Chapter 123: Thousands of voices, Black voices, American voices, voices tired of waiting.

Words : 1069 Updated : Sep 17th, 2025

Chapter 123: Thousands of voices, Black voices, American voices, voices tired of waiting.August 3, 1935. Harlem, New York City The sun sat high above 135th Street. Posters flapped against brick walls, carried by hand-painted signs and armbands reading "Hands Off Ethiopia!" and "Fascism is Colonialism by Another Name." Sёarch* The Novёlƒire.n(e)t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality. By noon, the crowd stretched from the steps of the Abyssinian Baptist Church to Lenox Avenue and spilled down side streets like a flood with nowhere else to go. The call had gone out through churches, union halls, corner newspapers, and backroom meetings. Today wasn’t about Harlem alone. It was about dignity. About Africa. About not standing still while another empire sharpened its knives against Black skin. A man stood on the flatbed of a delivery truck-turned-podium. He was tall, sharply dressed, his collar unbuttoned, his face lined with years of sermons and war against silence. His voice rang through a cheap amplifier that whined with every word. "Brothers and sisters," said Reverend Adam Clayton Powell Sr., "we are gathered not because Ethiopia is far, but because she is close. Because the fight for her is the fight for us!" Applause rippled. "This is not just about a map or a border. It is about memory. About freedom. About the lie they sold us after the last war that peace would be kept by men who never learned how to keep anything but their power!" A teenage boy in the crowd held up a copy of the Amsterdam News. The front page showed a grainy photo of Mussolini reviewing troops in Asmara. "Look at this!" the boy shouted. "They’re marching now. Today!" Powell pointed to the image. "You see that man in the uniform? He believes we will forget. That we will read the article, shrug, and go back to the kitchen or the post office. He believes we have no memory." A deeper voice rose from behind the truck. "That’s the same lie they told when they sold Congo to Leopold." Heads turned. A man stepped forward, tall and gray-bearded, with a copy of The Crisis folded beneath his arm. "Dr. Du Bois," someone whispered. W.E.B. Du Bois nodded slowly as he reached the front. His voice carried, low but unyielding. "Ethiopia is not merely a land. It is a symbol. Of what the Black man was before Europe, and what he must become after Europe. Let them know we do not need permission to remember who we are." A woman near the front, dressed in her church whites, called out, "We sent our sons to France in 1917. They told us we were fighting tyranny. Now tyranny wears a sash and rides in an Italian tank!" Behind her, Hubert Harrison climbed onto the edge of the truck. "The American Negro is awake," he said. "And let it be known we are not just citizens of this country. We are citizens of a people. From Harlem to Port-au-Prince. From Dakar to Addis Ababa. We remember." "Tell it!" someone yelled. "We remember when Liberia was nearly auctioned. When Haiti was invaded. When we were told the whip had been retired but it just changed uniforms!" The crowd was roaring now. Chants rose through the summer air. "Down with fascism!" "Hands off Ethiopia!" "Selassie stands we stand!" Several reporters snapped photos from the edges. A young correspondent from The Daily Worker jotted down every word. Nearby, two officers from the NYPD watched from beneath their caps, chewing gum, arms crossed. "Another damn rally," one muttered. The other, younger, said quietly, "This ain’t just a rally. They’re angry. Real angry." A car passed by with a loud honk. Inside it, a Jamaican pan-Africanist shouted, "Unity or death!" before disappearing down Malcolm X Boulevard. In the crowd, two men argued near a sandwich cart. "You think the President’ll do something?" one asked. "Roosevelt?" the other scoffed. "He’s busy with banks and factories. Ethiopia ain’t got oil or steel. That’s why they won’t help." "They signed the League Charter!" "And so did Mussolini." At the back of the crowd, a group from the Communist Party held up a banner. "Fascism Abroad Means Chains at Home" Behind them, a Black union organizer from the Bronx passed out leaflets. "General Strike if war begins. We shut it down. Don’t matter if it’s Harlem or Harlem, Georgia!" Inside the Abyssinian Church, a delegation of ministers met in a side room, debating whether to form a permanent Ethiopia Solidarity Committee. One man banged his fist on the table. "Brothers, if we don’t take the lead now, they will say we only pray, but never act." Another said, "Let’s send a letter to Selassie. Let him know Harlem stands behind him." Powell’s assistant entered and whispered, "They’re ready for more speakers outside." Du Bois stood. "Then let them hear something they won’t print in the Times." He stepped outside and raised a hand for silence. "They will say we are loud. They will say we are disorganized. They will say this protest means nothing. But when they said the same in 1919, it meant riots. When they said the same in 1931, it meant Scottsboro. And now, they will say the same until we say it louder." People were crying now. A little girl held a paper crown labeled "Lion of Judah." An old Haitian man stood with tears on his cheeks and muttered, "Menelik rode again." A woman from Trinidad stepped up next. "We come from every island," she said. "Every shore. But when we hear they threaten Ethiopia, they threaten us all." She looked up. "Let Mussolini hear us." And they shouted. Thousands of voices, Black voices, American voices, voices tired of waiting. "NO MORE EMPIRES!" "ETHIOPIA LIVES!" That night, in the office of The Amsterdam News, the editor set down the copy with shaking hands. He looked at the typesetter. "This front page will make Harlem proud." "And angry." "Good. They should be." Thousands of miles away, in Addis Ababa, a coded telegram arrived at the palace. It was short. Just two lines. Harlem rises. Thousands march. Tell the Emperor he is not alone. Haile Selassie read it in silence. Then turned to Ras Imru. "Print it. Read it to the troops. Let them know our voice is heard. Even from across oceans."

Chapter 123: Thousands of voices, Black voices, American voices, voices tired of waiting.

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