One morning in 1995 I pulled into a Coventry hotel car park for a breakfast meeting with Leonard as my passenger. Leonard jumped out while I retrieved my briefcase. Suddenly there was a bellow: “STOP!”
I froze, as did the occupants of other cars that had just parked. Leonard pointed. A three-year-old girl was walking behind a car that was about to reverse. Her mother scooped her up and stood there, white-faced. Leonard picked up my briefcase and walked into the lobby. I watched as the husband hugged his wife and the car driver dropped his head on the steering wheel in shock.
That was when I realised, once again, that this Leonard Johnson was a very special man.
Immediate personal connection
We met for the first time at a moral re-armament (MRA) conference in Switzerland in 1993. I think his friend and colleague, Lawrence Fearon, had invited him. I was struck by the tall, good-looking black man who was standing relaxed in a T-shirt while ‘important’ people in suits milled about him. At MRA we were especially hospitable to newcomers, so I went up to this young man and introduced myself. He gave me his inimitable smile, looked me in the eye and, in a slightly hoarse voice, said, “I’m Leonard Johnson”.
I learned later that he was a famous community leader. In 1981, Leonard had discovered a bus depot in Stonebridge was being sold by London Transport. He and the community council fought for and secured more than £1mn in funding to help Brent Council buy the unused bus station, which became the Bridge Park Community Leisure Centre in Harrow Road – one of the largest in Europe. Leonard’s vision had been to transform it into a community centre to help calm racial tensions and tensions with the police to quash the threat of riots like those taking place in Brixton.
We clicked. It was the beginning of a 30-year friendship between a middle-aged colonial immigrant from Zambia and a British Jamaican in his prime, full of adventure. At the conference we talked about what we thought the world needed and shared our experiences of being ‘born again’ in Christ – and our mistrust of institutions like Brent Council and the news media.
Deep faith worn lightly
I noticed how young people were very comfortable around him and thought that was partly because he was their generation (it turned out that he was 35!) so I invited him to be my guest speaker at a Catholic family conference later that year. He was a hit, carrying his deep Christian faith with a light touch while talking to them about his life. His father had walked out on the family when Leonard was about six and he had become a young gang leader in North London. He had many run-ins with the police until, at about 18, he was arrested and jailed.
While in jail he was eventually persuaded to read the Bible, beginning with Kings. He was fascinated and read on to the New Testament where he encountered Jesus and changed his life. The children, and adults, were fascinated and moved. This happened time and again. It was always a message of visionary hope and determination, despite being let down time and again, particularly by the authorities and by a couple of millionaires.
For a time, Leonard and I bumped into each other and he joined me on a few workshops. The business my wife and I had set up was growing and I was running workshops on negotiation and partnering all over the world, especially in the USA and Southern Africa. But we got together again in 1994 on two trips to Zimbabwe. He worked mainly with MRA while I had assignments with UK Overseas Development Administration.
Community-building in Zimbabwe
Leonard then came with me to Zimbabwe a number of times, on MRA missions or with my work. It is an uncomfortable country, beautiful, with the nicest people in the world and a menacing dictatorship. Again, Leonard entranced people, white and black. When he spoke to a conference, he made a kind of incoherent sense which my own presentation training told me should not work. But it did, touching so many. After the sessions audiences stayed on talking to each other, sharing (not religiously) and pondering the vision he had built.
I realised that this was real community-building. Somehow Leonard was building trust in a society where you could hardly trust anyone. I pointed out to him that there were always security stooges (Special Branch) at these kinds of events, just like in the USSR and North Korea. “Oh yes”, he said, “I have just been talking to a couple of them”.
Only ever just in time
On his second trip to Zimbabwe he chaperoned my daughter, Liz and her friend Linda, on the flight from London and in Zimbabwe because I was not there.
By this point I learned that Leonard had a habit of being ‘just in time’. He never missed an appointment, but he always had us on edge until he magically appeared at the last minute. Liz told me that she could not find him anywhere in the departures area and was already sitting on the plane when there was a flurry and Leonard arrived, just as the doors closed. The same happened when they left Zimbabwe. He again arrived at the very last minute as security held the plane for him.
“What happened?” asked my bemused daughter. “Oh, I was in the town, Bindura, with the General (45 miles away) and he did not want me to leave. I just managed to catch the bus two hours ago.” The Zimbabwean next to him said that no way that could happen. The bus took between three and four hours. “Well”, said Leonard, “when the bus passengers heard my problem they all shouted at the bus driver to go faster for me. He did, so fast that he missed one stop on the way. When we arrived at the airport they were all laughing and cheering and told security to get this VIP who had been with the General (the governor of that province) to his plane”.
Everyone, including the air steward looked amazed. First class service for the two girls and Leonard ensued.
Showing grace in all circumstances
This anecdote says much about Leonard, but also much about Zimbabweans, who are among the best educated and most personable in Africa. That they have such a terrible government is a tragedy.
Anyway, before he left with the girls we held some great meetings, some business, some MRA and some happenstance. It was at two of these that Leonard showed his grace. The first was when our Zimbabwean host, Stephen, took us to stay with a couple of elderly white MRA supporters, typical colonials, who had a farm 20 miles outside Harare, the capital. I had my business partner, Barry, with me as well as Leonard.
When we arrived, the hostess said to Stephen: “I thought you said you were bringing three guests from England. I can only see two.” Awkward silence. Stephen had to tell her that, although he was black, Leonard was from England. She had no idea she had made a faux pas; but her husband gave her a glare. As we sat down to dinner, Leonard said he would like to say grace, which he did. The lady went very quiet … she hugged him when we left the next day.
Helping others and gaining their trust
A few days after Leonard confided in me that he had been talking to a local hotel manager who complained about some kids vandalising guests’ cars. He showed him the scratches they had made. Leonard watched from the lobby as these three or four 10-year-old children offered to wash cars. When they were turned down, they scratched the car. He was very thoughtful that night and then he disappeared – as he often did.
The next day, he went and had tea with the hotel manager and asked him if he knew why the children behaved like that. The manager did not. “Would you like to know?”, he asked in such a way that the manager had to say yes. In the evening Leonard said to me that he was taking the manager to speak to them that night. He had found out that they were refugees from Mozambique about a dozen of them, probably orphans, aged from eight to 14. They lived on their own in some dense bush about half a mile away and trusted no one; but they did talk to Leonard.
At about 11 o’clock that night Leonard and the manager went out to the bush. He left the manager on the edge of the copse and went on calling very softly to the kids. After about 15 minutes the three eldest showed themselves. Leonard indicated the manager and said that he wanted to talk to them, “Will you let him?” After some time they agreed. The manager then asked them nervously what they wanted. The eldest spoke up: “We want to go to school.”
Shocked, he turned his face to hide his tears.
Leonard told the three of them to come to the hotel the next day. Then the two men had a serious conversation and agreed to meet before the boys turned up. At the meeting the hotel manager said he would get the children taught at his hotel, so long as they stayed away from the cars. Oh, and they would get a breakfast.
Trusted even in the darkest times
On the darker side: Leonard had built a real rapport with the governor of Northern Mashonaland, the General, a battle-scarred warrior of the civil war. He was a visionary and had a heart for the people, sharing with us his plans to build an irrigation canal from a large river that would divert water through the driest land. I attended his presentation with Leonard.
Later Leonard was taken aside by a security officer who said quietly: “Don’t travel with the governor.” Three weeks later a large army truck hit the General’s car in the side crushing it. He died in the wreck. We never returned.
Business pressures held us apart
Because of increasing demand I incorporated our business and it became JCP, a limited company – and a big mistake. The company was soon turning over £2mn per annum, with offices in South Africa and Hong Kong, and I was losing touch with him and other friends as I battled over the role of ‘president’ with some greedy directors. So, I sold them the company and left in 2002. After that Leonard and I spent more time together and with my wife Anne at our home in Sheffield and in South Africa.
Talking of my wife, I remember vividly her reaction when Leonard first came to stay with us. Just before breakfast she whispered to me: “Leonard smells so nice. Does he use perfume?” The answer was yes and no. Like many West Indian men, he used to oil his body after showering and his skin sort of glowed. I felt quite inadequate.
After a few days with us Anne asked him quizzically, “Do you have to put Tabasco sauce on everything?” Big smile. “Jamaicans like their food hot.” She was not impressed. She prided herself on being a good cook. He just gave her a big hug and Anne made sure Tabasco sauce was on the table every time he stayed.
Intliziyo: our heart
Leonard was also chair of our Aids project on my farm, Ashby Manor, in a poor area of the Eastern Province in South Africa. Intliziyo, or ‘heart’ in isiXhosa – was a grassroots project providing home-based care, skills development and support for people infected and affected by HIV/Aids in Queenstown. Intliziyo was a Christian-based project, empowering individuals, their families and the broader community to take charge of their health and wellness.
Sixty households were visited regularly by five volunteers trained as community health workers, some of whom were HIV-positive themselves. They also conducted door-to-door awareness and anti-stigma campaigns among the 10,000 residents of the black community in Queenstown. A full-time nurse assisted with medical care and a local doctor volunteered free services to back up the work of the volunteers, whose role went well beyond the statistics of houses visited, meals cooked, or clothes washed. Such spin-offs permeated the skills development programme. The opportunity for people living with and affected by HIV/Aids to talk and discuss daily challenges, while producing potential income-generating goods, put many minds at ease.
Then the Dutch funders withdrew the funding without any discussion, and I sold Ashby to its inspirational manager, Harry Kema, in 2006 – just a year after it was runner-up in the national Mail and Guardian Investing in Life award for 2005.
Final project in Belfast
The last project we did together was in about 2003 when the Home Office asked me to conduct a major session at a conference in Belfast, following the dreadful Holy Cross Convent scandal in 2001 where Catholic primary school children had been persecuted by Protestant families en route to school. The worst moment was when a pipe bomb exploded as the children were walking through the lines of police officers keeping back the loyalist protestors. No children were hurt, but their terror was heartbreaking. Tensions afterwards remained high and the social workers were at their wit’s end, so the government decided to lance the boil with a one-day conference.
I had been to Belfast before and had sworn never to go back. I knew I had to – but only if Leonard came with me. There was great tension throughout the event, but also much honest dialogue and it was skilfully managed. Nevertheless, at lunch Leonard took me aside: “We need to go at tea. I have seen a man walk up to the reception desk who, when asked for his invitation, just pulled his jacket open and showed a revolver. There are others like him. Only talk to the other contributors – NO ONE else.”
That was Leonard. Part angel, part warrior.
I last saw Leonard in 2013, just before my kidney donation in May that year. As Oscar Wilde so rightly put it, “No good deed goes unpunished”. My mental health suddenly declined, and I spent the next decade battling anxiety attacks and trying to recover my consulting skills. Then, out of the blue, I heard that Leonard had died of cancer, in November 2023. He had recently lost his long-fought final battle with Brent Council to not sell the community centre to a developer. However, he did see his newly born first grandson for the first time five days earlier. Ultimately, Leonard died content, but I remain devastated.
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