Sydney King: A Moment in History, an excerpt from my Book. A Century Old, God Bless.

CHAPTER EIGHT: THE APPEAL.

An appeal to the villagers of Buxton.

I first heard the name Buxton in 1952, when I was just seven years old. Most children do not recall the first time they become aware of place names, but Buxton imprinted itself in my memory, standing apart like a landmark in time.

It was an era of political awakening—a time when British Guiana stirred restlessly toward self-rule. The air crackled with the fervor of change as men took to makeshift stages, their voices rising in fiery oratory, pleading for a future beyond colonial rule. At the heart of this movement in Rosignol stood Sydney Madray Kuttain, a tireless activist for the People’s Progressive Party. It was he who orchestrated the political meetings at the Rosignol Society Hall, where crowds gathered in restless anticipation, spilling beyond the wooden walls and onto the public road.

As the sun dipped below the horizon and darkness encroached, the hall came alive under the glow of a Petromax gas lamp. I remember it well—for I was there, a boy carrying a tray laden with sandwiches and beverages, walking beside my childhood friend, the son of S.M. Kuttain, who bore the lamp. Together, we entered the hall, placing our burdens on a table in the corner, just by the stage.

And then, a voice—a commanding, impassioned voice—cut through the room. It exalted, pleaded, demanded action in the approaching 1953 elections. I looked up, transfixed. The voice belonged to a man whose name would never leave me. The murmurs around me spoke of him—Sydney King, from the village of Buxton.

Years passed, and his name transformed, as did the country. I read his letters in the Stabroek News, following his words as he evolved into Eusi Kwayana, a figure unwavering in his convictions. The image of that night at the Rosignol Society Hall never faded—of the young man in white, a beacon in the dimly lit room, his presence etched into my consciousness.

One day, I responded to one of his letters. He warned of troubled times ahead, and I answered with an offering—I would walk the coastlands with him, step by step, to tell the people of the dangers looming over our nation.

Now, decades later, I return to that memory, to that moment when history and destiny intertwined. 

THE DIASPORA

 

 CHAPTER FOUR: THE DIASPORA

Guyanese diaspora is from persecuted communities, and they shrink themselves to specific locations around the globe. Considering always what occurred and what is occurring with strong nationalism outside the country. In September 1967, fifty-seven years ago, I immigrated to Ontario, Canada.

Guyana became an independent state on 26th May 1966 with L.F.S Burnham, the Prime Minister. 

We had been decolonized through the period of Soviet political ideology. Within the corridors of White Hall, the Oval Office and the Kremlin, the people Guyana were pawns in the Cold War. And the British and American schemes deployed, was ethnic violence between the African Descendants and the Indian Descendants.  

Nationalism was never the road traversed in that era. 

We existed only, in the fight between two men. The Afro-Guyanese, L.F.S. Burnham and the Indo-Guyanese, Dr. C.B.Jagan. Dueling with propaganda drew blood, the blood of their respective ethnicities. Indians on Blacks and Blacks on Indians. 

Now, both deceased, one as dust, cast to the wind and the other, in a crypt, bare bones. 

But they are alive in the generations of Guyanese, in the homeland and in the diaspora.  

They are evoked with the consequences of old hatred played out in village disturbances, city riots, massacre or ethnic cleansing of Wismar, the Son Chapman explosion, displacement and migration.

The stories commonly told in the diaspora are biased, either incomplete or wrong.

But to deny the diaspora their voices is to practice the politics that drove them to seek refuge in the first place in foreign lands. Surveillance, reminiscent of the Burnham/Jagan era, again sought out the victims, only this time it is in Brooklyn, New York. 

It has happened in this diaspora of which I wrote about in my Blog, timehritoday.blogspot .com and now published here within these pages.

As, many diasporas are formed when people seek refuge. The desire of the Guyanese diaspora is to give back to their country. That's what frequently said of them when expressing disappointment and disillusionment on broken promises. 

In Brooklyn, there is the notion of persecution.

How quickly businesses were singled out and registered for the boycott. When I viewed the video of the President's visit, I see a cordial group of people greeting a fellow Guyanese. That is the way Afro-Guyanese were in the nineteen fifties-respectful. Many times, it is stated by Black Activists of how respectful Black people were in a time long ago. 

I saw a thriving community, with desires for a progressive Guyana.

The boycott was not necessary. This discrimination in Guyana stretches it arms to Brooklyn, USA. 

We need to learn our history well enough for the sake of clarity. 

Our history has been defined as Black history, Indian history and Portuguese history, but not the history of Guyana. 

Recently, the People's Progressive Party held its Congress. Results of the Central Committee Elections is very troubling. It speaks volumes about the future leadership of the country. And we should all be concerned, the entire diaspora along with the home-based Guyanese.  

It is important for the diaspora to participate and influence a change. As was the campaign for the 1992 free and fair elections.

Basically, the PPP has told the nation, that their Presidential Candidate is representative of the party selection process of Democratic Centralism. The political aspirations of the majority of the thirty-five Central Committee members are terminated. Persecuted if they dare to speak. We can safely predict who is going to be favored. 

It is plain as in day clean.

The Opposition voters know, the PPP voting supporters have no interests in the future of the country. 

Whenever the election is over, they are forgotten.

How can thirty-two men and women allow this to be perpetrated on them? 

There is the lack of respect.

And likewise, there is the lack of respect for every ordinary citizen.

This contentious bold move on the part of the People's Progressive Party can give the People's National Congress an opportunity to be The Alternative, again. 

This is where the Brooklyn diaspora group could influence the PNC by proposing progressive changes to win the upcoming general elections. The PNC must be creative to attract voters from the other side of the divide. 

The 2015 elections, six thousand voters gave the APNU-AFC that one seat majority. In a country that voted along ethnic lines, Afros to the PNC and Indos to the PPP, there were six thousand Guyanese that voted with their conscience. With the one seat majority, the APNU-AFC behaved as though they were a monarchy. They held office, and that was it. Behaving with contempt towards the Opposition PPP.

 And they tried to stay on as the government even after the no-confidence vote. 

Then, the 2020 election was held.

As soon as the polls were closed, an event at the GECOM main gate demonstrated the intentions of the select group, stationed within the compound. Three elderly ladies and an elderly gentleman, all Afro-Guyanese approached the compound gate with a basket. Handing the basket to another younger Afro-Guyanese man. He accepted the basket over the gate, even though the lone Indo-Guyanese standing by the gate objected to it. 

On top of his voice he lamented, "You all not supposed to do that."

They offered a reply, "It is dinner for the staff."

To which the Indian replied, "It is illegal to do that."

They continued in the act, ignoring the lone Indian at the gate as he continued to film the incident. Realizing they were being filmed, the elderly Afro gentleman moved over to the Indian and sprayed a liquid substance on him.

The Indian dodged the sprayed substance as he was chased away.

It is obvious, neither the PPP nor the PNC can trust each other. And each can only garner six thousand votes to slip in as the majority government. 

This dilemma breathes continuous fear.

It is important for the Diaspora to contemplate their role in the governance of the country. Both the PPP and the PNC pays some lip service in great promises of the role of the diaspora. There is a government department set up for the diaspora. But it is only in its name.

The diaspora must be an independent body with a Secretariat in Georgetown. Their aim, to seek out united public opinions. A form of inclusiveness.

The upcoming congress of the PNC should take into consideration they cannot form a government with only the Afro-Guyanese voters. This must be discussed among the delegates at the congress. A specific approach and agreement towards the support of the Indo-Guyanese voters must be considered. And the diaspora attending must see the importance of that to bring about a progressive government in office.

The previous APNU-AFC government squandered that golden opportunity offered to them. The arrangement between the APNU and the AFC was a system of Appeasement to all citizens of Guyana. And as such it must have been the aspirations of six thousand voters to usher in a government of National Unity.

Their TRUST was not rewarded. 

In my country, that gesture escapes our history.  There were never any attempts to reward the citizens for their TRUST in the political system.

As ORDINARY citizens-Amerindian, Afro, Indo and the Others of Three Races, their votes empowered ordinary men and women into EXTRA-ORDINARY citizens. And they never returned the time of day to the voters-the majority who make ordinary citizens into the people who live in the clouds. As the gods. Looking down on mere mortals.   

We are a people too entrenched in Racism. Divided and blind even to realize the harm we do to our individual progress.

The politicians of the People's National Congress in the early years implemented programs which was in line with the thinking of politicians of the People's Progressive Party. Back then, in the PNC days, those who were favored by the regime, did well. But they were only a few. 

Today, the PPP is viewed as being worst, those who are favored by the Stalinist style government are only a few as well. It is pointed out to be fifty Indian families.

Whether it is a PNC leadership or a PPP leadership, the underlining factor for citizens, "You are denied JUSTICE. Criminality, criminals and crimes are your constant companion."

In 1992, one would think that Cheddie Jagan should have had the foresight to have a National Front Government. Because Guyana desperately needed one to get off the racist track. He talked about it. But the perks of having a PPP/C government was more rewarding for him personally. And his protégés care less for the well-being of the citizens. It is boastful to talk about free and fair elections of 1992. One could even say, after Independence, it was the first democratic elections. That moment should have been treasured. Because the ordinary citizen was permitted to freely choose. Even though the PPP got elected by the Indian vote, Cheddie Jagan should have rewarded every citizen for their trust. 

The formation of a National Front Government.

He never did.

But today, that reality can still be made. 

Citizens must engage fellow citizens. They must empower themselves. They must hold their leaders accountable-for men of power are easily swayed to do harm to their own citizens. 

We have seen both the PPP and the PNC at work.

Indians must know, it wasn’t the ordinary Afro citizen that banned the food items and discriminate against them. 

It was a PNC regime.

Afros must know, it is not the ordinary Indo citizen that discriminate against them. 

It is the PPP.

Both the Afro and Indo need to pull together to help the Amerindians to develop. 

The outburst of two female politicians have summed up the future of Guyana.

From the PPP came, "We know they doan like us." expressed by an Indo-Guyanese. 

On the PNC side, "Murderers, murderers, why you think these people will vote for alyuh." a passionate query of the Indians confronted by the Afro-Guyanese.

The future looks bleak.

Honesty in Guyana is an irritant, an unwelcome guest at the table, for everything here is entangled in race. Still, I will speak without prejudice.

Race and culture stand as pillars before nationalism. It has always been so. Yet, in these times, the rhetoric from some prominent Afro-Guyanese voices suggests that governing the country is their right—regardless of their group comprising only about thirty percent of the population. This belief is not new. For seventy years, it has lingered like a restless ghost, passed down through generations. Many who held such convictions have long been received by the earth, their skulls now empty sockets staring blindly from their graves. Their bones, brittle with time, rest beneath the weight of unfulfilled dreams.

Imagine the knowledge buried there—the minds that once pulsed with wisdom, now silenced. They failed their fellow Guyanese. And yet, today, new voices emerge, repeating old words in new disguises.

History has taught us nothing. Seventy years of political struggle, and we remain prisoners of the same bitter lessons.

Mischievous old men whisper in eager ears.

We've heard their voices on the radio, emboldening APNU to trample laws and ignore the Constitution, urging them to govern without a mandate. In the streets, they preach to the loyal few, promising that the children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren of today will one day thank a leader who would dare to hijack an election.

A bold incitement, a reckless gamble.

Have we forgotten Wismar? Its riots left scars that history has refused to heal. Have we forgotten Son Chapman? The echoes of past tragedies are met with silence, as if guilt has never weighed upon the conscience of those who stood at the center of the storm.

But do most Afro-Guyanese share the views of those who shout the loudest on social media? I find it hard to believe. Those who call for division should be drowned out by voices of reason, not emboldened by silence.

At its core, this is about ownership and governance. If trust is forever absent, then perhaps Partition is the inevitable solution. Learned men have written of it before; the thought persists even now, lurking in the background of contemporary discourse.

The history of Afro-Guyanese is one of shifting seasons, cycles of hope and betrayal.

And here we stand today—May 26, 2024—fifty-eight years since the Union Jack was lowered and the Golden Arrowhead rose in its place. But where is the pride? Where is the joy of a people looking skyward as their flag dances in the wind? The national anthem barely stirs on the lips of its people.

I remember the Independence Movement, the speeches that filled the Rosignol Society Hall with fire and purpose. Back then, we had dreams. We had plans. We held the future in our hands, believing in the destiny we could carve for ourselves.

But today, the land cries out: "Tyranny of the Majority—by one parliamentary seat."

Fifty-eight years of squandered opportunities.
Fifty-eight years of wasted wealth.
Fifty-eight years of suffering.
Fifty-eight years of pain.

What have we become? What a nation.

 

Twenty-eight years of PNC.

Twenty-three years of PPP.

Five years of APNU-AFC

And currently the PPP again.

It is time for "The People's Movement."

A movement rooted in the Popular Will—the voice of the people, the heartbeat of the nation.

You and me.

Guyana needs a neutral force—one of calm spirits, one that rises above chaos and division.

Our leadership is in crisis. For too long, our country has been trapped in cycles of unrest, as if peace were never meant to be part of our destiny. Extremists have led us to a troubling crossroads, yet politicians only influence ten percent of our lives. The remaining ninety percent? That belongs to us—the people.

If you dream of better days, let us dream together. Let there be a citizen-driven response to the power plays of the elected and the selected few.

Don’t you deserve a place in this world?

If you were to immigrate, you would strive to build a life elsewhere. But why should you have to leave? That dream is possible right here, in Guyana.

Pause for a moment. Listen. Observe the voices around you. Feel the pulse of a divided nation. The spirit that dwells within all living things—the one that connects us to each other and to the divine—seems to have been lost by those in power.

Why the anger?

There is an alternative.

A calmer path. One that leads to a future of progress, not strife.

Imagine a society where our youth are guided with purpose, where they inherit a nation built on unity, not division. This land—this Guyana, the land of many waters—has the potential to flourish. Our fields can thrive, and our people can uplift not only themselves but also the impoverished beyond our borders.

This is the task of our youth, for the future is theirs.

A leap of faith is needed.

Hate leads nowhere. Hate begets hate.

Yet, the distance between hell and heaven is not so far.

Finding your place in this world is a beautiful thing.

Time, in its mysterious kindness, always returns to us the wisdom we once lost. Life is made of moments. Let this be the moment you choose a new path.

Speak the truth, and you will shame the devil.

Your thoughts, your words—God hears them. But thoughts alone are not enough. You must act. We all desire a peaceful, progressive, and tolerant nation. And there is more than enough for everyone, with extra to share with the world’s needy.

The goal is clear: Unite. Embrace differences. Create safety and security. Trust your government. Balance individualism with acceptance.

We must awaken the better angels of our nature.

The past walks in the footsteps of the present.

The power of this nation does not rest in the hands of the elite but in the hands of the impoverished. And yet, they fail to realize their strength. Perhaps they believe their one vote is insignificant. But collectively, their voices hold unimaginable power—the power to reshape society.

For decades, Guyanese people have faced the same dilemma. Every election, a new party emerges, promising solutions.

But this time, the answer is different.

This time, the answer is YOU.

God Bless.

THE COLONY-BRITISH GUIANA

 

CHAPTER ONE

THE COLONY – BRITISH GUIANA

April 20, 2024.

Opening the door, I stepped into the office. A lingering scent of Valentine's Day roses filled the air—a reminder that the cleaners had been thorough the night before. As always, they had done a splendid job. The cherry-colored wooden desk gleamed under the soft morning light, its polished surface reflecting a quiet elegance.

Atop the desk sat a telephone, a notepad, and a brass nameplate that read:

Mohabir Persaud, President.
Below, in bold engraving: SEIGNET PRECISION—a gift from my employees, years ago.

In the corner, the Lenovo computer waited in its usual place, silent and expectant.

I placed my A&W cup of tea onto a coaster—orange pekoe, the tea bag dipping in and out, barely staining the hot water. Just colored liquid, a morning ritual.

Flipping open the laptop, I went through the routine:
Click. Google.
Type: YouTube.

A cluster of videos appeared. One stood out as if waiting for me:

Dr. David Hinds – Politics 101: "African Guyanese Are People Too"
Panelists: Olive Sampson, Nigel Hughes, V. Alexander.

I clicked.

Immediately, the rhythmic pulse of calypso filled the room. I listened, letting the music carry me, waiting for the lyrics to unfold the story in melody.

Then, images flashed across the screen—figures of resilience, defiance, and history:

Maya Angelou. Barack Obama. Miriam Makeba. Walter Rodney. Eusi Kwayana. Dr. David Hinds. Martin Luther King Jr. Bob Marley. Malcolm X. Serena Williams. L.F.S. Burnham. Michelle Obama. Nelson Mandela. Dr. Letitia Wright.

Legends who had shaped history, each a testament to perseverance. They sought acceptance, not isolation; unity, not division. Their achievements were undeniable.

The discussion deepened. The panelists spoke of a forum in Geneva, Switzerland—part of the International Decade for People of African Descent (2015–2024).

Then, a phrase surfaced—one that sent a pang through my chest:

"Coolie Greed."

A brand, a label—one meant to divide.

The moderator, measured but firm, kept circling back to another word: "Gripe." A reference to a letter published in the Guyana Current Newspaper.

And then, a statement that struck me:

"Guyana’s history did not begin in 1838."

I leaned forward.

British Guiana—its past had always been filtered through the lens of the planter class and the Victorian values of the Empire. After the First World War, British Guianese soldiers returned home with dreams of a reformed society, only to find the colony still firmly in the grip of its old hierarchy.

By the 1920s, Georgetown had evolved—its streets bustling with a mix of Negroes, Mulattos, Creoles, Europeans, Portuguese, and the rising population of Indentured Indians, many still bound to the sugar plantations.

Ivan Van Sertima, in his work, describes their presence in the city—Coolies, once scavengers, peddlers of fresh cow’s milk, eking out survival in a land that offered little beyond toil.

Yet, even in this rigid colonial world, a movement stirred. A class of educated Creoles had emerged—charismatic, articulate, and bold enough to engage the British government on the question of self-rule. A vision of modern governance began to take shape.

But then came the war.

And with it, the postponement of every dream.

By the time the Second World War ended, British Guiana was no longer a forgotten outpost. Second only to Jamaica in importance among Britain’s Caribbean holdings, the colony had grown rich—its wealth extracted through sugar, bauxite, rice, timber, and minerals, filling the pockets of British investors.

Then came the 1950s—an era of transition.

Affluence touched some. American influence crept in—shaping music, film, politics, and everyday life. A new identity was forming, shaped by forces far beyond our borders.

And in my novel, "In Our Past," I sought to capture it all.

The plantations of cotton, cocoa, coffee, and sugar carved out of the Wild Coast by the first European settlers gradually transformed into villages after the emancipation of Negro slaves in 1834. The emancipated citizens, determined to forge a future of their own, swiftly organized the affairs of their purchased lands—derelict plantations that they painstakingly revived. Sections were allotted for housing at the village fronts, while the backlands—later known as the backdam—were dedicated to farming. Each village appointed a manager from among its own, a leader who enforced ordinances drafted by the village elders. This was the genesis of the village council system. For decades, the enslaved had observed the methods of management implemented by the Baccras, and now, in freedom, they applied those lessons to their own governance.

Emancipation forever changed the colony, altering its social structure. No longer was it a land divided into plantation owners, native people, slaves, a few freed Negroes, Mulattoes, Creoles, and indentured white servants, each indifferent to the other. Instead, under Colonial Law, it was now a British colony of subjects—though status and class distinctions remained, and fairness was still elusive. The plantation owners retained their grip on the government, but the colony pressed forward, driven by infrastructure projects that gradually transformed it into a well-connected and structured society.

As the colony evolved over two generations, British Guiana was no longer an isolated settlement on the South American continent. Though under British rule, its cultural influences leaned heavily toward America. By 1950, the colony boasted an efficient railroad system stretching from Vreed-en-Hoop to Parika. The capital, Georgetown, became known as the garden city, with its magnificent wooden structures and avenues lined with towering trees, their twisting branches forming serpentine patterns against the sky. The rivers teemed with well-established ferry services, the roads hummed with reliable bus services, and law and order were upheld by a respectful colonial police force.

Traveling by train from Georgetown to Rosignol was more than a journey—it was an excursion, an adventure, a rhythm of life. The fifties were a golden era; the world seemed at peace, and British Guiana was no exception. A melting pot of cultures, its people were entertained by the sounds of American and English music, the songs of Hindi cinema, the wit of West Indian calypso, and the soulful resonance of steel pan. Cricket, the grand pastime, brought communities together every Sunday.

Rosignol, a village of mixed heritage, was a thrilling place to experience teenage years. Everything was a bundle of joy, even the simple act of trying to outrun the 11:00 a.m. train as it slowed to a halt at the station. The railway track paralleled the Atlantic Coast, winding through established villages and lush backdam farms abundant with banana, ochro, plantain, and cassava. The steam engine, hitched to its carriages, roared forward, trailing thick black smoke and the familiar scent of coal, steam, and wood.

The train’s conductor, an authoritative figure, walked through the first and third-class carriages, meticulously clipping tickets. He was a man of discipline, dressed in a starched khaki uniform, his hard khaki hat reminiscent of colonial officers. He carried himself with the weight of his responsibility, ensuring the journey remained smooth and orderly.

The railway system was a feat of colonial engineering—the first on the South American continent—operating under the Transport & Harbors Department. Most employees were Negroes, the backbone of a free labor force. The train was punctual, clean, and a source of immense pride for the men and women who kept it running. The tracks were laid in phases: from Georgetown to Plaisance in 1848, extended to Belfield in 1854, then to Mahaica in 1864. By 1900, the railway linked the Demerara and Berbice Rivers, binding the scattered settlements into a unified colony.

As the train journeyed on, station masters at each stop signaled its arrival with red and green flags, while eager vendors swarmed the platforms, their voices rising above the steam and clatter of wheels. Mahaica Station was the busiest hub, a place where train arrivals sparked a frenzy of commerce. Vendors wove through the crowd, thrusting mangoes, star apples, and sapodillas through open windows, their rhythmic cries of "Cheap! Cheap!" blending with the hum of excitement.

Amidst the bustling marketplace, a tall Negro woman glided gracefully down the platform, her voice a melodic chant that cut through the chaos: “Fish and bread! Get your fish and bread!” Balanced upon her head was a tray of jill loaves, crisp fried bangamary, and a small bottle of fiery homemade pepper sauce. With the deft hands of an artisan, she crafted sandwiches that left an unforgettable taste—six cents for a bite of legend.

Rosignol, the last stop before the ferry across the Berbice River, was a village both defined by and separate from the rest of the colony. Once a Dutch plantation, it had no grand structures like Victoria or Buxton, but it thrived in its uniqueness. Here, Negroes and Indians lived side by side, bound by respect, sometimes even referring to each other as cousins. The village had no cross streets, only dams leading toward the sea or the backlands. Life moved to a different rhythm in Rosignol—not dictated by clocks but by nature and industry. The first crow of a rooster marked the early morning, the train’s punctual arrival at 11:00 a.m. announced midday, and the high-pitched whistle of the Blairmont Sugar Factory signaled the afternoon.

Sundays in Rosignol were sacredly quiet. In the divine glow of the morning sun, the village seemed touched by the presence of something holy, as if the Lord Himself hovered in the golden light. Before noon, there were no games, no loud chatter—only peace. Cricket and other pastimes would wait until the afternoon, after the sacred hush of the morning hours had passed.

To the city folk of Georgetown, Rosignol was merely another stop along the railway. But to those who called it home, it was a world unto itself—its own small paradise, wrapped in the steady rhythm of the train, the scent of the river, and the voices of a community bound by time and tradition.