TSHEPO KOKA

The news of Rev Jesse Jackson’s death arrives with a weight that is both public and profoundly personal. To the world, he will go down in history as a towering figure in the global struggle for freedom, a relentless advocate for civil rights, and a moral voice who refused to be silenced. To South Africa, he will be remembered as a steadfast ally during the darkest years of apartheid, a leader who spoke our country’s name in the corridors of power when our own voices were forcibly muted.

To me, he was something more intimate still: a mentor, a family friend, and a guiding presence at a moment when my life stood at a critical crossroads.

Exile is not merely the condition of being displaced from one’s homeland; it is also a slow erosion of certainty, an invisible unmooring of identity. One adapts to new cultures, accents and systems of meaning, and learns to succeed within them. Yet in that process something essential can begin to fade.

I came of age academically within the venerable walls of Stonyhurst College, a prestigious Jesuit institution in England that offered intellectual rigour, tradition, and a clear pathway to the elite British universities. As I completed my school education, the next step seemed self-evident: Oxford or Cambridge.

However, my late father, Drake Koka, perceived something beneath the surface of this apparent success. He feared that in mastering the European intellectual traditions I was slowly drifting from the grounding of my blackness and from the historical consciousness that had shaped our people’s resistance. I was a young South African in exile, excelling academically yet increasingly distant from the spiritual and political inheritance that defined who I was.

It was out of this concern that my father reached out to the Rev Jesse Jackson.

Never let anyone make you choose between being African and being global
— Jesse Jackson

Jesse immediately understood what was at stake. He did not frame the issue as a rejection of excellence or a detour from ambition. Instead, he spoke of grounding, anchoring and recentring a young man before sending him further into the world.

It was Jesse who proposed, through Ida Wood of the Phelps-Stokes Fund, that I spend time at his alma mater, North Carolina Agricultural and Technical State University, where his sons, Jesse and Jonathan, were studying. The intention was not to replace my academic aspirations but rather to shape the person who would pursue them.

The decision to attend North Carolina A&T proved transformative. The institution was so much more than a university — it was a living testament to black excellence rooted in self-definition rather than imitation. Here were students who spoke with confidence born, not of inherited privilege, but of collective struggle and purpose. I encountered a tradition of scholarship that did not require the erasure of identity and a culture of excellence that celebrated blackness, rather than treating it as an obstacle to overcome.

At the centre of this world stood Jesse Jackson. In public, he was known for his thunderous oratory and commanding presence. In private, he was defined by warmth, attentiveness and an extraordinary generosity of spirit. The Jackson household functioned as a crossroads of the movement. Conversations flowed effortlessly between domestic concerns and global politics, scripture and strategy, as well as laughter and solemn reflection. Jesse listened with the same seriousness to young people as he did to seasoned leaders. He challenged us to think, defend our ideas and, above all, understand why we believed what we did.

Through my friendship with his sons I found not only companionship but also fraternity. Together we navigated the complexities of growing into ourselves under the long shadow of history. We explored life and various curiosities as young men on campus. We met our prospective wives and accompanied each other to the altar. Our debates, aspirations and uncertainties unfolded within a home that treated political consciousness as a daily practice rather than an abstract exercise.

Summers enjoyed at Jesse’s home in Chicago and time spent at his birth home in South Carolina became for me a parallel education. Thanksgiving gatherings were not merely family occasions — they were assemblies of elders, activists, artists, clergy and students whose lives had been shaped by the long arc of struggle. These were spaces where history was not frozen in textbooks but lived, debated and extended.

Jesse often spoke of what he called the “river of struggle”. This is the idea that none of us begins at the source and none of us controls the final destination. We merely inherit currents shaped by those before us, and we bear responsibility for shaping those that follow.

In one quiet conversation about South Africa, exile and the peculiar loneliness of fighting for a country one cannot physically touch, Jesse said to me, “Never let anyone make you choose between being African and being global. You are both. You must be both.” That sentence has remained with me ever since.

Perhaps the most enduring lesson he imparted was simple yet demanding: whatever you become, become it in service. Not in service to recognition or comfort, but to humanity

Through Jesse, I came to understand that the politics of black consciousness in South Africa and the traditions of black liberation in the US are not separate conversations but simply different dialects of the same language. The insistence on psychological liberation articulated by Steve Biko found resonance in Malcolm X’s call for mental decolonisation. The vision of shared humanity embedded in the Freedom Charter echoed in Martin Luther King Jr’s conception of the beloved community. Jesse did not present these traditions as competing ideologies but showed them as a continuum.

It is also important to note that I was not the only South African finding political and personal grounding within Jesse’s orbit during those years. Alongside me was Kgosi Mathews, who served as Jesse’s special assistant for a number of years. Kgosi came from a proud ANC lineage. His grandfather, ZK Matthews, was a renowned academic and one of the intellectual architects of the liberation struggle, deeply rooted in the traditions of the ANC. I, by contrast, was a child of the Black Consciousness Movement. Yet within the Jesse Jackson camp these histories did not collide, but rather converged.

Our debates were rigorous but never hostile. We challenged one another, sharpened one another, and discovered how our respective traditions were less rivals than complementary currents of the same river. Under Jesse’s guidance, we learned that political maturity required both conviction and generosity: the ability to hold true to one’s lineage with pride while remaining open to synthesis. We learned that style, presentation and comportment were not superficial, but rather a crucial part of political communication. How we dressed, spoke and carried ourselves in public spaces was important. Jesse taught us that leadership is read long before it is heard.

When he invited me to join him on his campaign trail, I witnessed first hand the toll and nobility of public service. While I saw exhaustion, sacrifice and disappointment, I also saw an unshakeable faith in ordinary people. Whether speaking in churches, union halls or community centres, Jesse refused to dilute his moral message. He believed leadership meant calling people to their highest selves, even when doing so was politically costly.

Perhaps the most enduring lesson he imparted was simple yet demanding: whatever you become, become it in service. Not in service to recognition or comfort, but to humanity.

Looking back, I now understand that my father’s intervention was an act of love rooted in foresight. He did not fear education, but rather amnesia. He feared I would forget who I was, where I came from, and what obligations accompany privilege. Jesse ensured I did not forget.

On behalf of my late father and my mother, Maletlhare, I wish to extend our deepest condolences to Jacqueline Jackson; to Santita, Jesse, Jonathan, Jacqui, Yusef, Jacqui Lavinia and Ashley; and to the entire Jackson family. Please know that you remain in our prayers and thoughts during this time of profound loss.

The world has lost a giant, but I have lost a teacher and the guardian of my becoming. However, I take comfort in knowing that Jesse Jackson’s legacy does not reside solely in monuments or archives but also in the countless lives he shaped quietly, patiently and with love. His voice may now be silent, but his lessons speak in how we walk, think and serve.

May his soul rest in power. May his river continue to flow.