TRIBUTE TO WILLIAM DIXON COLLEY


By Ebrima G. Sankareh
North Carolina State University
Raleigh NC, U.S.A.

To part is the lot of all mankind.  The world is a scene of constant
leave taking and the hands that grasp in cordial greetings are doomed
ere long to unite for the last time when the quivering lips pronounce
the word farewell.  Thus wrote an eminent novelist when the characters
in his book were poised to part and probably never to meet again.

On learning of the passing away of Mr. William Dixon Colley
(affectionately Uncle Dixon), I could not, but think of Stevenson's
artistry and eloquence in capturing an inevitable human "Achilles'
heels", "parting", in this case death, and how all too often, our lips
quiver after much reflection.

While I have read The Nation Newspaper earlier, it was during my
formative years at Nusrat High School, that I encountered its proprietor
and editor Uncle Dixon through a literature teacher.  I was then in Form
III with a burning flair for writing.  After our memorable meeting, I
promised that I will write a piece on the noise that pervaded the
Serekunda market and comment on the inert attitude of traffic police in
handling that town's sickening rush hours.  Eager to try my hand at
journalism, I wasted no time in fulfilling my promised piece, and much
to my amazement, the article featured prominently in the next edition of
the acerbic Nation.  That article, was my license into the weird and
dangerous world of journalism, a profession in which Mr. Colley
exhibited syncretistic style and an unparalleled commitment to balance.

A towering figure of dazzling brilliance, unquestionable integrity with
an urbane disposition that bespoke of his uncontestable sense of humor
and professionalism.  He was a man, love and hated yet, admired by all
who read his simple and incisive journalistic prose or those who ran
into his beaming, unassuming face.  A prominent intellectual of the
progressive era in the hay days of the anti-colonial struggle and a
zealous advocate for the triumph of press freedom, the rule of law, the
rights to political self-determination and an unfettered access to the
rustic corridors of power.

Thus from the abominable Anglos to Jawara's plutocracy, Uncle Dixon
never acquiesced, for which reason, he was often at odds with those who
reigned and those who plundered.  A point reminiscent of a story he
related to me about a certain arrogant colonial officer that he wrote
about until the man was sent packing.  "And guess what?,"  he beams.
"What?"  I retorted.  "Just before he left, I met him near police
headquarters at Bakau, and he bid me farewell".  "I cunningly told him
that, that was strange because I thought you were doing a good job".
Well, folks, such was the professional wit and wisdom in Uncle Dixon. He
knew the language of dialogue.

As for the plutocrats, his most epic encounter with them was at the law
courts following his historic lead story, captioned: "Until Dooms-day".
This allegedly scurrilous piece, a storm in a teacup, was the crescendo
for Uncle Dixon's journalistic career.  Reports of the case left a lot
of people wondering whether The Gambia was really the democracy it
professed to be.

Just recently, when the old Half-die boys ("Ndon'gos") rendezvoused to
pay homage to Ebou Dibba (may his soul rest in eternal peace), my
ex-chief fittingly eulogized the tragic novelist as Gambia's Balzac.
For me, Uncle Dixon was Gambia's Antonio Gramsci, that marvelous Italian
journalist, Marxist, activist and witty political philosopher who was a
torn in Italian dictator Mussolini's flesh that he sent him to gaol from
1926 - 1937.  In his famous prison diaries Gramsci argues that "all men
are intellectuals,… but not all men have in society the function of
intellectuals".  Uncle Dixon was the organic intellectual who unlike the
priest and public school teacher, worked with the down trodden, the
marginalized, the voiceless in their quest for freedom and justice.
Therefore, Uncle Dixon's life was one well lived, a life committed to
the human spirit that words are not adequate to describe.  Scholars of
Latin may be inclined to write on his tombstone thus: Tanto Nomini
Nullum par Eloquim - for so great a soul no praise is sufficient.
Better still, Uncle Dixon's departure from this world is reminiscent of
Irish poet Oliver Goldsmith's   "The Deserted Village" thus:
                "Thou nurse of every virtue, fare thee well.
                Farewell, and O!  Where'er thy voice be tried
                On Torno's cliff, or Pambamarca's side,
                Whether where equinoctial ferrors glow,
                Or winter wraps the polar world in snow,
                Still let that voice prevailing over time,
                Redress the rigors of the inclement clime
                Aid slighted truth, with the persuasive strain
                Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain"

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