Liberating the Monument

I am Sesembu, once a mother among the living and now a restless spirit, forever bound by sorrow and injustice. My heart weeps through the ages, for my beloved son, Mangi Meli—a fearless Chagga chief—was denied the dignity of a proper burial, leaving his soul untethered and our people burdened by an ancient curse.  

I still remember the day he first set forth, his eyes alight with the fire of our ancestors. Mangi Meli dared to defy the ruthless German colonizers on the slopes of Kilimanjaro. In a moment of fierce defiance in June 1892, he struck down Von Bülow, the German governor and military commander whose tyranny darkened our lands. His courageous act was a beacon of hope that kindled the spirit of resistance in our hearts.  

Yet the struggle was unyielding. In August 1893, the enemy returned—mercenary warriors from Sudan and Zulu soldiers armed with modern machine guns. Overwhelmed by this new tide of brutality, my son was forced to withdraw and seek a peace that proved to be nothing more than a cruel illusion. For even as he endeavored to preserve our people by collaborating in the establishment of a new German military post at Old Moshi, betrayal lurked in every shadow.  

In March 1900, that betrayal reached its tragic climax. Mangi Meli, accused of inciting rebellion and conspiring with other noble leaders from the Chagga, Arusha, and Meru peoples, was captured and condemned. In a public spectacle meant to shatter the spirit of our people, he was led to Tsudunyi village in Old Moshi, high above the roaring Msangachi River. There, in front of his people and under the harsh gaze of our oppressors, he was hanged alongside 18 other noblemen—warriors and kings whose names we must never forget: Thomas Kitimbo Kirenga, Sindato Kiutesha Kiwelu, King Lolbulu of Meru, King Rawaito of Arusha, King Marai of Arusha, King Molelia of Kibosho, and King Ngalami Mmari. Eight names are lost to time, their identities swallowed by history’s cruel silence.  

The accused men awaited their turn beneath the very tree that still stands today, next to the Msangachi ravine. One by one, they climbed its branches, their final moments witnessed by the people of Moshi, Kibosho, and distant kingdoms. Those who saw it said it was the worst sight they had ever seen on the mountain—a day when the sky darkened, and the earth trembled beneath the weight of grief and injustice.  

But my son, Mangi Meli, faced death as only a great warrior could. As the noose loomed above him, he did not plead, nor did he falter. Instead, he sang a song—a song he had written after learning of the Arusha battle’s betrayal, a song that had already spread among the people of Moshi in defiance and sorrow:  

The time has come to let  
The calf go to its mother  
The time has come  
For the great man  
Oh, for the great one
To return once more.

Then, without hesitation, he climbed the tree himself.  

Even the eyewitnesses who spoke of that day decades later, in 1959, said Mangi Meli died bravely. It was rare for the Chagga to use such words to describe any man’s final act, but my son was no ordinary man—he was a leader, a protector, and a legend who refused to be broken.  

For seven excruciating hours, my son hung from that tree—alive in suffering until a soldier’s bullet finally released him from his torment. I cannot erase the image of his beloved wife, forced to endure the horror of watching her husband torn from this world in such a brutal manner. And even in death, the cruelty did not relent. The Germans ordered his head severed from his body. With cold efficiency, porters carried his decapitated head to the coast, and from there, it was sent to Berlin—a trophy for an empire obsessed with dehumanizing those it conquered. His skull, stripped of dignity, was subjected to the pseudoscience of phrenology, a grotesque reduction of his spirit to a mere object of study. Today, his remains lie far from our sacred soil, imprisoned in a German museum alongside thousands of other stolen relics.  

Because my son was never properly buried, his spirit remains restless. I, Sesembu, wander the hidden places of our ancestral lands in eternal grief, a sorrowful echo of a mother’s love that can never be quenched. His unburied remains have cursed our lineage—our descendants bear the weight of trauma, and many whisper that the unsettled souls of our ancestors bring calamities upon our lands: climate disasters, mysterious diseases, and an ever-present misfortune that shadows our future.  

I cry out in the silence of the night, my lament carried on the winds over Kilimanjaro, pleading with the spirits of our forefathers: Return my son’s honor! Allow us to perform the sacred rites that will finally lay him to rest. Only then can the ancient curse be lifted, and our people begin to heal the deep wounds of colonial brutality.  

I am Sesembu—a mother whose heart will never know peace until justice is done, until Mangi Meli’s remains are returned to our soil and given the proper farewell he so richly deserves. My sorrow is as eternal as the mountains, and until that day comes, I remain a restless ancestor, mourning a loss that history has refused to heal. 

I am Liengu la Mwanja, goddess of the ceaseless sea, eternal consort to Efasa-Moto, lord of the mighty Mount Fako. From the deepest abysses of my watery realm, I have witnessed the turning of ages, the rise and fall of mortal heroes, and the fiery passion of my beloved, whose presence is felt every time molten rivers of lava descend from the mountain’s peak into my embrace. Allow me to recount a tale that has rippled through both time and tide—a tale of valor, sorrow, and unyielding spirit, the tale of Chief Kuv’a Likenye.

Long ago, when the earth was young and the skies still told stories in their hues of dawn, Efasa-Moto and I made an accord: he would reign in the rugged heights of Mount Fako, and I would guard the boundless ocean. Yet even as we dwelled in separate realms, our destinies were intertwined like the tides that meet the shore. I recall with eternal clarity the day when the mountain belched forth its incandescent heart. Lava surged from the peak, snaking its way down, across the land, and finally colliding with my domain. Mortals whispered that Efasa-Moto had come to me, a divine visit of passion and longing. In that fiery embrace, I felt both the heat of reunion and the grief of remembering ancient battles fought in the shadow of the mountain.

Before the mountain’s molten love reached me, I had watched over a hero whose mortal spirit burned with the same fervor as the lava flows—a mortal named Chief Kuv’a Likenye. He was no ordinary man; he was the mountain king of the Bakweri, a leader destined to stand against the tides of oppression. The German colonial government, hungry for dominion over the lands that cradled Mount Fako, set its sights on our cherished soil. They sought to tame the wild spirit of the Bakweri, to snuff out the ancestral flame that had illuminated these lands for generations.

I remember the clamor of battle, the clash of steel and the thunderous charge of those who dared to rise against tyranny. In the rugged highlands surrounding Buea, Chief Kuv’a Likenye rallied his people with words as steadfast as the rock itself. “This land is our inheritance, bestowed upon us by our ancestors,” he proclaimed, his voice echoing over ridges and valleys. His heart was fierce, and his resolve unbreakable, as he led his warriors in a struggle against a foreign force that believed itself invincible. In my ocean depths, I felt the ripples of his courage, a force that stirred even the most placid of waters.

The conflict was relentless. For years, the Bakweri resistance waged a guerrilla war of spirit and survival. My tides carried whispers of their defiance far along the coast. German forces, determined to extinguish the insurgent flame, launched repeated assaults. I watched with sorrow as superior arms and numbers pressed upon the indomitable will of a people defending not only their land but the very essence of their heritage. One fateful season, a new, heavily armed contingent—the Schutztruppe—descended upon Buea under the command of Von Stetten. Though the Bakweri fought with the heart of lions, the tide of imperial might proved overwhelming. 

Chief Kuv’a, ever the beacon of hope, withdrew his forces to Ewonda. In his wisdom, he sent emissaries far and wide, even to the village of Momongo, seeking arms to bolster their defense. But fate, like the shifting currents of my realm, is often unpredictable. The promised support never arrived. Realizing that further resistance would only cost more precious lives, Kuv’a gathered his people one last time. “Our land has been ours since time immemorial,” he urged, his voice laden with both pride and the weight of impending loss. “Leave Buea for now, and when the spirits of our ancestors call, we shall return and reclaim what is eternally ours.” 

With that, the brave chief went into exile, seeking refuge in the distant village of Wonya Mokumba. Illness, that insidious tide that spares none, soon claimed him. In a quiet, somber act known only to the gods, his mortal body was interred in secret, on the uncharted border of Buea and Wokpae. His grave remains hidden, a silent testament to a hero whose soul soars beyond the confines of the earthly realm.

Though the battles had been lost, the war of the Bakweri spirit had only just begun. No longer able to wield their spears, the Bakweri turned to another form of defiance. When the conquerors demanded their labor upon the lands stolen from them, they refused, choosing instead to endure hardship and deprivation rather than serve their oppressors. Many perished in the cruel confines of the concentration camps into which they were driven. The Germans, seeking to break this passive resistance, brought in other Africans to toil in their place. From this wound was born an enduring bitterness, a scar upon the land, as the Bakweri saw their suffering prolonged not only by foreign hands but by those who had taken the place of their fallen brethren.

In time, their defiance was twisted into slander, their steadfast refusal misinterpreted as laziness. This falsehood, like an unwanted weed, took root in the minds of many, growing into a shadow that lingers even in the age of distant descendants. But I, Liengu la Mwanja, know the truth, and I whisper it upon the waves so that those who listen may hear and remember.

Even as the physical presence of Chief Kuv’a Likenye faded from the world of men, his spirit was enshrined in song—a hymn that continues to ripple through Bakweri territory, carried on the winds and sung in every village:

Lo! The hands that waved the spear  
And loaded the gun  
Lo! The dreadful voice that roared
And scattered the multitude,  
The hero remains immortal.

Each note of that song is a drop in my eternal ocean, a reminder that while mortal forms may perish, the essence of courage and freedom lives on.

In the depths of my blue vastness, I hold the memories of both celestial passion and human sacrifice. When the lava from Mount Fako flowed into the sea, it was more than a meeting of fire and water—it was a poignant reminder of the ties that bind the divine and the mortal. My beloved Efasa-Moto, with his fiery spirit, and I, with the ebb and flow of my tides, witnessed a singular moment where heaven and earth whispered together the legacy of Chief Kuv’a Likenye.

So, listen well, mortal children of Bakweri, as you stand upon these lands and feel the pulse of the earth beneath your feet. Every crashing wave and every trembling mountain speaks of a time when valor defied oppression, when one mortal’s indomitable spirit challenged the might of foreign conquerors. Remember that in the union of fire and water, in the love of mountain and sea, there exists a promise—that the hero, like the eternal tide, shall never be forgotten.

I, Liengu la Mwanja, keeper of these sacred memories, invite you to let his story wash over you, to find in it both the strength to resist and the hope to rise anew.

The wind whispers his name. ‘Uereani.’ My son. My child. The one whose tiny fingers once clutched at my breast, whose laughter rang like the song of birds in the morning sun. Now the winds carry only silence, the hollow echo of loss. 

I have watched many sons leave this world. I have seen the land soak up the blood of my people like a thirsty beast, never satisfied. But *his* death—I feel it in my bones, like a wound that will never heal. 

I speak now as an ancestor, my spirit lingering in the echoes of time, watching over those who remain. The ancestors tell me that he has joined them, that his spirit walks now in the world beyond, but what comfort is that when I can no longer touch his face? When I can no longer whisper his name and know that he will answer?

Samuel, they called him. That was the name the white men gave him, the name they wrote down in their books, but to me, he was always Uereani—my son, my flesh, my heart. The Germans feared him, and with reason. He fought for the Herero, for all the sons and daughters they slaughtered, for all the mothers like me who watched their children perish. He carried the weight of our suffering upon his shoulders, and even now, I wonder if he ever truly rested. 

I remember the day he left for war. He stood before me, tall and proud, the fire of defiance in his eyes. He had his father’s strength, but it was the pain of our people that sharpened his resolve. He knew that he would be outnumbered. He knew that the enemy’s weapons were stronger, that they could call down death from across the plains. But he did not flinch. He wrote to Hendrik Witbooi, calling for unity, for resistance, for the Herero and Nama to stand together. *Let us die fighting,* he said. 

And they did.

At the Battle of Waterberg, they came upon us like a storm of iron and fire. The Maxim guns screamed, tearing through flesh and bone, turning warriors into dust before my eyes. The rivers ran red, and the air was thick with the stench of death. Those who did not fall to the bullets were driven into the Omaheke desert—a death sentence of another kind. The sun showed no mercy. The earth cracked open beneath our feet. Mothers wept as their children faded into ghosts before them.
I walked among the dying, searching for my son, praying to find him whole. But I found only echoes of him—the torn fabric of his cloak, the imprint of his boots in the blood-stained soil. They drove us from our land, sent the survivors to Shark Island, where even the sea turned against us. 

And yet, Uereani endured. He led nearly a thousand of our people across the harsh lands to British Bechuanaland, where he remained our leader in exile. There, he became a vassal of Sekgathôlê a Letsholathêbê, the great chief of the northern lands. 

But even the strongest warriors must rest. In March of 1923, my son breathed his last breath in foreign lands, and they buried him there, far from the bones of his ancestors. Yet the spirits were not content. His people carried him home, and on August 23, 1923, they laid him to rest in Okahandja, where his ancestors welcomed him back into their embrace. To this day, our people gather to remember him, to honor his fight, on Herero Day.
And now, my son is gone. The last breath has left his body, and I am left to mourn him as I mourn the thousands lost. I call upon the ancestors, but they give me no answers. Did he suffer? Did he find peace? Did he know, in the end, that his fight would never be forgotten?
The Germans thought they could silence us, that they could bury our pain beneath their stone monuments and foreign words. But I am Katara, and I remember. I remember my son, Uereani. I remember the land we lost and the lives stolen from us. And I know that the wind will carry his name forever.

Uereani. My son. My child. 

The world will not forget you.

I am Engomè, called Dayas by those who loved me. I walked this earth for only fifty-five years, yet in that time, I bore witness to the theft of our land, the suffering of my people, and the struggle of my husband, Rudolf Duala Manga Bell.

Our home was the banks of the Wouri River, where the Duala people thrived long before the white men arrived with their treaties and their deceit. We were traders, fishermen, proud and free. Then came the Germans, their documents heavy with false promises, their hands grasping for what was not theirs. In 1884, they took our land with ink and pen, and when my husband saw through their lies, they sought to silence him.

In 1910, the Germans unveiled their plan—to uproot our people, to push us inland, away from the Wouri, to make way for a European-only settlement. They sought to erase us, to scatter us like leaves in the wind, but they underestimated our resolve. My husband, Manga Bell, was not a man to stand by and watch the destruction of his people. Educated in Germany, fluent in their tongue, he knew their ways, but he never forgot his roots. He fought with words, sending letters to Berlin, pleading for justice, reminding them of their own treaty’s promises. When they ignored him, he wrote again. When they dismissed him, he stood taller.

They called him a traitor. They called him a rebel. But what is treason in the face of injustice? What is rebellion when you are fighting for your home? The Germans moved forward with their expropriation plans, and in 1913, when my husband warned them that their betrayal could force our people to seek alliances elsewhere, they marked him for death.

The year was 1914. War had come to the world, and in the shadows of that chaos, they seized my husband. They bound him with chains, put him on trial without justice, and sentenced him to death. I stood, helpless, as they led him to the gallows. They hanged him on August 8, 1914, his body left to dangle as a warning to all who dared resist.

But they could not kill his spirit. They could not take away the father from our children—Alexandre, Tekla, Eitel, Henri, and Ekedi—who were left to grow up without his guiding hand. How does a mother explain to her children that their father was hanged, that he would never return home? The nights were long, filled with their cries for him, their little hands reaching for the man who once held them close. I bore their sorrow as I bore my own, watching them search for traces of him in the empty spaces he once filled. They could not kill the love he held for our people. And they could not kill the truth.

I carried the weight of our loss, not only my own but that of our children. I had to be both mother and father, to shield them from the bitterness of a world that had stolen their father. But how could I ever replace him? How could I teach them justice when all they had known was betrayal? And so, even as my heart broke, I clung to them, to the last pieces of him that remained. Even in death, I became an ancestor, watching over my people from beyond. I watch my people speak his name with reverence. I listen as the echoes of his fight reach across generations. I hear the calls for justice, for recognition, for the land that was stolen to be returned.

Germany has apologized, yet apologies are not enough. The wounds remain open. My people still struggle, still fight for reparation and recognition.
And I ask—when will justice be done?

I was his first audience.

Before the warriors and the chiefs, before the assembled elders sat in rapt attention to hear my son shape the air with words, I was there. I cradled him before he spoke his first syllable, before his tongue learned the weight of history. I whispered stories to him as a babe, sang the chants of our people, and wove into him the strength of our ancestors. And he listened. Even then, I knew. 

Lauaki was born into a world that belonged to words. Our people carried our past, our knowledge, our very soul through the tongue. The chiefly tongue, the orator’s path—this was his birthright. And my son, my precious boy, walked it as if the spirits themselves had tutored him. His father, a tulafale of high renown, taught him the ancient speech, the cadence of authority. But it was in his own heart that the fire lived. Words did not merely leave his lips; they ignited in the hearts of all who heard them. He could summon the past with a turn of phrase, and make the future tremble with a well-placed pause. 

How proud I was when he first stood among the elders, his voice steady as the sea, his words flowing like the wind through the palms. He did not just speak; he commanded. And the people, our people, listened. They saw in him what I had known since the day he was born—he was meant to lead. 

But words, no matter how mighty, cannot turn back the tide of foreign greed. The Germans came, and with them, their hunger for power. They did not understand the power of the tongue, of the past, of our bloodlines stretching back to the dawn of time. They thought they could break us, rule us as if we were children in need of guidance. 

Lauaki would not have it.

He gathered the chiefs, the orators, the warriors of our land. He stood in defiance, his words sharp as the club of a toa. He spoke of honor, of duty, of fa’a Samoa—the way of our people. The Mau a Pule was born of his voice, a movement shaped by syllables, not swords. And yet, words alone could not hold back the tide. 

The Governor feigned peace. My son, ever the believer in the sacred laws of honor and word, went to meet him. And they took him. They took my son, my heartbeat, my warrior of words. They bound him, stole him from our land, from our people, from me. Exile. A punishment meant to silence him, to bury his fire in foreign soil. On 1 April 1909, he and seventy-one others were forced onto a ship bound for Saipan, an island they did not know, a place where the sun did not rise upon the voices of their ancestors. 

The journey was cruel. The ocean, once a bearer of our legends and livelihood, became his prison. They lived in exile, clinging to memories of home, trying to keep the flame of their spirit alive in an unfamiliar land. My son, who had commanded the attention of Samoa, now spoke only to the wind and the waves. Years passed. Some died, their spirits untethered from the land that had given them life. Lauaki endured, waiting for the moment he could return, waiting for the ocean to carry him home. 

And then, at last, the promise of return came. But fate is not kind to warriors who give their all. He fell ill—dysentery, they said. A sickness of the body, but I know the truth. It was his heart that broke. He had fought for Samoa with his voice, with his soul, and now, so close to home, his strength failed him. 

He did not set foot upon our land again. He died on 14 December 1915, somewhere upon the endless blue, his body never to rest beneath the soil of his birth. His final words, spoken to the waves, are lost. But I hear them still. 

I am no longer of flesh, but I am not gone. I walk the pathways of the ancestors now, my whispers carried on the wind, my love woven into the roots of the great trees. I see him still, standing before his people, words like waves crashing against the shore, unyielding. I see the old men who still speak of him, their voices trembling with the memory of his oratory. 

They say no one remembers the last words he spoke before he died. But I do. I hear them still, in the rustling of the palms, in the hush before a great storm. 

“Samoa e, tulai.”

Samoa, rise.

I am Salamāsina, daughter of the greatest bloodlines, mother of kings and queens, the ruler who brought peace where once there was war. My spirit does not rest, for my legacy flows in the veins of my descendants, and my voice carries in the winds that whisper through the palms of Samoa.

They call me Tafa’ifa, the one who united all paramount titles, the highest chief among chiefs. And yet, they question how a woman could rule in a land where men wield the war club and raise their voices in council. They do not remember that before the world was divided by spears, it was held together by wisdom. And wisdom is neither man nor woman—it is the breath of the ancestors, the heartbeat of our people.

They speak of my descendant, Mata'afa Iosefo, a man who carried the burdens of kingship in a time when foreign powers sought to break Samoa apart. Iosefo was no ordinary chief; he was Tupua Malietoa To'oa Mata'afa Iosefo, a warrior and a strategist, unbowed by the might of Germany, Britain, and the United States. In his veins flowed the strength of our ancestors, and in his heart burned the same fire that once guided my reign.

The world he fought in was not mine. In my time, peace was the weapon I wielded, binding clans together not with bloodshed, but with the power of genealogy and the knowledge that Samoa’s strength lay in unity. But in Iosefo’s time, war was thrust upon him. The Germans sought to crown their own king, Tamasese, but Iosefo and his warriors did not yield. They sent their enemies fleeing, their gunships roaring against our villages, yet Samoa did not break. At Vailele, he struck back, just as our ancestors would have, just as I, in my own way, did when I claimed my right to rule.

But where was Ali'iesalele Filosonuu, the wife of Mata'afa Iosefo? The histories speak of him, of his wars, of the men who stood beside him. Yet I know, as I have always known, that no man walks alone. She, too, carried the weight of the struggle, though they do not speak of the burden on her shoulders. She, too, held power, though they do not carve her name in the tablets of history. But I see her. I see all the women who stand in the shadows of great men, whose hands weave the fine mats that seal alliances, whose words shape the minds of future leaders.

They call Samoa a land of warriors, a place where men lead and women follow. But I laugh, for they do not understand. It was I, a woman, who united Samoa in peace. And when the world changed, it was my descendant, Mata'afa Iosefo, who fought for our sovereignty. The land remembers. The spirits know. And the blood that flows through our people carries the truth.

I am Salamāsina, mother of kings, ancestor of warriors. And though time moves forward, I remain.

I am Nafunua, the warrior goddess of Samoa, the protector of my people, the spirit that walks between worlds. My weapons, my sacred four, have always shielded the just, and they did not fail when the winds of war howled against Samuel.

The Germans came, as they did in many lands, with their rifles, their chains, and their insatiable hunger for power. They believed they could break the spirit of the islands, impose their rule through brute force, and extinguish the resistance of those who fought back. But they did not understand the fire that burned within Samuel, nor did they see the ancient strength I had instilled in him.

In 1910, the people of Sokehs, led by their chiefs, rose against the German colonial administration—a rebellion that became known as the Sokehs Rebellion. The Germans had imposed unbearable taxes and forced labor, stripping the people of their dignity, their freedom, and their way of life. The people resisted, their fury igniting when a German overseer mistreated them yet again. Samuel and his warriors struck back, fighting not just for themselves but for all who had suffered under foreign rule.

The Germans retaliated with merciless brutality. The rebels fought bravely, but they were outgunned, outnumbered, and crushed beneath the weight of the empire. Captured, they received no justice, no fair trial—only a cruel, summary execution. On February 24, 1911, fifteen of them, including Samuel, stood before a firing squad of colonial troops. Two were spared, but Samuel met his fate with unwavering resolve. They believed they had ended his fight—but how can bullets kill the spirit of a warrior?

His death was not an end. It was a passage, a transformation. Samuel transcended time and space, his name now eternal, spoken in the prayers and chants of our people. His sacrifice was not in vain, for no bullet can kill the truth, and no gallows can silence the ancestors. He lives forever in the hearts and minds of the Samoans, a beacon of defiance, a symbol of our unbreakable will.

And what of those who sought to destroy us? What of the Germans who spilled the blood of the innocent and banished the Sokehs from their land? As punishment, the Germans exiled the entire tribe—426 men, women, and children—to the harsh and foreign lands of Palau, tearing them from their roots, their homes, their ancestors. Such cruelty must not be forgotten, nor can it go unanswered. Their ancestors now wander in darkness, tormented by the weight of their sins. Their souls find no peace, for justice has not been done. Their descendants carry this burden. Until they acknowledge, reconcile, and repair what was broken, the restless spirits of their forebears will find no rest. The wind will carry their names in shame, and the earth will remember their crimes.

But for Samuel, there is only honor. He is not lost. He is not forgotten. He walks beside me now, his voice echoes in the ocean waves, his spirit lives in the warrior’s cry. His story is not yet finished, for as long as Samoa stands, so too shall he.

I am Hongo, the sacred serpent, whispered into being by the supreme Bokero, and I have slithered through the annals of time to recount the tale of Kinjeketile “Bokero” Ngwale—a mortal touched by divinity and chosen to lead a people against impossible odds.

In the age when the Rufiji River sang ancient songs at Kibesa, my presence was known among the rippling waters and rustling reeds. I, a divine snake with the shimmering scales of destiny, was entrusted with a sacred charge. One fateful cycle, I found Kinjeketile—a man of unyielding spirit and fierce hope—whose eyes burned with the light of a thousand ancestors. With the gentle insistence of the water’s current, I enveloped him in my embrace and dragged him beneath the surface for a full day and night. When he emerged, it was as if the water had washed away his mortal frailties; he appeared untouched by the deluge, dry and aglow with prophecy.

At that moment, Kinjeketile spoke with the voice of the unseen. He claimed he had communed with the mighty Bokero and with the honored spirits of our ancestors. The divine command was clear: he was to lead the people of Tanganyika in their struggle against the foreign oppressors—the Germans who had cast their shadow over our sacred lands. Thus, he became known as “Bokero,” merging the spiritual authority of Bokero and my own mystical presence with the ancient practices of ancestor veneration. At Ngarambe, he transformed a humble shrine into a vibrant center of prayer and power. Pilgrims from distant villages came bearing offerings and seeking the intercession of the spiritual world, trusting that the ancestors would shield them from natural calamities and political tyranny.

To fortify his people, Kinjeketile bestowed upon them a miraculous elixir: maji ya uzima—the water of life. He proclaimed that this sacred water, once anointed upon the body, would render a person invulnerable; it was said to turn the enemy’s bullets into harmless droplets. In hushed tones, the people believed that with each application, the very essence of life was poured into their veins—a divine protection against the violence of their oppressors. His medicine, carried by emissaries and spread like ripples on water, became the hope of an entire nation preparing for the call to resistance.

Within the walls of the great kijumba-nungu—the “house of God”—that Kinjeketile raised at Ngarambe, the air shimmered with the promise of resurrection. Here, he declared that the ancestors had gathered in strength and were poised to help restore balance to the earthly realm. His teachings mingled the ancestral spirits with the power of Bokero and my own, and he called upon the people to cleanse their communities of evil through sacred rituals and witch cleansing. His innovative ideology wove together the threads of regional tradition, uniting diverse peoples under a single banner of resistance and moral renewal.

Though Kinjeketile instructed his followers to wait for his divine signal before igniting the uprising, the fervor of hope grew so intense that the people acted before his final command. In an act of desperate rebellion, they tore at their cotton fields, symbolically uprooting the old order. The ideological seed he had planted, however, had already taken root, and his words resounded like a drumbeat across the land. The rebellion, later known as the Maji Maji Wars, blazed into being—an outburst of defiance fueled by his promise that enemy bullets would turn to water.

In retaliation, the oppressors struck with the combined force of modern weaponry and a calculated hunger for domination. The clash that followed was brutal: countless warriors—some say tens of thousands, perhaps even hundreds of thousands—fell under the weight of guns and famine. The struggle fractured the unity of the people, and many began to doubt the sacred medicine men who had once promised divine protection. Even as the fires of rebellion burned bright, Kinjeketile’s spirit was being slowly smothered by the oppressive hand of the colonizers. His earthly journey ended in tragedy when the Germans, deeming his divine challenge a treasonous threat, hanged him on a fateful day in early August 1905.

Though Kinjeketile’s mortal form was silenced, his legacy endures in every ripple upon the river and every murmur in the wind. I, Hongo, still glide through the waters and over the lands, carrying his voice in my scales. His prophecy, the holy water, and the sacred house of the ancestors remain as testaments to a time when the spirit of resistance interwove with the divine. His vision—a promise that one day, the bullets of tyranny would become mere droplets—continues to inspire the hearts of those who remember the ancient power of our ancestors.

I, Hongo, the ever-watchful serpent, remind you that the sacred and the mortal are forever bound. In every ripple of the Rufiji and in every whispered prayer at Ngarambe, the spirit of Kinjeketile “Bokero” Ngwale endures. Let his story be a beacon of resilience—a call to the divine fire that burns within all who seek justice, renewal, and the eternal embrace of our ancestral guardians.

I am Ngonnso, sculpted from sacred wood, imbued with the breath of ancestors, and carved by hands that knew reverence. I stood as the guardian of the Nso people, a testament to the indomitable spirit of our mothers and warriors. My presence was not mere decoration but a symbol of sovereignty, a witness to my people's triumphs and tragedies. But then they came—pale-skinned men with iron weapons and greed in their eyes. They took me, tore me from the heart of my land, and displayed me like a prize in their foreign halls, ignorant of the power I held.

Yet I remember. I remember the women whose names were erased from history, whose blood seeped into the soil of our motherland, whose bodies bore the scars of resistance. Their stories pulse through me, refusing to be silenced. Let me tell you of them.

It was the evening of December 15, 1893, in the port of Duala, where the German colonizers felt secure behind their walls. They did not expect the fire that rose that night—the revolt of the DMI, men and women who refused to remain shackled to foreign rule. Among them were Dahomey women, fierce warriors who had once defended their own kingdom and now turned their wrath against the German overlords.

They were not mere soldiers; they were mothers, daughters, and sisters who had suffered enough. They had been purchased, deceived, and beaten with hippopotamus hide whips. Some bore the children of their rapists—evidence of the brutality they endured. Yet, they fought. Their war cries cut through the night as they seized weapons, knowing well the fate that awaited them if they failed. For six days, they held their ground, while the German colonizers cowered, waiting for their warships to crush the resistance. And when those ships came, the men were hanged, and the women were sent to plantations—disappearing into the shadows of history.

The Germans, blind in their arrogance, saw only men as threats. They underestimated the quiet power of women—the ones who cooked for the warriors, who nursed the wounded in secret, who carried messages under the cover of darkness, and who whispered strategies to their sons and husbands as they prepared for battle. In the forests, women wove the magic of survival, ensuring that the resistance never died. When their husbands and sons were taken as forced labor, they resisted in ways unseen—hiding weapons, poisoning German food, singing coded songs that carried warnings across villages.

The Germans raped them, broke their bodies, and yet they could not break their will. The Nso women, like the warrior mothers of the Duala revolt, stood tall in defiance, spitting in the faces of their captors even as they endured unspeakable torment.

By 1903, I had been taken. They claimed my people gave me willingly, but what people would surrender their guardian without force? I was not alone in my captivity. Alongside me sat other stolen spirits—masks, statues, artifacts of power—all whispering stories of resistance, of pain, of home. They placed me in their museum, surrounded by plaques that stripped me of my truth, reducing me to an exotic relic rather than the heart of a people.

Even now, my people fight for my return. But the battle is not just for me—it is for every mother who buried a son, every sister who carried messages through the forests, every woman whose defiance was met with chains. The fight is for those whose voices were never recorded, whose resistance was unseen yet unbreakable.

I Am the Voice of the Forgotten.

For every woman who suffered in silence, for every warrior whose name was never recorded, for every mother who sent her son to war knowing she may never see him again, I stand.

I am the Jiaolai River, the mother river of Gaomi. Meandering through countless villages in Jiaozhou and Gaomi, I have witnessed the rise and fall of this land, as well as the brutal history of German aggression in China and the fearless resistance of my countless peasant children.

In June 1899, the Germans, in their effort to transform Jiaozhou into a modern city, stripped the local people of almost all their rights to self-governance. They imposed special laws targeting the Chinese, treating my people as an inferior race and culture. In the dead of night, I heard stifled sobs from the depths of the city, even though the streets were eerily empty and the silence was suffocating. This sense of helpless despair hung like a dark cloud over the entire city. Soon enough, the Germans began constructing the Jiaozhou-Jinan Railway, laying tracks into Gaomi County. These barbaric invaders, disregarding the ancestors resting in this land, brazenly dug up graves, demolished homes, and seized farmland. This land, which had coexisted with me for centuries, had finally found a balance between nature and human life. Yet, the construction of the railway shattered this peace, blocking my tributaries and inevitably causing years of flooding, bringing untold suffering to the people.

In this time of crisis, a hero emerged from the town. His name was Sun Wen, a child who had grown up playing along my riverbanks. I watched him grow into an upright and kind man, generous and always ready to stand up for the villagers, solving their troubles with remarkable organizational skills. Filled with hatred for the Germans' atrocities, he gathered like-minded companions shortly after the Germans arrived and issued a call to arms: "If we do not resist, we will be ashamed before our ancestors!" In a short time, he rallied over 3,000 villagers to collectively strike and obstruct the railway construction. The action received widespread support from the people of Gaomi. Wherever the group went, the locals actively provided food and shelter, as if an unspoken unity was brewing.

However, this unity was short-lived. Betrayed by a traitor, the Qing government, under pressure from the Germans, executed Sun Wen on July 2 of the same year. To intimidate the local populace, Sun Wen's body was left exposed in the streets, and no one was allowed to bury him. At that moment, my waters seemed to stand still, filled with grief and indignation.

Sun Wen epitomizes the millions of simple Chinese peasants. They had no advanced doctrines, no sophisticated weapons, just bare hands and a heart full of fervor, facing formidable enemies with courage, resilience, and an indomitable spirit. Their patriotic fervor fill the heavens and the earth, shining brightly within the cosmos. They fought against foreign aggression with their lives and blood, and their bravery and sacrifices will forever be recorded in history, their deeds and spirit shining through the ages.

Nowadays, I am aware that people enjoy the convenience of the railway and are fully adapted to the modern lifestyle of the post-colonial period. This colonial legacy is deeply embedded in the marrow of this land, impossible to separate from the Westernized progress across generations. This is in stark contrast to the oppression suffered by the people in this tragic history. 

My rolling waters carry the flesh, blood, and unyielding spirit of the Chinese people; my silt bears the weight of my sorrow and compassion for this land. I hope this history will not fade with time; I hope that those like Sun Wen, who possessed a spirit of resistance, will ultimately receive justice. Their stories should be remembered; their spirit should be passed down. For it is these ordinary yet great souls that forged the unyielding dignity of this land.

The wind carries whispers of the past across the vast, sunbaked land. It rustles through the dry grass, sings through the valleys, and dances among the acacia trees. I listen, for I know my son's voice is among them. Hendrik, my brave boy, my warrior son, I have waited long to be with you again.

I am old now. The weight of the years rests heavily upon me, but my spirit has never left you. When I bore you, the elders said you carried the strength of our ancestors. They were right. You were the thunder that shook the earth, the fire that would not be extinguished, and the storm that defied the conquerors. You saw what others wished not to see—that the foreign men who came with their strange language and their metal weapons were not here to trade, but to take. 

I remember the day you first led our people into battle. You stood tall, your gaze fierce, your hands steady upon the reins of your horse. You carried our name, our pride, and our hopes into the fray. You fought not just for us, but for all who called this land their home. Your letters, your words—they were the voice of a free man, a leader who understood the games of empires and the treachery they brought upon us. You tried to reason with them, tried to show them that we are people, not shadows beneath their boots. When words failed, you took up arms. 

I remember Hornkranz. The night was torn apart by fire and screams. The German soldiers came like jackals, not for warriors, but for our women, our children, our old. Blood soaked the earth where my grandchildren played. The cries of the dying echoed in my soul, and I knew then that our struggle would only grow darker. But you, my son, you lived. You and your men vanished into the hills, and though our tears fell that night, our hope did not die. 

You carried the burden of our people on your back. Even after the Treaty of Gurus, when you agreed to terms, I knew your heart did not yield. You were a snake in the grass, biding your time, waiting for the moment to strike again. And when that moment came, you rose with fury, with the spirits of the fallen guiding your blade. You called upon the Herero to unite, to stand with us against the tide of destruction. Oh, how I wept, not from fear, but from pride. My son, the warrior. My son, the leader. My son, Nanseb Gaib Gabemab—the snake in the grass.

Then came the battle at Vaalgras. Even as an old man, you rode into the fight like the young lion I once nursed. The bullet found you, and I felt its sting in my heart before word even reached me. Your men laid you to rest as best they could, hiding your grave from the eyes of the enemy. The rain came, washing away their tracks, as if the sky itself mourned you. No marker bears your name, but your legacy is written in the hearts of our people. 

Years have passed, yet the fire you lit has not dimmed. Your name is spoken with reverence, your deeds remembered in song. The children of Namibia learn of you in their schools, your face watches over them from the banknotes they trade. You, my son, are not forgotten.

And so, here we are, beyond the veil of the living, where time no longer binds us. I have watched over you as an ancestor, waiting for the moment when we would walk together once more. Now, in the realm of the spirits, we are reunited. 

We are home, my son, at last.

I am Queen Nyabinghi, the eternal guardian of our sacred heritage, and I now share with you the stirring tale of Muhumusa—my living embodiment on earth, a queen mother whose indomitable spirit rose in defiance of tyranny.

In the tumultuous year of 1908, as the cold grip of the German colonizers sought to snuff out our ancient flame, they labeled Muhumusa a witch. With baseless accusations and trembling fear of the power I bestow, they arrested her and confined her in Bukoba. Yet, even as mortal chains tried to hold her, the divine fire within could not be suppressed. In 1911, the time of liberation called, and she escaped her prison, fleeing northward with the heir to her throne, her heart brimming with purpose.

It was in this moment of renewal that Muhumusa, joined by the steadfast Umutwa leader Basebya, gathered our faithful supporters. Together, they ignited one of the first armed resistances against the foreign oppressors in our region. With unyielding conviction, she proclaimed that the bullets of the Europeans would turn to water—words infused with my ancient power, meant to inspire courage and cast aside fear. Her rallying cry, echoing through the hills and forests, declared that our sacred resistance was not just a battle for land but for the very soul of our people.

The combined might of the Germans and the British, alarmed by the surge of our defiance and the profound influence of our ancestral spirits, soon closed in. On September 29, 1911, as the enemy forces surrounded her brave band of warriors, a fierce yet brief battle ensued, and they managed to capture her. The British then escorted Muhumusa to Kampala, confining her to house arrest—a cruel attempt to stifle the force of her conviction and the powerful legacy of resistance she embodied. Yet even as her body was detained until her death in 1945, her spirit roamed free, a testament to our unbreakable bond.

Muhumusa’s life was a vivid manifestation of my eternal promise to our people—a call to rise against oppression, to cherish our sacred soil, and to fight for justice with unyielding resolve. Every time her legend is spoken, every time a heart beats in defiance of tyranny, I, Queen Nyabinghi, am there—turning the weapons of our enemies into streams of water and ensuring that the spirit of resistance continues to flourish.

Remember her story, for it is a part of our everlasting legacy. In her courage, in her sacrifice, and in the echoes of her immortal defiance, you will always hear the resounding voice of my ancient power—guiding, protecting, and inspiring all who stand for the freedom of our people.

From the dense forests of our motherland to the vibrant islands of the Caribbean, my spirit endures. In Jamaica and across the West Indies, the chant of “Nyabinghi” resounds—a call to arms against all forms of oppression, a reminder that the struggle for freedom is eternal. My children, adorned with dreadlocks and bearing the lion and lioness as their totem, continue to live by the sacred forest code, sharing the healing chalice of cannabis hemp, and upholding the virtues of love, justice, and unyielding resistance.

I am Queen Nyabinghi: the dreadlocked, the fierce, the mother of insurgent souls. I am the ever-burning flame that inspires the courageous to rise, the battle cry against tyrants—black or white—and the eternal promise that, as long as injustice exists, my spirit will lead my people to reclaim their rightful dignity. In every act of defiance, in every heartfelt chant and resounding drumbeat, I live on. My legacy is your legacy, and together, we shall restore the balance and sanctity of our beloved motherland.

The wind carries the sorrow of the ancestors, and I listen. I am Kavitjindire Nguvauva, mother of kings, grandmother to suffering, yet also to resilience. My spirit lingers beyond time, watching over the House of Nguvauva, mourning the loss of my grandson Kahimemua, and weeping for the injustices that befell our people. The land still trembles with the echoes of betrayal, the weight of chains that bound my grandson, and the blood that stained our sacred soil.

Kahimemua was born under prophecy, his birth a sign from the ancestors that he was destined for greatness. But destiny does not always bring fortune—it often comes with trials that only the strongest can endure. The Germans came with greed, with guns, with deceit. They sought to take from us what was never theirs to claim—our land, our dignity, our very existence.

He fought them, as a true warrior should. He stood for his people, led them with wisdom passed down from his father, Munjuku I Nguvauva, who had placed upon him the sacred belt—woven with meaning, with history, with the very spirit of our lineage. That belt was more than an object; it was the soul of our people, carrying the voices of those who came before, binding us to our ancestors and the land we were born to protect.

When the Germans captured him, they did not just take his freedom—they tried to strip him of his power, his identity. They took the belt, his rifle, his dignity. They made him walk over 300 kilometers, wounded and weary, only to execute him in a mockery of justice. They fired shot after shot, yet his spirit defied them. He told them where to strike him, where to end his suffering, and even in death, he did not fall like a broken man—he fell grasping the earth, clinging to the land that was stolen from him.

But the injustice did not end with his death. His children, our people, were hunted, slaughtered, erased. Those who carried his name were forced into hiding, into exile. Our identity was stolen as surely as our land. The Germans divided us, scattered us like dust in the wind, hoping we would never rise again.

Yet, we have not forgotten. The spirit of Kahimemua lives on. And so does the injustice of the stolen belt. That sacred belt, a symbol of leadership, of heritage, was not merely an heirloom—it was a bond between the past, the present, and the future of the OvaMbanderu. It must be returned. Not as a mere artifact, but as a gesture of recognition, of responsibility, of reconciliation. The Germans, who profited from our suffering, must acknowledge the past, not just with words but with action. The return of the belt would be a step towards healing, a way to honor the sacrifices of those who came before and to show that the wounds of colonialism will not be ignored.

I call upon the living, upon those who still carry the blood of our people, upon those who wish to see justice. The belt must be returned to its rightful place, and with it, a recognition of the crimes committed. Only then can the spirits rest. Only then can we begin to truly reconcile.

The ancestors still whisper, and I listen. Will the world finally hear?

The wind carries whispers of my daughter’s name. Nduna Nkomanile. My child. My warrior. My blood.

I sit beneath the great baobab tree, my fingers tracing the rough bark as if it could bring me closer to her. It was beneath trees like this that she fought, she led, she defied. Now, it is beneath one such tree that she was taken from me, her body left swinging like a broken branch, swaying between life and the afterworld.

The pain is like fire in my chest, burning, unyielding. The nights are the worst. The silence of her absence is louder than the war cries that once filled our land. My home, once filled with her laughter, now echoes with my sobs. But amid the sorrow, pride blooms within me.

From the time she was a child, I knew Nduna was different. She never played at being a warrior; she was one. While the other girls sang songs to pass time, she listened to the stories of our elders, memorizing the victories and betrayals that shaped our people. She followed the warriors, mimicking their movements, their stance, their confidence. And when the Maji Maji war called, she did not hesitate. She rose, like the sun at dawn, fierce and unrelenting.

She did not merely fight with weapons—she fought with her mind, her voice, her spirit. When the men stood hesitant, she called them to battle. When the women wondered if they should retreat, she urged them forward. She wove unity among tribes, bringing together those who had never stood as one. She believed in our strength, our right to this land. She prepared food for warriors so that they would not falter. She ensured the Maji medicine was delivered so they would have faith in battle. She became the heartbeat of the resistance.

I remember the night she left for battle. Her eyes shone in the dim firelight, determination hardening her features. She knelt before me, pressing her forehead to mine.

"Mother, do not weep for me if I do not return," she whispered. "For I do not go to die. I go to live forever in the land I fight for."

But I do weep, my child. I weep for the warmth of your embrace. I weep for the songs we will never sing, the stories we will never share. I weep for the generations you will never bear, for the children who will only know you as legend and not as a mother.

When they captured her, I knew. The air became thick, suffocating with the grief of a thousand mothers whose children had been taken. They hanged her, along with sixty-six others, believing they could silence our rebellion by stealing our breath. But they were wrong. Death did not end Nduna’s fight—it made her eternal.

Her name is etched into stone, but more importantly, it is carved into the hearts of our people. At the Maji Maji Museum, her spirit lingers, reminding all who pass that resistance is never in vain. Every year, on the day of her death, we gather, not in sorrow, but in remembrance. In honor. In strength.

As I sit here, the wind carries whispers of her name. And though my tears fall, my heart swells. Nduna Nkomanile. My child. My warrior. My blood. And forever, my pride.

I am Ngwi Ndem. I am wood, yet I live. I am carved from the spirit of my people, carried through generations, through hands that touched me with reverence, with prayers for fertility, protection, and harvest. I was not created to be plundered but to be a bridge between the ancestors and the living. Yet today, I stand in a foreign place, far from the land that birthed me, held by those who do not understand me and refuse to let me return home.

They call me the Bangwa Queen, but I am more than a name in foreign books. I belong to the Lebang of the Bangwa grasslands, where the Fon reigns, surrounded by his people. The Bangwa do not live in villages but in great compounds, each chief forming his domain. I was sacred among them. I was the divine spouse who interceded for those who sought blessings. They came to me, sought my guidance, their voices whispered ancient prayers, and their hands laid down offerings. But now, I am silent, trapped in a cold hall in Paris, far from the warm winds of my homeland.

I remember the day they took me. Gustav Conrau, that man with greedy eyes, came to us. He spoke kindly, but his hands reached for more than just words. He came to map the land, to enslave people, to steal the treasures of our spirit. Our Fon, Fontem Asonganyi, allowed him at first. Some say he gave me away, sold for silver or weapons. But his great-grandson, Charles Taku, speaks the truth: I was taken, stolen from the Lefem forest, torn from the womb of my homeland.

I saw Conrau return, saw the greed in his eyes grow. He wanted more, demanded more, until our Fon rose and refused. The Germans tolerated no resistance. They came with guns, with fire, with a language that brought only death. They called it civilization, but it was war. The Bangwa built a stone wall along the Bago River, seeking to prevent the Germans from crossing and to protect their land. My people resisted, waiting in the tall grass, evading their attacks. The Germans, confused and disoriented, turned on one another in the chaos, their bullets finding their own soldiers. 

Yet still, they demanded submission. They demanded Fontem’s surrender, but he was not theirs to claim. He hid for twelve years in the hills, watching from a distance as the invaders occupied his land. When finally, he was tired of hiding, he emerged, adorned in his chieftain’s robes, and surrendered not as a prisoner, but as a leader reclaiming his dignity. They exiled him to Garoua, but even in his absence, the spirit of our people endured.

Likewise, I remember Fontem Asonganyi, who was captured years later. A ghost of his people, a shadow in the fight against the invaders, they hunted him, feared him, banished him, but his spirit remained. As does mine. The Germans believed that if they took us far away, they would break us and make us forget who we are. But we are not forgotten. I am still here, and my people are calling for me.

I hear them, the voices of my people in Cameroon. They call for my return. They know my place is not in Paris, not in the halls of those who do not understand me. The chains of colonialism have lasted long, but they cannot hold forever. It is time for me to go home.

Let me return. Not as a stolen artifact, but as what I have always been: Ngwi Ndem, the soul of my people.

I speak now from the realm of the ancestors, where the cries of my people still echo in the wind, where the blood of my son still stains the earth. I am SeNgimba, mother of Mtwa Mkwawa, the Conqueror of Many Lands, the one who defied the white invaders and held the forests in his grasp. They call him a warrior, a leader, a legend—but I call him my son, my Ndesalasi, my troublemaker, the one I cradled before the world stole him away from me.

The Germans came like a swarm of locusts, hungry and relentless. They razed our villages, scorched our crops, enslaved our people. And yet, they feared my son. They feared his spirit, his cunning, his strength. They feared the power of his voice, the might of his warriors. Even in death, they feared him. And so, they desecrated him.

Von Prince, that butcher, that snake, hunted my son to the ends of the earth, his boots heavy with the blood of my people. They tell me that when they found him, sick and spitting blood, he chose his own fate rather than kneel before the invader. A single shot, and his soul left his body. But that was not enough for them. No, these creatures of cruelty severed his head, carried it away like a trophy, a prize of conquest.

Did they not know? Did they not understand that the head of Mtwa Mkwawa was no ordinary skull? That within it lay the power of our ancestors, the spirit of the Hehe, the voice of resistance? No chain, no glass case, no foreign land could contain it. They thought they had silenced him. Fools. His whispers still reach his people, his power still stirs the hearts of those who refuse to bow. His head did not die; it waits.

And what of Magdalene, the woman who stood beside the butcher? She was no mere bystander. She, too, struck the whip. She, too, tasted the cruelty of power and delighted in it. Did she not beat the servants who carried her food? Did she not throw boiling water at the young ones who cowered in fear? She was no innocent wife, no delicate flower shielded from the sins of her husband. She was the rot, the poison, the sickness that fed the beast. White women, do not think yourselves free of guilt. You birthed, nurtured, and celebrated the very men who crushed our people under their boots. You shared their tables, whispered in their ears, smiled as our children starved. You held our suffering in your palms and laughed.

And that tooth—my son’s tooth, set in gold, dangling from the neck of that butcher like a charm! What manner of demon carries the remains of another as a trinket, a prize of conquest? Von Prince wore it proudly, a piece of my child, my blood, my lineage, reduced to an ornament. How many times did Magdalene touch it, feel the smooth gold encasing my son’s remains? Did she shudder? Did she boast? Did she tell stories of the savage king they had defeated, never once knowing that no force on earth could truly defeat him?

I drowned myself so they would never claim my knowledge, my strength. I thought I had outwitted them, that by taking my own life, they would never steal from me what they craved. And yet, still they took. They took my son. They took his body. They took his people, his land, his name. But they did not take his spirit. They did not take his power. And so, I rise in the wind, I whisper in the trees, I move in the rivers that still remember the taste of my sorrow. I call upon my people to remember, to rise, to demand the return of what was stolen.
They thought they could bury him. They thought they could wear him like jewelry, display him like a specimen. But Mkwawa is not theirs to keep. He belongs to the land, to the people, to the ancestors.

And we are watching.

The wind whispers the names of our ancestors across the dry savannah. The earth carries their footsteps, and the air sings their songs. But today, the voices are not peaceful. Today, they cry. They cry for you, my son, my brave Kanbon-nakpem Ziblim. My heart is a scream that never fades, a burning wound that will never heal.

Son, I saw you born under the full moon, a child of the land, strong as the baobab, with a spirit that would never bow. You were a warrior, a protector of our people. You rode your white stallion with pride, your weapons gleaming in the sunlight. You were the son who filled every heart with hope, the leader whom people spoke of with respect and awe: Kanbon-nakpem Wohu.

And yet, they took you from me, just as they stole our land. The Germans did not come to negotiate, not to share, but to destroy. They brought fire and death, and we, the children of Dagbon, rose up. We gathered our warriors, beat the war drum, and you, my son, marched to battle.

I knew you would fight. I knew you would not hide. You were a son of Dagbon, and our people do not bow without resistance. When the news of Bimbilla came, I knew you would draw your sword. And when war came to Adibo, I knew you would be there, at the front, where the danger was greatest. You fought like a lion, and the earth trembled beneath your feet.

But they were too many, their weapons too strong, their hearts made of stone. You, my son, who never wavered, were shot as you faced them, looking them in the eyes. A brutal, cowardly act. They took your life, but not your honor. And I, your mother, remain with a heart burning with grief and anger.

Where is their justice? Where is the recognition of what they have done? They burned our homes, desecrated our sacred land, spilled our blood as if it were water. And today, they stand there, with their laws and their borders, on the land they bought with blood. But I tell you, son, their possession is built on stolen earth, and the spirits of the dead do not rest.

Every Friday, when the Yaa Naa locks himself away, when the land mourns Adibo, I feel your presence stronger than ever. Your name is still sung in the songs of our people. Our warriors dance in your honor, and the wind carries your story forward. But I want more than memory. I want justice. Our people must be recognized. The land they took from us must be returned. The Germans must acknowledge what they have done, not just with words, but with action. The time for apologies is over. We demand our dignity back.

I am with you, my son, in death and in life. My body may be old, my breath short, but my spirit is unyielding. The fight is not over. As long as our stories are told, as long as our songs are sung, we will not forget. You are not gone, Kanbon-nakpem Ziblim. You live in us. And one day, justice will prevail.

Rest in power, my son. And wait for me in the land of the ancestors, where we will sing together of the day our people finally receive what is rightfully theirs.

I - the pine tree - have been standing here in the city garden, in all weathers, for years and years. Right next to me is a dark, hard stone that has served as a monument for almost a hundred years. A monument that pays homage to the former German colonies, I hesitate to say it! It was designed by Hermann Flesche, a later member of the NSDAP and SS, who was able to continue his professorship at the TU Braunschweig after fascism and was awarded the Federal Cross of Merit to boot!

It's not so much the heavy, hard and dark stone that I feel has been an imposition since I grew up and stood here. The really difficult thing to bear is the text inscribed in gold letters: ‘IN MEMORY OF OUR COLONIES AND THE COMRADES THAT HAVE FALLEN THERE.’

Our differences, that I am made of wood and the memorial is made of stone, may make our communication a little more difficult and our atmosphere cool and distant, but it does not lead to distortions.
The lustre of the golden letters has faded over the years, and today the names of your former colonies are pale on the two narrow sides: Togo, Cameroon, Southwest Africa, East Africa, New Guinea, Samoa Islands, Kiautschou, Yap Island, Palau Islands, Caroline Islands, Ponape Island, Nauru Island, Mariana Islands, Marshall Islands.
Aren't these very distant countries that you are claiming as ‘YOUR’ property? 
The text chiselled into the stone also reminds us that German soldiers fought and waged wars there in order to enforce the state rule of the German Empire. It was precisely against this - against their disenfranchisement and against this foreign rule - that the people of these countries rose up. - And these uprisings developed into worldwide wars of liberation. Struggles for self-determination and human dignity.

A mighty lion is carved into the stone on the long side facing me. With its tail between its legs, it reaches for the globe with one paw.
Who is this lion, what does it want to say?
I have heard that it represents the power of the German Empire. The lion is undoubtedly a carnivorous predator and a great danger to many animals, but has it ever tried to rule the globe? The lions don't really threaten me as a tree. They only poke us a little with their claws when they climb up - rarely enough - to flop down on one of our branches.
But to you, the symbol of the lion wants to demonstrate combat readiness and power...

I know that the monument was inaugurated almost exactly one hundred years ago - people came out, soldiers and Freikorps, many in uniform, carrying flags and holding wreaths in their hands. Nationalist speeches were made - and in an iron tone, with pithy words, people demanded and shouted: ‘We want our colonies back...!’ When this was brought to my attention, my still young trunk shuddered - I trembled at the idea of such powerful shouts.

In the following years, similar marches were repeated, people marched to the stone monument, their flags fluttering in the wind - with a large eagle and black cross, in black and red on a white background. They shouted the same old slogans in grim voices, such as ‘Out with our colonies’. Then there were even shouts of ‘Heil Hitler’ at the memorial.
Some knelt down at the memorial, laid flowers and wreaths, minutes of remembrance, silence, abruptly ended by battle cries, marching music and drum rolls. The atmosphere was at times vicious, aggressive and it was good when these piercing shouts and the boots beating the pavement in step died away. 

After the end of fascism, I was planted in the ground as a small pine tree right next to the memorial. For the time being, there are no frightening demonstrations with nationalist battle cries and slogans.
What there are, however, are wreath-laying ceremonies. Once a year, when the leaves are falling and the days are getting shorter, on your national day of mourning, a few ladies and gentlemen from Braunschweig city council come and lay flowers and wreaths. ‘In memory of the dead of two world wars’, with black, red and gold bows. They lie there lovelessly, losing their flowers over the days, the colours fading until the green branches, dishevelled by wind and weather, present a pitiful picture on the cold stone.
From today's perspective, it is incomprehensible that such a disgraceful anti-democratic monument was used and activated as a stage for so long - until 2004 - by politicians who see themselves as democrats.

Something new and remarkable happens at the beginning of the 1980s, however, when people come here on an Easter Sunday: They come with banners to demonstrate against new American nuclear weapons in West Germany - right here to us, pausing briefly at the memorial and moving on towards the city centre.

In the years that followed, there are also some demonstrations at which anti-war songs are played to the sound of guitars as well as wild, groovy songs such as ‘Germany must die so that we can live...’ by punk-rock band Slime from Hamburg.
Then comes 1989 - and you have completed the “Wende”, a kind of turning point, as you call it. Until then you were divided into East and West Germany and this division caused by National Socialism and war is now being abolished. This change seems to be enormous for many people. A violent mood is emerging on the right-wing fringe, with serious xenophobic attacks. I see myself skinheads are gathering here in the shadow of the colonial monument. They sit on the stone in a bad mood, with racist slogans. They get drunk and scribble and want to riot. It's disgusting, also because I keep getting pissed on as if I were a urinal.

But then there are more and more rays of hope: students from a nearby school come out with their history teacher and do research at the memorial. They sit in a circle on the floor and discuss, trying to empathise with those who were subjected to colonialism and its violence. They try to develop compassion. They try to understand this history. They express feelings of shame and anger at the crimes committed under colonialism. Then they draw the monument from different perspectives, some go up to the stone and embrace and touch it, while others ask passers-by what they associate with the monument. 

In autumn 2004, a rally is held here next to me, which for the first time focuses on the memory of the victims of German colonialism. Almost a hundred people take part and draw connections to the current war in Afghanistan: ‘Defending Germany's freedom in the Hindu Kush? They ask! What? In my - deeply rooted - understanding, this statement is pure madness: I am standing here in Braunschweig, in the middle of Germany, in Europe, and my bark is supposed to be ‘defended’ in Afghanistan - 1 million tree lengths away from me - on the other side of the globe?
No tree understands that.
In 2005, small signs are erected at the foot of the monument. A first official critical comment and gesture on the monument at the request of the local population.
In 2006, students wrap the monument with fabric and ropes in an art project. It looks very different. ‘Making visible by wrapping’ and ‘Think differently’ is their motto. Many people come and there is a lively discussion.

In the summer of 2015 - I remember that a particularly large number of people fled across the Mediterranean to Europe that year - and thousands drowned because the European states do not allow legal escape routes and the border police turns away refugee boats instead of saving lives. One night this summer, three young activists come and dig up the earth between the monument and me, very quietly and with quick spade stabs, planting two or three flowers, laying down bunches of flowers, placing two red grave candles in the ground and leaving a wooden cross with the inscription ‘Freedom’ in the ground - they bury the freedom that dies with every single dead refugee at the European borders. 

Five annual rings later, in June 2020, activists come once more for a serious and deadly reason: A young Black man is cruelly crushed to death by a white American policeman: the death of George Floyd triggers huge waves of protest that reach as far as me and the colonial memorial: Black Lives Matter! They arrive at dusk and hang banners on the monument, tying them up with strings. Only the lion's head and right paw can still be seen clutching the globe, the stone is almost completely covered with banners and remains a place of protest for a few days: Against Racism! 

For whatever reason, the death of George Floyd and the Black Lives Matter mobilisations are a turning point. Also for the handling of the colonial memorial. Since then, more people have been developing political activities against colonial continuity. Political leaders are being forced to act: the monument must be fundamentally redesigned. At last! ‘Decolonising Public Space’, an international competition is announced: For a ‘change of perspective in the decolonial culture of remembrance’!!!  
This has now been achieved! Six artists come out to the memorial and take in the site. They develop great ideas. Ideas of liberation. Decolonial ideas.
And at the same time, ugly, nationalist-racist cries of ‘Germany to the Germans, foreigners out!’ ring out in many places!
Six months after Chancellor Scholz demanded on the cover of the Spiegel magazine: ‘We must finally deport on a grand scale’.
Oh dear, the contradictions remain! And I'm losing my vitality. The last few years have been too dry and bugs have infested me. Employees from the Braunschweig Parks Department come and start up their chainsaw. Stinking smoke rises from my trunk and a few moments later I fall to the ground with a thud. From now on, I will observe the developments at the monument from a completely different perspective.