Baba Aye's

The ferociously brutal bombing of Gaza in October drove me to immerse myself in literature on Zionist colonialism in Palestine and the Palestinian people’s resistance. Most of what I did was rereading. Rashid Khalidi’s and Wasseem El Sarraj’s books were two that I read for the first time, and found invaluable. They are both similar in two ways. First, as with many other books worth reading on the history of the Palestinian struggle, they both provide a rich history of the land. Tracing this back for centuries, they disprove the Zionist lies of “a land without people, for a people without a land.” They reveal Britain’s deceitful actions, spanning from the Balfour declaration to the Nakba, and the continuous backing of Jewish colonialism by imperialist powers. The books examine how Arab countries, like Jordan, have had conflicting stances on the Palestinian cause and how this impacts the people’s struggle. And prominently, they highlight this struggle’s “history from below” in all its st

Death rains on Gaza From clouds of bombs In skies of lies Leaving twisted bodies Entombed beneath rubble   Infants breath their last With gasps of horror, as their lives are snatched Before they were fully lived Their dismembered bodies bear witness Their innocent blood cry out for justice   Bewildered mothers wonder If tomorrow they bury another child Or if their own corpses would be The uninterred remains, amidst shrapnel and debris   Displaced families flee to ever fleeting places of refuge Grasping at mirages of safety, nudged to the tragic reality Of Zionist intent at mass slaughter, and unmitigated brutality   Yet, empty talks fill the hallways of governments in the West With the stench of star-spangled hypocrisy White voices with power that condemn the neo-Tsar Are silent before the travesty of an accursed King Saul   With their bloodstained hands They turn away the face of Bartholdi’s statue From the ferocity of the savage

Our ears were still wet and so was the appetite of our curiosity. Our little minds asked big questions  our nimble hands sought answers.   Preadolescent nymphs, frying plantain and eggs.  Their eggs and my seeds had not formed yet.   Trees of knowledge spring  from curiosity's seeds. Many are the species of trees  in the woods of awareness.   First came the landlord's daughter  then the two sisters.  Would an aunt's  discovery save us?  Were we too far gone?   Curiosity smothered innocence.  Crooked branches sprouted from trees  which were yet seedlings  germinating in soils  of adult cravings.   It was done in the dark. We could not turn back. The dark was clothed outside with daylight.   The maid sealed my fate. Shadowy consort of two cousins. I tottered towards puberty sworn to secrecy, of enchanting impurity.   Darkened, by the richness of humus below the plain clay atop its coming growth  the seedling pushes through topsoil  of l

To be quite clear, my continued support for the NLC at this point in time does not mean I take a non-critical position on its calling off the would-have-been strike. On the contrary, I feel very disappointed, like many working people in Nigeria and I do not think it was the correct step to take, despite the challenging context in which the decision was taken. My position is hinged on two important pillars that I think should inform radical action. First, it is not for us to cry (in lamentation or anger) or laugh (and clap when it seems that “yes, they are spitting fire” only). We are beholden to understanding, in a manner that puts the entire picture in perspective. Second, tactical positions need to be subordinated to the overarching strategy and our strategy informed by underlying principles. Yesterday afternoon, I expressed my support for the would-have-been strike in an interview with Sahara Reporters. Whilst doing so, I also stressed the fact that, haven issued the call, this

Pristine waters from time's endless seas once again, wash ashore secrets on its sands;  Where our feet mark rhythms of seasons, where we try to find reason in the darkness  of the clear waters' depths;  ...with the light of hope and the sword of efforts.   Once again, each first dips in a foot; many with the same resolutions, draped in changed garbs -or not-, from what they wore the year before.   Once again, fresh waters, like those that came before seek and embrace the feet of all living.   Once again, we crossed a chasm, behind which we left not a few; who were our betters, or worse than us, but no less deserving of dipping their feet had the storm of passing not marked their passage; one type of many rites, that pass with each year   For those lost in the vortex which rages beneath the bridge of the rainbow with crossed bones   For those to come, if we leave the home we borrowed from them, with life; in the air, th