By: A G Abubakar

The news of the passing of Reverend Jesse Louis Jackson struck many followers of civil rights movements with the force reserved for the loss of a familiar friend. Though I never encountered him personally, I came to know him intimately through books, newspapers, and the glossy pages of Ebony and its sister publication Jet—the iconic magazines that carried the heartbeat of Black America far beyond the shores of the United States. Back when we were students in Maiduguri and Zaria, some of us would literally starve ourselves to save money to buy those publications.

As outsiders, two powerful forces shaped our early understanding of African American life. Berry Gordy’s Motown gave us rhythm, cultural pride, and artistic excellence. The label was home to The Temptations, Rare Earth, The Jackson 5, The Supremes, The Four Tops, Stevie Wonder, Marvin Gaye, and Smokey Robinson, among others. But the civil rights movement—led by towering figures like Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. and his protégé, Reverend Jesse Jackson—gave us moral vocabulary and political consciousness.

While Dr. King taught the world that “Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere,” Jesse Jackson absorbed that moral clarity and transformed it into a lifelong mission. He built on that philosophy to decode the architecture of systemic racism—segregation, voter suppression, and economic exclusion—and laid out a roadmap toward dignity grounded in faith and nonviolent resistance.

Again, as King reminded America that “The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice,” Jackson saw that bending required participation. As he later declared in his presidential campaign, “Our time has come.” It was a rallying cry not just for Black America, but for all marginalized people excluded from the democratic promise to get involved.

Through Jackson, we learned that equality before the law was not automatic; it had to be demanded. He expanded the struggle from Black liberation—as preached by King and others like Malcolm X, Elijah Muhammad, and Louis Farrakhan—to coalition politics through his now-famous “Rainbow Coalition,” which sought to unite minorities, workers, farmers, and the poor across racial lines. He had earlier established an organization called People United to Save Humanity (PUSH) in 1971, which focused largely on Black communities.

Jackson’s oratorical mastery was legendary. His cadence, his preacher’s rhythm, and his ability to blend scripture with strategy took permanent residence in the heart. His speeches did not merely inform; they mobilized. Who can forget his immortal refrain: “Keep hope alive!” Those three words were not decorative rhetoric; they were survival language, especially in communities battered by poverty and disillusionment. He considered hope a form of resistance. It is a timeless message for all.

My earliest vivid recollection of him was from a television screen during the historic Wattstax Festival in 1972. Draped in traditional Ghanaian kente cloth—called variously Fugu, Batakari, or Banaa—Jackson stood as a bridge between Africa and its diaspora and led the crowd in “Lift Every Voice and Sing,” the Black National Anthem. Among the great artists who performed were Isaac Hayes (Black Moses), Rufus Thomas, Carla Thomas, Albert King, The Staple Singers, the Bar-Kays, Luther Ingram, and Little Milton. In that moment, Jackson symbolized cultural reclamation—Black pride married to political consciousness. His clenched-fist power salute left a huge impression on us.

Another defining moment was his electrifying speech at the 1984 Democratic National Convention. It was more than a campaign address; it was a democratic sermon. In that speech, he made many thought-provoking and profound socio-political declarations that still resonate more than four decades later. He said, “Democracy guarantees opportunity, not success. Democracy guarantees the right to participate, not a license for either majority or minority to dominate.” He added, “Democracy is not a spectator sport,” thus urging citizens to engage actively.

To his party, he said, “This is not a perfect party. We are not a perfect people. Yet, we are called to a perfect mission: our mission to feed the hungry; to clothe the naked; to house the homeless; to teach the illiterate; to provide jobs for the jobless; and to choose the human race over the nuclear race.”

On his political experiences, Jackson asserted, “The campaign has taught me much: that leaders must be tough enough to fight, tender enough to cry, human enough to make mistakes, humble enough to admit them, strong enough to absorb the pain, and resilient enough to bounce back and keep on moving.” He defined the task of leadership to include “the mitigation of the misery of a nation” and “to lift the boat stuck at the bottom.”

The speech felt like an echo of King’s “I Have a Dream” address two decades earlier. King had proclaimed, “I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed.” Jackson, decades later, was insisting that the dream must be institutionalized—not admired from afar, but implemented through ballots, policies, and coalition-building.

Reverend Jackson was a consequential and transformative leader. His presidential campaigns made viable what once seemed impossible. Before Barack Obama mounted a credible bid for the White House, Jackson had already tested the waters. Before Kamala Harris stood on a national ticket, Jackson had normalized the idea of minority leadership at the highest level. His political courage expanded the imagination of a nation.

He inspired the current generation of congressmen and women—like Hakeem Jeffries, Cory Booker, and Ilhan Omar—to throw their hats into the murky ring of American politics. He paved the way for later-day civil rights activists such as Al Sharpton, and the new generation’s Thandiwe Abdullah, Danielle Coke, and Anya Dillard.

King once cautioned that “The ultimate measure of a man is not where he stands in moments of comfort and convenience, but where he stands at times of challenge and controversy.” By that measure, Jesse Jackson stood tall. Whether advocating for sanctions against apartheid South Africa, supporting Palestinian self-determination through nonviolent advocacy, or negotiating the release of hostages in international crises, he positioned himself on the side of equity—even when it was unpopular.

Rev. Jackson was an apostle of nonviolence. He understood, like King, that nonviolence was not weakness but strategic strength. King had insisted, “Nonviolence is a powerful and just weapon which cuts without wounding.” Jackson carried that weapon into boardrooms, conventions, and global diplomatic corridors.

Of course, like many public figures who live long and visible lives, Jackson was not without controversy. But history rarely remembers leaders for their imperfections; it remembers them for their impact. And his impact is undeniable.

He was African not only by ancestry but by spiritual alignment. He wore kente cloth not as a costume, but as a declaration. He spoke of justice not as an abstraction, but as an obligation. He lived by his own admonition: “If my mind can conceive it, and my heart can believe it, then I can achieve it.” This message has empowered generations who had been told to lower their expectations.

As we mourn his passing, we are reminded that movements do not die with men. They evolve through memory and responsibility. The burden now shifts to those who inherited the hope he kept alive.

May his gentle soul rest in eternal peace. And may the present and future generations prove worthy of the dream that Rev. Jackson dared to proclaim—a proclamation shared by past greats like Abernathy, Malcolm X, Elijah Muhammad, Muhammad Ali, Rosa Parks, James Brown, Colin Powell, Maya Angelou, John Lewis, Adam Clayton Powell Jr., etc., plus millions of Black men and women who lost their lives while being shipped out of Africa more than five centuries ago. Adieu, Reverend Jackson.
A.G.Abubakar agbarewa@gmail.com