At the turn of the century the fury and the grace was still there, and not always wicked. Michael Datcher, coordinator of literary events at World Stage, a poet and cultural critic himself, was the first to speak at the Wednesday reading: "The World Stage stands for truth and authenticity. It is a place for Black brothers and sisters to explore their creativity and support each other. It is a place for music and poetry, a place where our spirits soar. It is our church." He was a passionate speaker, summoning up the verve of a Black gospel preacher. He concluded with a plea: "But do not forget to pay your three dollars. This place runs through your support. We are all volunteers. The little money you give goes to pay for the lights and the upkeep." A recalcitrant drunk got up from his seat and walked to one of the organisers at the entrance and reluctantly forked up three dollars.

In the next three hours poet after poet stood at the lectern, reading and performing. The audience responded with soulful oohs and aahs. There was criticism as well, sometimes sharp and perspicacious, but always good-natured. The atmosphere was that of a Black gospel service. A lapsed poet myself, it made me aware of the literary comradeship and interaction that are so vital to creative endeavour. A few more Wednesdays at The World Stage and I could well return to writing poetry.

Later that evening I went around the corner to "Babes and Rickeys", a jazz joint and watering hole. A heavily made-up Black woman in a red satin dress greeted me warmly and led me to the bar. She was the owner of the place. "No cover charges for you," she added, noticing the hesitation in my eyes. That was kind of her. The plaintive notes of the band made me think of the tragedy of it all; of the treatment that the Blacks had suffered merely because they were Black. In South Africa I had heard stories of how the Boers had shot and killed bushmen as sport. In Senegal I was pained by my visit to Goree Island, where Blacks were kept in prison, before being transported to Europe and North America to serve as slaves. But why single out Whites; Indians would have been equally racist. Even a writer like V. S. Naipaul, whose stock came from India, is unable to shed his racism towards Blacks.

The next day I called up Michael Datcher and was invited to meet him at his home. Michael and his poet-novelist wife, Jenoyne Adams, had just moved into their new home in a middle class Black neighbourhood. I was led into the wood-panelled living room where a crackling log fire burned. Unpacked cartons of books and household stuff were spread on the carpet. Michael knew next to nothing about me and I could see he was unsure of how the evening would wear. He restlessly stoked the fire trying to find his wavelength but loosened up when he realised I was emphatic to his political and cultural views.

I told them how moved I was by the poetry of the World Stage, by the poets as much as the audience. "Do you know who the audience was the other evening when you attended the poetry reading?" asked Datcher, suddenly coming to life. "There was a prostitute, a bartender, many housewives, a drug peddler and a couple of kids who had served time in jail. The man who was sitting next to you was once a dreaded gangster."

Datcher told me of the origins of the World Stage. It had sprung from the ashes of the Watts Writers Workshop that was "burnt down by the CIA in the 1960s". A number of important Black writers like Quincy Troupe, Miles Davis, Ojenke and Stanley Crouch had lived together in a house, which came to be known as The Watts Writers Workshop. It was a favourite hangout of jazz musicians. Watts was then a highly politicised Black ghetto with writers, artists and jazz "guerillas" at the forefront of revolutionary discourse, openly advocating violence against the system. Not unexpectedly, the reaction of the State was brutal. Given the racism of the establishment it was inevitable that before long The Watts Writers Workshop would be targeted and burnt down "by the CIA".

The writers and musicians had learnt a painful lesson. They realised they could not take on the might of the State through violent political activity. Henceforth the rhetoric would be more circumspect even if the situation continued to be discriminatory for the Afro-American. In 1989, Billy Higgins, one of America's best known drummers, and Kamau Daa'ood, who was earlier a part of the Watts Workshop, founded The World Stage in Los Angeles. It has since become the nodal point for a number of major festivals like the Malcolm X festival, The Black family day festival and the Leimert Park Jazz festival.

I asked Michael if The World Stage had given up the radical politics of the Watts writers. "Definitely!" he insisted. "We cannot change society through that approach. We are too weak for that. We see ourselves as progressive. But we refuse political labels like 'right' or 'left'. It is so easy to dismiss and ostracise a Black as 'the angry Black man'. He can be so easily finished. Unfortunately, the Black man has to learn to also operate in the White world if he has to advance his causes."

Michael then performed for me, standing up and reciting one of his poems, swaying on his feet as the words tumbled out passionately. There was no restraint here, no false gentility; only the charge of history and memories that had fused with his genes. The force of the rendering startled me. I realised that this kind of poetry had to be performed to come alive. The poem was called "Joseph speaks to Gericault in the studio". It was an angry outpouring provoked by an 1818 painting by Gericault hanging in the Louvre in Paris. Joseph, a Black circus artist from Santo Domingo (the Dominican Republic), had modelled for the French painter Gericault. In the poem Joseph tells Gericault:

"this is how you like me.
still
as the hangman's poplar tree
when the kicking has ceased.
silent.
a mute victim of French 
imagination ...
you know me not.
i am more than santo domingo
mythologies exoticised in oil".

Michael Datcher was riveting. He was connecting with the pain and suffering of Blacks across time and space. It was at once moving and futile, as all such connections always are. The poem was haunting even if the emotion was too well-known to inspire people into rebellion. But, as the poem said, "a man is not meant to have such a close reading of his face".

Blacks continue to suffer in the U.S.; a disproportionate number of them are classified by the system as criminals and drug addicts; after which they are denied their voting rights. (In the last U.S. presidential election Al Gore would have increased his tally considerably if so many Blacks had not been disenfranchised.) Can the ongoing suffering of so many Blacks be considered as significant literature only if there is an original angle to it? My response would be that an emotion is not significant in literature unless it breaks new ground in form, content and perspective. A jaded emotion can only occasionally rise to a genuine passion. This is also what happens to an emotion that is not anchored in a larger movement that is throbbing and kicking. The Black movements today have lost their compass in the overall commodification of values in the U.S..

The next day I went to meet Kamau Daa'ood, the co-founder of World Stage and a poet and musician. Kamau was part of the Watts workshop in the last years of its existence. Now in his late fifties, he came across as a warm and decent man. I asked him how much he approved of the revolutionary violence of the Watts group. "I was a teenager then. People like Quincy Troupe and the others were much older to me. The Watts workshop had been around for sometime by the time I joined in 1968. Bud Shuberg, a novelist, had founded the Watts workshop in 1965."

I asked him what the origin of the Watts riots was. He threw up his hands in some irritation. "History is like a pot on a stove. When it gets to a certain point it begins to boil. Blacks were singled out for discrimination. It continues to this day. Blacks lived in curfewland in those days. Black communities were seen as areas of guns and drugs. Thirty-six people were killed during the Watts riots and millions of dollars worth of property was damaged. There were tanks rolling down the street and thousands of policemen. But we have learnt much from all this. We are stronger today than ever before. We were shipped from Africa to America, we went through slavery ... we were stripped of everything - our sense of place, our sense of who we are. But it leaves us open to search. That is not a bad place to find ourselves in."

Kamau was proud of what Leimert Park had become for Black people. "We were creating a lifestyle for Black people in Leimert Park," he said. That was no mean achievement, to create a lifestyle of poetry, music, food, handicrafts and dance. The word lifestyle is today associated with elite cultural pursuits, an adjunct of corporate culture. But this was a place for grassroots artists, created by people who were the pulse of the Los Angeles Black community.

"In the U.S. the raw pursuit of materialism overtakes all spiritual sensibilities," Kamau said softly. I could see a great tiredness in him even if he had not given up the fight. "Our people go to work every day; they are damaged by watching television and influenced by advertising. They go to sleep like everybody else with little critical spirit left in them. The system wants them to go to sleep, and that is precisely what they do. It is the same with art.

"It can either put you to sleep or awaken you. At the World Stage, art is meant to awaken you to life and sharpen your human sensibilities. We try to teach our people that new is not always nicer and that large is not always better."