I want to share my past experiences with the late
Miriam Makeba. Journalists throughout the world have
acknowledged her musical artistry and her political
commitment to the struggle of her people. I and others
can attest to her warm personal relations with her
friends and family, including her daughter Bongi, who
died in 1985.
At the time of her daughter’s death, Miriam could not
afford a coffin. The pain of that experience was
horrific, but Miriam bore it with stoic inner strength,
like everything else in her life.
I was a producer of pop music when I met Miriam. In
fact, it was through my managerial relationship with
Chad Mitchell of the Chad Mitchell Trio that we became
social friends. From that connection, Miriam asked if I
would manage her. However, it became obvious through
negotiation that the distance would not permit me to do
a good job.
Miriam understood why I turned down her offer and she
and I shared a warm friendship none the less.
Another distinct memory I have of Miriam’s warm and
caring nature was when my first wife was hurt in a
serious car accident. Miriam spent a day and a half at
the hospital until it was clear that Fran?ßoise would
survive.
A comforting act to say the least, especially since on
the day of the accident, Miriam and her husband at the
time, Hugh Masekela, were supposed to have dinner with
us. Instead, she sat beside me in a rocking chair in my
wife’s hospital room saying very little, but speaking
volumes about her kindness with her presence.
Miriam married Stokely Carmichael in 1968 during the
height of the Black Nationalist movement. I knew
Stokely through my participation and support of the
Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee (SNCC). When
white members were expelled from the organization, I
sent Stokely a letter telling him that I disagreed
because I believed it hindered the struggle against
racism in America. But, of course, I sent him a
solidarity donation anyway.
In any case, I received no response from Stokely.
Nevertheless, Francoise and I heeded Miriam’s
invitation and traveled to Scarsdale, New York, to
attend their wedding reception. Along with Miriam’s
drummer, we were the only whites out of 200 guests
present. Stokely ignored us, making it clear that he
was uncomfortable by our presence. Miriam, however, did
more than acknowledge our friendship; she made us feel
welcome.
Miriam was primarily an artist who was forced into the
political struggles of her people by her dignity and
her artistic ability that refused to surrender to the
indignities of apartheid. Through it all she remained
strong, yet warm and caring. In the end, those of us
who knew her, just like South Africa, have lost much
more than a fighting voice for justice and equality.
We’ve lost a loyal friend.
I want to share my past experiences with the late
Miriam Makeba. Journalists throughout the world have
acknowledged her musical artistry and her political
commitment to the struggle of her people. I and others
can attest to her warm personal relations with her
friends and family, including her daughter Bongi, who
died in 1985.
At the time of her daughter’s death, Miriam could not
afford a coffin. The pain of that experience was
horrific, but Miriam bore it with stoic inner strength,
like everything else in her life.
I was a producer of pop music when I met Miriam. In
fact, it was through my managerial relationship with
Chad Mitchell of the Chad Mitchell Trio that we became
social friends. From that connection, Miriam asked if I
would manage her. However, it became obvious through
negotiation that the distance would not permit me to do
a good job.
Miriam understood why I turned down her offer and she
and I shared a warm friendship none the less.
Another distinct memory I have of Miriam’s warm and
caring nature was when my first wife was hurt in a
serious car accident. Miriam spent a day and a half at
the hospital until it was clear that Fran?ßoise would
survive.
A comforting act to say the least, especially since on
the day of the accident, Miriam and her husband at the
time, Hugh Masekela, were supposed to have dinner with
us. Instead, she sat beside me in a rocking chair in my
wife’s hospital room saying very little, but speaking
volumes about her kindness with her presence.
Miriam married Stokely Carmichael in 1968 during the
height of the Black Nationalist movement. I knew
Stokely through my participation and support of the
Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee (SNCC). When
white members were expelled from the organization, I
sent Stokely a letter telling him that I disagreed
because I believed it hindered the struggle against
racism in America. But, of course, I sent him a
solidarity donation anyway.
In any case, I received no response from Stokely.
Nevertheless, Francoise and I heeded Miriam’s
invitation and traveled to Scarsdale, New York, to
attend their wedding reception. Along with Miriam’s
drummer, we were the only whites out of 200 guests
present. Stokely ignored us, making it clear that he
was uncomfortable by our presence. Miriam, however, did
more than acknowledge our friendship; she made us feel
welcome.
Miriam was primarily an artist who was forced into the
political struggles of her people by her dignity and
her artistic ability that refused to surrender to the
indignities of apartheid. Through it all she remained
strong, yet warm and caring. In the end, those of us
who knew her, just like South Africa, have lost much
more than a fighting voice for justice and equality.
We’ve lost a loyal friend.