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Books by Kwame Nkrumah
Consciencism: Philosophy and the Ideology for
Decolonization (1970) /
Neo-Colonialism: The Last Stage of Imperialism
(1965) /
Africa Must Unite
(1963)
Ghana: Autobiography of Kwame Nkrumah /
Dark Days in Ghana /
Class Struggle in Africa /
The Struggle Continues
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Fathia Nkrumah
Farewell Tranquility Never on the
Agenda
Profile by Gamal
Nkrumah
It was not meant to be a
marriage made in heaven. It was a political union
between Mediterranean-oriented North Africa and the rest
of the continent, often pejoratively termed sub-Saharan
or Black Africa. Yet Fathia Nkrumah's life story is a
modern fable representative of a certain era. For
fleeting moments in the late '50s and early '60s, it
captured the public imagination throughout Africa. The
young Egyptian woman who left her country to marry the
most illustrious African anti-colonial leader of his
time was inevitably invested with iconic qualities.
Fathia is my mother, of
course, and my memories of her life as Mrs Nkrumah are
necessarily skewed. She was thrust onto centre stage—
that much I know. In many respects she was rather
ill-equipped for her role, but she coped reasonably well
with being in the public eye. Her official persona was
more demure Diana than imperious Eva Peron, although
stardom did come naturally to her. After her husband's
death, she seemed to disappear; I know she has handled
that quite well too.
In her day, women ambassadors
were a rarity and, by virtue of the political nature of
her marriage, she became an unofficial envoy of her
country. She mingled with African and world leaders,
playing hostess to Charles de Gaulle, Haile Sellassie,
Chou En-Lai and Nikita Khruschev. She had the dubious
honour of being the only Egyptian woman to dance with
the Duke of Edinburgh when he accompanied Queen
Elizabeth II on an official visit to Ghana in 1962. "He
was very funny. He turned to me and said: 'I am certain
that the crowds will only call your name.' And they did.
He was right," she muses.
She understood what part she
was to play when she stepped on stage, and she also
learned how to come to terms with life behind the last
curtain. Upon her second return to Ghana in 1975, crowds
lined the streets. She engaged in easy banter with the
onlookers as we strolled what was then the main market
in downtown Accra, Makola. The market women presented
her with brilliantly-coloured, intricately-designed wax
print cloth, and they exchanged pleasantries for a
while.
In the autumn of 1978, she
flew to New York to receive a gold medal awarded
posthumously to my father at the United Nations
headquarters, during a special session of the UN
committee against apartheid. "First of all, let me thank
the General Assembly most sincerely for their very kind
decision to pay such a singular tribute to the memory of
my late husband, Osagyefo Dr Kwame Nkrumah. He himself,
I am sure, would have considered his contribution to the
international campaign against apartheid as a duty,
without looking for international approval or award. But
alas, his untimely death has robbed us of his presence
and encouragement," she told the assembled world
leaders.
Mother was born and brought
up in Zeitoun, the third daughter of a civil servant and
a diminutive but iron-willed woman who raised her
children single-handedly after her husband's untimely
death. In many respects, Fathia was a very ordinary
Egyptian girl. After completing her secondary education,
she worked as a teacher in her school, Notre Dame des
Apôtres. Teaching did not appeal to her, however, and
she took a job in a bank. Then opportunity knocked, in
the person of my father. My grandmother's firstborn had
left Egypt with his English bride and, when my father
proposed, she was reluctant to see another of her
children marry a foreigner and quit the country. Mother
explained that Nkrumah was an anti-colonial hero, like
Nasser. Still, my grandmother did not relent: she
refused to speak to Mother or bless the marriage.
The new bride, who had cut
herself off from her family and country by marrying
Nkrumah, was isolated in more ways than one. She spoke
little English, while her groom spoke neither Arabic nor
French. Within three months, however, her tenacity had
served her well, and she was able to deliver speeches in
English, Ghana's official language. Genuinely fond of
her new adopted home, she rarely yearned for Egypt. She
was happy to escape the suffocatingly conservative
culture she grew up in and happily embraced the rich
vibrancy of Ghanaian culture. She was amazed at the
fierce independence of Ghanaian women. They liked her in
return; the powerful "market women" who controlled the
textile trade even named a traditional kente cloth
design after her -- Fathia fata Nkrumah or "Fathia
deserves Nkrumah."
Against her family's wishes,
then, she embarked on a journey deep into the colonial
Africa of the late 1950s. Only her uncle agreed to
accompany her on the long journey to newly independent
Ghana. For a month before the wedding, the young bride
could not sleep a wink. She had been summoned by
President Nasser, who asked her if she was sure that she
wanted to accept Nkrumah's proposal of marriage.
Marrying a head of state—of
the first African country to achieve independence from
British rule, in fact—entailed
duties and responsibilities, sacrifices and potential
risks. Having heard the president's warning, Fathia
replied promptly: "I would like to go and marry this
anti-colonial leader. I read his autobiography—I
know of his trials and tribulations, of his struggles
during his student days in America and Britain, and of
his spearheading the anti-colonial struggle upon his
return to his homeland. I am deeply impressed." Only her
family stood in the way, she informed Nasser. She had
little idea of the challenges that lay ahead.
It was late December and
Cairo was experiencing an exceptionally cold winter.
Khartoum, the first stop on her journey, was very hot,
unbearably so. She spent the night there with her uncle
and the next morning headed west, stopping over in Kano
and Lagos, Nigeria, before landing in Accra.
The bride-to-be reacted to
the tropical climate in a decidedly unromantic way: with
swollen feet and a heat rash that turned her pale skin
screaming scarlet. A doctor was summoned. "What's wrong
with her?" the prospective groom demanded. The doctor
reassured him and the wedding went ahead. Not one to
waste time, Nkrumah married Fathia the evening of her
arrival in Ghana: New Year's Eve, 1957-1958.
Few were told about the
marriage plans. Even Father's secretary was taken by
surprise when she heard the news on the radio. The
ceremony was a very simple affair, which came as a shock
to an Egyptian bride who expected an ostentatious
marriage ceremony befitting a head of state. It was to
be the first of many such cultural shocks. A handful of
ministers and my paternal grandmother, Nyaneba, were
present. Grandmother, who was blind, pulled Mother's
hair; after a few tugs she declared that the bride was
not African even though she was assured her hair was jet
black. The two women later developed a close affinity,
which mother attributed to the fact that Nkrumah had
very little time for either his mother or his wife.
It was an inconspicuous
ceremony—a
civil marriage since my father refused religious rites.
Mother and her uncle were shocked to learn that there
would be no priest officiating over the marriage
ceremony, no veil, no walking down the aisle, no zaffa
(marriage procession), nor even the customary zagharit
(ululations).
At first, many Ghanaian women
did not take kindly to the idea of Kwame Nkrumah
marrying a foreigner. The militant women's league of the
ruling Convention People's Party was especially galled
that the national hero had married a "white woman," even
though Father explained to them that his bride was an
African despite her fair skin.
Christianborg Castle, renamed
Osu after independence, was at the time the seat of
government and Nkrumah's official residence. It was also
to be Mother's home for the next five years. As a child,
I often caught her watching the Atlantic pound the rocky
headlands upon which the castle was built. It was a
forbidding place, originally built by the Danes as a
slave trading fortress where thousands, perhaps millions
of Africans were shackled and shipped to the Americas.
Everyone knew the place was haunted with the ghosts of
the slaves, and at night, the deep dungeons often echoed
with screams. Even Sir Charles Arden-Clarke, the last
governor-general of Ghana, confessed that there was one
particular room in which he dared not sleep because
whenever he did he was awakened repeatedly during the
night by incessant knocking, banging of doors and
groaning in the hallways. Mother, however, often spent
the night there alone. Both my younger brother Sekou and
myself were born in Christianborg, while my sister Samia
was born in Aburi, a beautiful mountain retreat some
30km north of Accra. Mother loved the cool and
refreshing mountain air there and it was her favourite
escape from her official duties.
Between sober marriage
ceremonies and haunted houses, then Fathia was fast
absorbing the different aspects of West African culture.
On the other hand, she immediately took to Ghanaian
food. Kontomre, or spinach and smoked fish stew; yam
cakes; fried plantains; and her all-time favourites
kenke (a fermented maize dish traditionally eaten with
fried fish, chili, onion and tomatoes) and the rich red
palm oil stews of fish, crab, prawn and snail. But she
also taught the cooks at the Castle how to prepare
Egyptian dishes. Father nicknamed her "rabbit," because
she always insisted on green salad as a side dish, which
most Ghanaians of his generation thought rather odd.
Much of Mother's experience
in Ghana first lay behind the castle walls, and later
within the confines of the presidential palace,
Flagstaff House. At Christianborg, peacocks roamed
freely and the beautiful blue birds' piercing cries
filled the air. The lawns were meticulously kept, and
the driveway lined with ornamental palms. Bougainvillea
splashed brilliant shades of vermilion and crimson
against the white walls. Still, presidential life was
far from idyllic. The daily routine was frequently
punctuated with nerve-wracking assassination attempts.
Mother was always poised and calm in such situations. In
August 1962, Father, who was away in northern Ghana, had
a hand grenade hurled at him at close range. It missed
him, but killed a small girl who was offering him a
bouquet of flowers. Father had to be hospitalised for
two weeks for his deep shrapnel wounds. For weeks we
watched with trepidation as, still recuperating, he
would come out of his office every afternoon and cross
the battlements into the residential part of the castle.
In 1964, one of the guards at Flagstaff House attacked
my father as he returned from office. The assailant was
overpowered after killing a bodyguard, Salifu Dagarti.
My father's white suit was blood-stained and we children
were frantic with fear. I still remember the looks
exchanged between my parents—no
words were uttered, though. Mother ushered us into our
bedrooms and left us to attend to my father. Incidents
such as these left an indelible mark on the family.
Another shock now awaited us,
one that would change the course of our lives and
Father's, for he would never set foot in the land of his
birth again. He was away on a special mediation mission
that took him to China on his way to Hanoi. We stayed in
Ghana where, on 24 February 1966, we were awakened at
dawn by the din of artillery fire and explosions.
Mother's first instinct was to tell us, in a firm voice,
not to be afraid. The roaring of the unfed lions in
Accra's zoo, a short distance from Flagstaff House,
terrified us. Mother had the presence of mind to
telephone the Egyptian embassy in Accra and ask the
ambassador to contact Nasser. She had barely put the
phone down when the lines were cut. A few minutes after
Cairo was contacted, Nasser dispatched a plane to take
us to Egypt, and safety. The gun battle for the control
of Flagstaff House between the mutinous army and the
presidential guards was intensifying. The presidential
guards only surrendered when the coup leaders threatened
to blow up Flagstaff House. Everyone, Grandmother
Nyaneba included, was quickly evacuated and the hostile
forces trooped in, ransacking the premises. Mother took
a few personal belongings, which were promptly
confiscated at a roadside checkpoint. She seemed
fearless, berating the soldiers and reproaching them for
their ingratitude. Even family photographs, letters and
souvenirs were taken away, however.
En route to the airport,
today still named after coup leader Colonel E T Kotoka,
we stopped at the Egyptian embassy. Mother had to borrow
a coat from the ambassador's wife, and jackets for my
siblings and me. Next we were taken to Police
Headquarters for interrogation. At gun point, we were
ordered out of the car and told to sit on the ground in
a clearing in the bush. Mother was outraged. The tense
moments as the troops radioed for instructions dragged
on. Eventually we were allowed to proceed to the
airport.
A new chapter in Fathia's
life was about to begin. After six years of raising her
three children virtually single-handedly, she learned of
father's death on 28 April 1972. We hastily travelled to
Guinea (where he had taken up residence after the 1966
coup) via Paris and Dakar. Mother was not prepared for
the sight of the emaciated body laid out in the coffin.
Images of her husband's painful last days (Father died
of cancer) were to haunt her for the next decade. For
months on end she would lie in bed, unable to eat or
sleep, withering away. As children, we could not
understand that she was deeply depressed.
First, however, she gave a
dignified performance—the
last of her career—befitting
Nkrumah's widow. A state funeral was staged for my
father on 14 May, to coincide with the 25th anniversary
of Sekou Toure's Democratic Party of Guinea. It was a
Sunday. Nkrumah's coffin was laid temporarily in the
Camayenne Mausoleum, where Guinea's national heroes were
buried.
President Ahmed Sekou Toure,
after whom my brother Sekou was named, officiated. For
two long days at the Palais du Peuple in Conakry,
mourners from all over Guinea, South African
anti-Apartheid activists and freedom fighters, and
representatives of African and foreign governments paid
tribute to Kwame Nkrumah. Fidel Castro and Amilcar
Cabral spoke touchingly of Nkrumah's vision and
accomplishments.
Father's remains were exhumed
and returned to Ghana on 7 July 1972, over two months
after his death. An Air Guinea aircraft landed in Accra
with Nkrumah's coffin and widow aboard. After a brief
stopover, the sad party travelled to Nkrumah's burial in
Nkroful, his birthplace in western Ghana. Grandmother
Nyaneba, then well into her 90s, waited patiently for
her son. Mother stood by her side. Grandmother was
determined to remain alive to witness Nkrumah's
triumphant return to Ghana. Only after her hand was
placed on his coffin did the old woman at last accept
that he was dead. Grandmother was to pass away seven
years later in my mother's arms, aged 102.
Today, Mother lives a
sheltered life in Maadi. She is serene—an
astounding trait given the trauma she has experienced.
Far removed now from the ebb and flow of African
politics, she views the past with a healthy detachment.
It was an emotional moment,
though, when Mother and I visited Ghana in 1997 to
attend the celebrations held to mark 40 years of
independence. We visited the marble mausoleum in Kwame
Nkrumah Memorial Park, built in his honour by the
Chinese. We stood before a statue of Nkrumah inscribed
with the CCP slogan, Forward Ever. The statue stands on
the spot where he declared independence on 6 March 1957.
A group of schoolgirls and their teachers were also
touring the mausoleum that day. They insisted on taking
a photograph with Mother. Once again, it was clear that,
even for children born long after my father's death,
affection for his widow came naturally. Mother was
overcome with emotion and broke down. I tried to comfort
her, but I, too, was overwhelmed. And I knew that, after
all, Fathia could face this alone.
Source:
Ahram Weekly. 14 - 20 September 2000
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Madam Fathia Nkrumah, 75, the widow
of the late President Nkrumah is dead. Madam Nkrumah was
suffering from stroke and died at the Badrawy Hospital
in Cairo, Egypt. One of the sons of Madam Fathia, Mr
Sekou Nkrumah told
Joy News shortly after her death that although his
mother’s death was sad to hear it was something the
family expected due to the complicated nature of the
illness.
She will be buried in Cairo at a
Coptic Cathedral tomorrow, (Friday 1 June). * * * *
*
At
the Coptic Orthodox Christian Church in Cairo (reputed to be the
oldest Church in the world) where the solemn service was held,
Madam Fathia’s remains were accorded reverence reserved for
distinguished personalities.
Her body was laid in state at the cathedral which is a rare
occurrence in the history of the church.
Pope Shenouda III and Antonious Markos, Coptic Bishop for
Africa, led the congregation through Coptic Liturgy, hymns and
prayers. Staff of the Ghana Embassy in Cairo and a large number
of members of the African diplomatic community in Egypt and
other Africans, including students, attended the ceremony.
The last democratically elected leader of Sudan, former Prime
Minister Sediig Mahdi, and members of his UMMA party sat in the
front row.
Dr. Hoda Nasser, daughter of former Egyptian President Nasser,
two of Madam Fathia’s three remaining siblings, brother Fikry
Halim Rizk and sister Fotna Rizk, her children Gamel and Samia
Nkrumah, and other family members were part of the large
congregation.
In a tribute, Gamel reflected on his late mother’s fortitude and
explained the significance of the marriage of their parents to
advance the noble cause of the African Union.
Bishop Markos, a long-time friend of the deceased, drew
extensively on his personal experience to talk about Fathia’s
humanitarian work in Ghana.
Source:
New Times Online.com
posted 31 May 2007
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Kwame
Nkrumah (21 September 1909 - 27 April 1972) was
the leader of
Ghana and its predecessor state, the
Gold Coast, from 1952 to 1966. Overseeing the
nation's independence from British colonial rule in
1957, Nkrumah was the first
President of Ghana and the first
Prime Minister of Ghana. An influential 20th
century advocate of
Pan-Africanism, he was a founding member of the
Organization of African Unity and was the winner
of the
Lenin Peace Prize in 1963. . . . Nkrumah's
advocacy of industrial development at any cost, with
help of longtime friend and Minister of Finance,
Komla Agbeli Gbedema, led to the construction of
a hydroelectric power plant, the
Akosombo Dam on the
Volta River in eastern Ghana.
Kaiser Aluminum agreed to build the dam for
Nkrumah, but restricted what could be produced using
the power generated. Nkrumah borrowed money to build
the dam, and placed Ghana in debt. To finance the
debt, he raised taxes on the cocoa farmers in the
south. This accentuated regional differences and
jealousy. The dam was completed and opened by
Nkrumah amidst world publicity on 22 January 1966.
Nkrumah appeared to be at the zenith of his power,
but the end of his regime was only days away.
Nkrumah wanted
Ghana to have modern armed forces, so he acquired
aircraft and ships, and introduced conscription.He
also gave military support to those fighting the
Smith administration in
Zimbabwe, then called
Rhodesia. In February 1966, while Nkrumah was on
a state visit to
North Vietnam and
China, his government was overthrown in a
military
coup led by
Emmanuel Kwasi Kotoka and the
National Liberation Council. Several
commentators, such as
John Stockwell, have claimed the coup received
support from the
CIA. . . .
Nkrumah never
returned to
Ghana, but he continued to push for his vision
of African unity. He lived in exile in
Conakry,
Guinea, as the guest of President
Ahmed Sékou Touré, who made him honorary
co-president of the country. He read, wrote,
corresponded, gardened, and entertained guests.
Despite retirement from public office, he was still
frightened of western intelligence agencies. When
his cook died, he feared that someone would poison
him, and began hoarding food in his room. He
suspected that foreign agents were going through his
mail, and lived in constant fear of abduction and
assassination. In failing health, he flew to
Bucharest,
Romania, for medical treatment in August 1971.
He died of
skin cancer in April 1972 at the age of 62.—Wikipedia
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The White Masters of the
World
From
The World and Africa, 1965
By W. E. B. Du Bois
W. E. B. Du Bois’
Arraignment and Indictment of White Civilization
(Fletcher)
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Ancient African Nations
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The Death of Emmett Till by Bob Dylan
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The Lonesome Death of Hattie Carroll
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Only a Pawn in Their Game
Rev. Jesse Lee Peterson Thanks America for
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George Jackson /
Hurricane Carter
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The
Haitian Declaration of Independence 1804
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January 1, 1804 -- The Founding of
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updated 13 October
2007 |
