When
on April 27th, 1972, news of our father's death reached us in Cairo my
heart seemed to have stopped beating . The news was an anti-climax to
the prevailing atmosphere in the house because earlier that day an
emissary had brought us the most exciting news that every child with a
father abroad was always waiting to hear - "Father is coming home. Today!"
Earlier that day and in great expectation, my mother had dressed us up
in our finest clothes, all of us, Gamal at 13, Sekou at 7 and me, just
short of my 12th birthday. Our mother in a beautiful chiffon dress
looked so elegant and graceful. Our senior brother, Francis, must have
been in Ghana at the time. Just when the day's excitement and
expectation was turning into a prolonged feeling of impatience, the sad
news came that: "Our father has passed away".
What a
devastating news that was. What looked like a promising bright day full
of expectation turned into a dark and uncertain hour. For the second
time in less than a decade - 1966 being the first - we were faced with
the big question of - "What will happen to us now?" Nobody slept from
that hour. The phones would not stop ringing and by noon the next day
our home in Cairo had been turned into perhaps the busiest on the street
- the coming in and going out of close friends and relatives, of
members of some diplomatic missions in Cairo and a host of sympathizers
all came in their numbers to console and sympathize with us.
Soon, we were all on a hurried flight to Conakry, in the Republic of
Guinea, home to our father and where he had been declared co-president
after the overthrow of his government in 1966. On arrival, we were
touched by the care of President Sekou and his family as well as the
concern and hospitality of the people of that great African state. In
no time at all, the pain in our broken hearts and the feelings of
anxiety about our uncertain future all begun to diminish and fade away.
With so many women and men, friends of father and some of the world's
greatest personalities milling around us, anxious to express genuine
sympathy, there was hardly any room for our mother and us to visibly
show our grief and fears about the future.
I recall coming face
to face, shaking hands and sitting with some of the world's greatest
personalities who had come to our father's funeral in Guinea. I
particularly recall the great Fidel Castro, the revolutionary African
leader Amilcar Cabral, the inspirational singer Miriam Makeba , and
others who had come to pay their last respects and homage to the fallen
hero, a great icon of humanity who would be voted as the African of the
millennium three decades later.
The words of Amilcar Cabral
when he said that Osagyefo had died from 'the cancer of betrayal' come
to mind now. At the time he made that statement, I did not quite
understand what Dr. Cabral really meant but later with hindsight and
from a deeper reflection and growing understanding of Kwame Nkrumah's
work, I came to understand what our father actually stood and died for,
and Dr. Cabral's philosophical statement became all too revealing.
Throughout his life time, our father, the late Osagyefo Dr Kwame
Nkrumah devoted his time, energy and resources to changing the ugly
features of Ghana and Africa and to removing the devastating political,
social and economic destructions left behind by years of enslavement,
colonial rule and the exploitation of man by man.
In all of our
father's fight to free the human mind and soul from bondage, diseases,
illiteracy, squalor, prejudice and inhumanity, he no doubt stepped on a
few toes and incurred some disaffection from those who felt his work and
actions stood in their way. Father's life provoked very positive
responses in many, especially those who understood and cherished him.
It also aroused feelings of hatred in others who tried to kill him. For
example, in 1962 at Kulungugu in Northern Ghana, an innocent child
presenting a bouquet of flowers to father died when a bomb thrown at him
exploded. Another example was the policeman who fired three shots at
father and missed him but killed his trusted bodyguard, Salifu Dagarti
in the grounds of Flagstaff house. As a child, I remember father
entering the house with blood all over his face and clothes having
escaped the planned attempt to kill him. There were other close
encounters with death culminating finally in the treacherous plot which
removed him from power on 24th February 1966. All add up to a great
conspiracy which finally ended his life.
Our father has been
gone for 42 years now, and on the occasion of the 42nd anniversary of
his passing, let us all resolve, especially those of us who believe in
the ideals he stood for, to unite and work together, to ensure that
Kwame Nkrumah and all those who fought for African freedom never died in
vain. Forward Ever!
Samia Yaba Nkrumah, 27th April 2014
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