In memory of our brother Stanley Tookie Williams - executed 13th December 2005

"We (Adisa Kamara & Ajani Kamara) remember our brother Stanley Tookie Williams (Ajamu Kamara), executed December 13th 2005.  We will never forget our brother.
Ajamu, your spirit continues to inspire us, to drive us, and continues to push us forward. We love you.
Your brothers, Adisa and Ajani Kamara" 

"We are our brother's keeper"

"If redemption wasn't made for people with our experiences, then for whom?" Stanley Tookie Williams, former Cripps gang member 1953 - 2005

My Brother is Gone - by Steve Champion (Adisa Kamara)

I want the world to know
I walked, lived and blossomed
during the time of his presence.
My emotions are too raw,
my senses too frayed
to tell them,
tell anyone--
for 20 brass-knuckled years
we struggled together,
forging a bond
cemented by our
faith, love, and brotherhood.

Our way was not always as smooth
as a well-manicured lawn;
We blazed the path as warriors,
knowing in the end
the highest form of bravery
is laying down the sword. . . .

My brother is gone.
No longer will I
gaze upon his glistening,
mahogany colored skin,
look into his gentle eyes, or
grip his Hulk-shaped hands.
No longer will we greet
with a brotherly hug, or
bump fists.
No longer will I
hear his soft-spoken voice,
see his warm smile,
or bask in his charisma. . . .

My brother was murdered
At San Quentin Prison,
December 13, 2005, 12:36 a.m.
My brother is gone.

I curse those who rejoiced
upon hearing the news of his death,
now that they are spared from
the muscle of his mind.
Though my heart aches,
and my rage festers,
no revenge of bullets, blades or bloodshed
will bring my brother back.
My brother is gone.

I watched him shed the shackles
of his wild image,
become reborn
in a new spirit.
I named him Ajamu,
“He who fights for what he wants.”
He fought against all odds,
against all naysayers who
sought to pigeon-hole and fossilize
him in his lowest state.
He rose above it to build
a peaceful legacy
that will be talked about
for years to come. . .
 
Steve Champion (Adisa Kamara)

"The Words would not come" : in honour of my brother, Stanley Tookie Williams III

by Anthony Ross (Ajani Kamara)

A hundred times I tried to write this. But the words would not come. Poems froze in my head long before they reached the paper, and prose solidified in my throat like burning lava at the ocean’s edge. My soul was torn, and it took me a moment to catch my wind.

I write this from the very place comrade George saw blood in his eyes. The very hell where Tookie and I spent years, side by side, fighting, struggling and educating ourselves. The place where we found our philosopher’s stone and went from blue rage to black redemption—and never looked back.

I sat here, in this place—San Quentin’s Adjustment Center—on December 13th, 2005. I sat in the dark imagining war-birds filling the sky and me chanting an African battle hymn and speaking in Swahili to my brother.

But the words would not come.

I heard the helicopters flying over the prison, as the churning of their blades cut through the night air. I saw the look of apprehension on the guard’s face as he peered into my cell to gauge my emotions. But, my eyes were empty. I concentrated intensely on pushing my mind forward…forward…forward, over the walls and amongst the sea of people who stood vigil outside of the gates. Their hope, their resolve, their love, made visible and given texture by the sheer force of their gathering. With all my might I summoned whatever telepathy, E.S.P., and psychic power I possessed. I wanted to tell each and every one of them—thank you…thank you.

But the words would not come.

At 12:36am I felt something seep out of me. Something that existed above the conscious level where Tookie and I could communicate on. I felt the weight of my brother’s huge arm around my shoulder the way I always felt it whenever we walked countless miles around the yard. I saw his handsome face and remembered when his beard was jet black—remembered how he never cursed—not once. Remembered the moment we became writers, him saying, “This changes everything”. And it did: Author. Poet. Artist. Historian. Wordsmith. Mathematician. Philosopher. Mentor. Nobel nominee. He was right. Everything changed.

Together, Tookie, Adisa, and I learned the real meaning of being warriors—of being men. We were always under siege, always targets. Resistance became our dream-catcher amid this waking nightmare, and the distance we have traveled cannot be calculated in years because some epics exist outside of time, thus timeless they become. And we have always understood that struggle does not cease with breath or shatters with loss, but gains strength as the message is transformed into the living fire within each heart that struggles for change.

I did not grieve for my brother, nor did I say goodbye. For I am he and he is me, and our brotherhood was never temporal, so, the words would not come.

1. Craig A. Ross
   Ajani Kamara