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.