British Black Panthers had been coordinating from. I had been hassling my boy Izz to visit the house and do some reconnaissance.
You see, there were several chapters/branches, but the main centre of the organisation was in Brixton — which goes back to my earlier point of the significance of Railton Road and its surrounding areas. Shortly before the Party had disbanded, an author had purchased the building for them. After the turbulence I had faced in community organising, I made it my mission to check the space out — hoping that I would encounter a sagacious elder who would comfort, commend, and berate me. Encountering an older person who could truly understand my indignation, my disillusionment… It made perfect sense to pay for a trip there. Convincing my older cousin, who by the way was indifferent to the situation, we made our way towards the vestige of resistance.
Firstly, we came upon Fanon House. Seeing the name Fanon on a building in South London had me grinning, so I was extremely eager to ask questions. The gentleman who was supervising the building at the time explained to me that this was a building for supported accommodation, in other words, a day centre for rough sleepers — they provide tenancy sustainment, advice on welfare and other restorative measures. Whilst my cousin had exclaimed it to be a “madhouse”, I saw something different. I was in angst. But as we walked past the windows… I was taken aback. There were books in the windows. Towers of them. Instantly, I thought to myself “how many trailblazers must be in there right now?”
Individuals who sought to impact and contribute towards a better world for those who would come after them… How many of my elders had been pushed into these centres? Receiving some help, but that help was subject to budget cuts from the council — meaning nothing was permanent for the progenitors. How many of them had slipped through the net? Literal groundbreakers have had the ground removed from under their feet. The feeling was bittersweet. On one hand, I felt empowered that they still had books. On the other hand, I felt defeated that they were in that building and not outside, sharing their experiences.
We proceeded towards 38 Shakespeare Road. As we approached the opening of the road, I noticed a blue badge. It read
C.L.R. James. 1901–1989. West Indian Writer and Political Activist lived and died here.
I blinked. THE C.L.R James? Immediately, I was filled with excitement, knowing that I stood in history. Life is interesting. Here I am, bumbling like a child who’s just discovered that speaking through a fan changes their voice. My cousin to the left of me, staring at me, bewildered as to why I’m so elated.
C.L.R James’ contributions were monumental, and I would ruin it if I started fanboying about him now, dear Reader. One of the 20th century’s most foremost thinkers, I strongly encourage you to read, listen to or watch him if you haven’t already. Although, the excitement was short-lived. A gust of anguish struck me as I realised that without the blue plaque in position, nobody would know that he lived there. Aside from the elders and history enthusiasts that remain near the house. The author of the Black Jacobins lived here?
Where did the space go? It wasn’t the C.L.R James’ Museum or the C.L.R James’ Archives. It was just a building. It wasn’t a space I could access. It wasn’t space I knew how to access. Like with Fanon House 10 minutes prior, the windows were my gateway into the space. But even then, the glass which investigated the house didn’t reveal much to me. It just left me with the same questions. Perhaps some folks hold the space now? I could be wrong. It wasn’t obvious to me.
Let me hold fire there. As I write this, I went to do a quick search of what that building was now. It is now the Brixton Advice Centre and James’ house is now part of it. Serving the community since 1966, the advice centre is dedicated to empowering “local people to address the inequalities they experience and to achieve their economic, educational and social potential”. Reader, I would like to take this moment to apologise. Up until this very point, I was under the assumption that C.L.R. James’ abode had been left suspended in history, gathering dust and sheltering boxes filled with forms and other miscellaneous things. To learn that the house is now part of an organisation dedicated to listening to human beings and aiding them in their encounters with human-made inhibitions warms my heart (Check them out here, please pass on to anyone that you know that may need assistance). In many ways, I feel as though the memory of my predecessor has been done some justice. Bittersweet, in plain terms.
Now if only I had known that on that day. Lowering my head, we advanced towards the Panther headquarters. As we approached, there was a peace symbol on the long-serving, ornate onyx gate. There was an interesting rhythm formed as I pushed open the gates. A slight interlude of generations interacting with each other. The gate creaked as my Jordan’s hit the stone slabs. My cousin chose to wait behind the gate. I pressed on the doorbell and investigated another window. This story was interesting. The room had a huge bookshelf — ivory in colour. I thought to myself, ask the elder for any recommendations on their bookshelf as soon as they open the door…
I knocked. To the left side of the door, there was a green garden door which to me, presumably led to a garden where this mystical elder used to grow plants. Oh, how I was mistaken. Out came a woman. A German woman — who very candidly asked about our intentions at the door.
“Hello, my name is Edward — I’m looking for the Panthers’ residence? Is this it?” I enquired. Her already animated eyes widened at the mention of the word panther. She countered. “Yes, it is, but I don’t live here — there’s currently a parent’s evening going on virtually — the gentleman that does live here isn’t available at the moment, could I give you, his email?”
At that point, my thoughts ambushed me — subdued me to the point where everything happening outside of my internal life world was on mute. So much so that I couldn’t even note down her utterances. Instantly, I grounded myself — take his email man, he may be at a community meeting now!
I noted down what remnants of her speech I could obtain and proceeded to walk outside of the gate. As I was about to mount my bike again, she burst through the emerald door — announcing that the individual that owns the house is available to converse. I placed the bike down again and hastily made my way towards the gate, ready to meet yet another mentor, an individual who can probably share with me several stories on his organising days, his praxis on how a new world can come into fruition, but most importantly — an elder who understands.
Out came a man far from the title of an elder. This was the owner of the house. An English man who knew that the Panthers lived here yes, but that was as far as it went. He bought the house about twenty years ago. Before him, there was an activist who was for nuclear disarmament who had owned the house. He pointed towards the onyx gate, which had a peace symbol supplanted in the middle of it. Apart from the odd history curator, there were hardly ever any folks who would knock concerning the Panthers. As a courtesy, they asked what my cousin and I do — and represent.
My cousin, tactile as ever, promoted her rum business. I, on the other hand, found myself chuffed. “I’m part of a youth group w-with the same aims as the Panthers before us” is all I managed to get out. They didn’t care, but who could blame them? Who said they had to? They were kind enough to open the door and listen to a bunch of strangers go on about their perilous quest to find the site where those that came before them organised. The lady asked for a flyer and luckily, I had one, but it was weathered. “That’s not a good first impression, cuz. Says a lot about you” my cousin exclaimed. I normally carry at least 10 TNA flyers with me, everywhere I go. This was an off day. Truth be told, I don’t even know if I had cared at that point. It was just feelings of defeat at that point for me.
“Let me take you to Van Gogh’s house little cuz before you go”.
We made our way towards Brixton Road, then down a side road until we were outside 87 Hackford Road — the London residence of Dutch Painter Vincent van Gogh, who stayed there from 1873 to 1874. Opposite the house, there was a primary school named Van Gogh Primary School. Candidly speaking, I could just laugh at that point. The Van Gogh House was an exhibition. You can become a Patron, you can visit their online shop for ceramics and prints… 87 Hackford Road has guided tours and truly celebrates the space’s legacy. That’s quite the opposite for the spaces of my predecessors, wouldn’t you agree?
C.L.R James lived in that house for a significant period of his life. In the 80s, his house had become a “place of pilgrimage for students, journalists and politicians”. There wasn’t a semblance of that felt when I was there. No invitation for book clubs, guided tours, or options to donate towards the space even. Nothing of that. The same can be said for the former Panthers’ residence. Now I understand that the Panthers’ disbanded sometime in the early 70s and so naturally, the space was probably sold on. But how I wish it was maintained and preserved and reutilised.
The feeling of dread still lingers within me, to be frank. Human beings and spaces go hand in hand. I grew up in the Brixton area and for a significant part of my life, the ends were all that I knew. That space and the various spaces (community centres, play centres) that surrounded me enthralled me. But that isn’t the case anymore. There are no co-working spaces around — the co-working space that was close to my house has now been bought out by fancy start-ups who have now saved a bargain on office space.
Things are getting more expensive, new shops are coming in, folks are getting displaced… It’s insidious. Just a couple minutes from C.L.R James’ house, around Brixton Market — we have the prospective building space for Texan billionaire Taylor McWilliams, who plans to build a 20-storey office block in the heart of Brixton. The man promises new jobs, new opportunities. For whom? If there is a word for a proponent of violence and displacement, could someone please provide that for me? I can’t sit here and say I’ve been in tune with the disputes with Hondo Tower, but from what I know… local businesses were having to close? Local spaces that people access for networking, respite or just a bite to eat. I turn my head to the site of International House, which is located literally next to the Rec. For an organisation to gain desk space, they’d have to pay £12,000 per annum. You tell me, reader. Doesn’t that restrict things to certain types of companies? Entities? How can people be helped in these spaces if the organisations that are local to them don’t even work for them?
In this post-covid world, the jump to virtual seems to benefit a certain type of human being. Young people have been in bubbles for most of the school year. Young people in higher education have been scapegoated as the heralds of disease… simultaneously left in the darkness but placed in the centre of the firing square. There are so many places I could go with this story.
But my main takeaway from it was — where did the space go? Where have our spaces gone? How can we reclaim them? How can we create new spaces? Where can we go for space?
This went on for longer than I thought it would. But it’s left me in a state of catharsis. I would thoroughly recommend noting, writing, recording experiences to anyone. It will do you a lot of justice. I don’t believe this particular story ends here. Just this chapter. The aforementioned question still needs an answer and I’m determined to find it somewhere. When I do, I’ll be sure to record it again.
Strength and Power.
Just want to give a special thanks to Ekua McMorris and Jen Kavanagh — they pushed me in the direction of putting my thoughts out. Please check out the amazing work that these amazing women do.
Edward Adonteng 