My partner Mala and I moved to London and resumed life in boarding houses and bedsitters. I got in touch with the leadership of the British Black Panther Movement, assessed them as serious and inspiring individuals and was accepted as a 'candidate' member who had to prove his commitment by participating in the propagandist and agitational activity of the 'collective', as they called it.

Altheia Jones, the Trinidadian-born, uncrowned but undoubted leader of the organisation, a PhD student of medical science at London University, explained that they called it a 'movement' and not a party because despite drawing inspiration from the Panther Party of the USA, the British political circumstances were different.

Though some junior members of the movement sported American-style black berets, the leadership didn't indulge any symbolism apart from a flag with a panther on it, which they carried on demonstrations to identify the phalanx of marchers who loyally followed the banner.

I served my apprenticeship by going on demonstrations, standing outside the British courts in protest at unjust arrests, attending 'history' classes in which books by the US Black Panthers were discussed and composing pamphlets at the North London 'base' of the movement.

Though most of the membership were West Indian, there was no racial bar, and the movement had several Asian members and a few Africans. Altheia was from Trinidad, an island whose population was half Indian and half Afro-Caribbean, and this necessity for political cohesion must have influenced the BPM's policy of including Asians under the 'black' label. The slogan, often repeated, was "Black is a political colour!"

One of the first assignments the BPM gave me was drawing up an account in simple English of an important and dramatic trial in which Altheia was one of the nine defendants. This would become famous as the Trial of the Mangrove Nine.

The Mangrove, a restaurant in Notting Hill owned by the activist Frank Crichlow, was a meeting place for the Caribbean community of West London. It was victimised and raided by the Notting Hill police and Harrow Road police on several occasions. The raids were purported to be about illegal drugs, but no charges were ever brought because nothing was found. It was, for all purposes, police racist bias.

The community, sick of the raids and harassment, launched a demonstration in the early 1970s to protest against this. It wasn't a huge demonstration. Perhaps two hundred supporters and sympathisers marched through Portnall Road to Harrow Road police station, carrying banners and shouting anti-racist and anti-police slogans. The police cordon that was deployed to block the access to the front of the station confronted the demonstrators, and when they tried to force their way through, a tussle ensued. Nine demonstrators were arrested.

The public prosecutors had never, in recent times, been confronted with a demonstration of this sort and with such determined resistance. The nine were charged and put on trial at the Old Bailey, the Central Criminal Court in London.

The charges were absurd and over the top. Apart from charging them with riot and affray, they were accused of conspiracy to overthrow the British State. It was a clear indication of panic by the British establishment.

Altheia, who defended herself, labelled it a political trial. Darcus Howe, one of the more colourful and outspoken defendants who had qualifications in law, also defended himself, vehemently attacking and picking logical holes in every police argument. Darcus was playing to the gallery and perhaps the British establishment's appreciation of debate and drama. The nine were acquitted of all serious charges, and only minor charges against two defendants were upheld.

My role was to attend court and take notes of the proceedings and, at the close of the trial each day, to get to the Panther base and write up, from my notes and those of others who had been in court, the events and significant arguments of the day.

Precising the events and arguments of a whole day's proceedings into a couple of pages was not simple, but the journalistic self-training came in useful. Writing these up in a bulletin each evening, we sent them to the media and supporters in Britain and in the Caribbean.

My main profit on it was making the firm acquaintance of Darcus, who remained a friend, close comrade and fellow fiend from then till he died in 2018.

As the trial ended, Darcus joined the BPM and became an active member. One of the roles both he and I were assigned was to lecture to the movement's youth group, which assembled, perhaps a hundred or more strong, at the community theatrical space called the Oval House opposite the cricket ground of that shape and name in Lambeth, South London. Darcus would talk about Caribbean history, and I lectured them on E.P. Thompson's The Making of the English Working Class.

We wanted the classes to go beyond propagandic purposes, and the youth membership which came to the classes was eager to absorb the knowledge, political understanding and the purpose that the movement generated through its activities.

Both Mala and I were invited to join the central core of the BPM. It consisted of about eight to ten self-selecting members who were judged to be the most dedicated and capable of leadership.

In my judgement, either Darcus or Barbara Beese, beautifully imperious with her tall stature and Afro hair, would have been ideal candidates for the central core.

The electors to the central core labelled Darcus a populist demagogue whose personality was at odds with the movement's aim of collective leadership. We insisted the BPM was not a political party and had no ambitions to contest a parliamentary or council seat. Besides, they said, with some justification, that Darcus was not willing to adhere to any imposed and mutually agreed-upon disciplines and had ideological determinations and, therefore, strategies of his own.

Behind these objections was the clear apprehension that Darcus's charisma as a speaker and charmer would propel him to a publicly perceived, if not official, position of leadership. There was, I thought, certainly some jealous guarding of positions. Barbara Beese was, I felt, too closely associated with Darcus and, though she was in every sense endowed with leadership qualities, was disqualified perhaps for just that.

The BPM took over our lives. Mala and I were constantly in meetings; at actions the movement had called for, such as demonstrations, pickets and strikes; and writing up this and that for pamphlets, for Freedom News, the movement's newspaper, and for bulletins we sent out to sister organisations round the globe. Freedom News attempted some stuff that could be characterised as political rhetoric, along with news and views of the immigrant communities.

Altheia, I think, was made aware that C.L.R. James, the Trinidadian philosopher, activist, Marxist and author of several unique books, was in London and would consent to speak to our organisation. C.L.R., or 'Nello' as his friends called him (it being derived from Lionel, his middle name), was escorted into a very crowded room. He was tall, bent, wearing a hat and dressed in a Western suit. He took his place at the table and, after the niceties, got to the point.

He held up a copy of Freedom News and asked who edited and wrote for it. Several hands went up in the audience. He said he was glad to see some of us actively writing for a committed publication, which he proclaimed every organisation dedicated to and inspiring change must have. But, he added, it was unnecessary to indulge in or offer any political rhetoric. The public we were trying to reach and encourage to accompany us in the movement for justice, equality and social and political rights would respond to experiences parallel to or evoking their own.

I was fascinated by the penetrating accuracy of his words. He was saying: devote the newspaper to the experiences that you as immigrants-black and Asian people-in this country have. He went on to describe how to practise this.

Pointing at a young man, he asked, "What is it you do for a living?"

"I am a bus conductor," the young man replied.

"Then why not write in this paper about what you experience in the garage and on your journeys at work from the public every day? Be specific and general. Say what happens to you in the garage, how you are seen and treated, and highlight some episodes of what you have experienced on the buses."

C.L.R. turned to others in the room. Through some insistence of fate, he pointed at me.

"I am a schoolteacher," I said.

"Then write what you see and what happens to you at school."

Freedom News followed his guidance, and a broader section of the membership was now invited to share their experiences in life and work as write-ups for the newspaper. I began to write short pieces on events in the school I taught. I wrote about the black girl who was accused of stealing a pen and her protesting that she "never trouble it!"

And then, about the strike by the senior boys against the prescribed length of hair they could wear at school. Subsequently, about the black girl who had won an interschool prize for a painting of her family.

An unexpected endorsement of the movement came in 1972 when a nominee for the Booker Prize for Fiction, the art critic, novelist and British Marxist John Berger announced that since the prize was sponsored by Booker McConnell whose sugar trade had exploited the Caribbean for centuries, he would, if he won, give half the prize money to the BPM. His announcement came out of the blue. He said he had read Freedom News and that the BPM was the one organisation closest to his idea of radical activism.

On the day the prize-giving was scheduled, Darcus and I, by prior arrangement with Berger, stationed ourselves, as delegated by the central core, in a pub called the Albany in Great Portland Street. Berger was going to drive over whether he won or not and, at the least, have a drink with us.

The prize-giving was televised, and Berger's novel G won. He came, followed by reporters and photographers who kept an immodest distance as we celebrated his win. He was ready with the cheque and asked to whom he should sign it. I said it had to be to my personal account as the BPM didn't have a bank account yet.

He signed over £2500, and we told him that the money would be turned immediately into a deposit on a property in which members could live and which could act as our North London base. The house in Islington we were using had been reclaimed by the lady who generously allowed us to occupy it rent-free for years while she was abroad.

From openDemocracy