Miriam Makeba
Jon Craig Canavan

As a journalist one strives for originality in one’s writing but, try as you might to avoid the cliché, it is impossible to write of Miriam Makeba without the description legend creeping in somewhere.

So, to get it out of the way, let me say now that if ever anyone deserved the title of living legend it is Miriam Makeba, the first lady of African song, affectionately known to fans as Mama Afrika, and arguably the greatest musical ambassador South Africa has ever produced.

It is a deserving title not only because of her astonishing, breathtaking musical stature – she has sung over 300 different songs of some 70 different composers on over 150 releases (and that’s not counting the many bootleg recordings floating around out there) in five decades of performing and recording, making her the most recorded artist in African history – but also for her strong social conscience which has won her numerous awards including the Dag Hammarskjöld Peace Prize, France’s Legion d’Honore and the Polar Prize from King Gustav of Sweden. If ever the Nobel committee decided to expand their awards and include music, Miriam would be top of the list to receive the first award.

A pan-Africanist at heart and as candidly outspoken as the most political of artists, Miriam has never shied away from using her stature as an artist to try and make a difference and when she says things like “we must learn to forgive” it’s far from being an empty slogan: Mama Afrika has had plenty to forgive during a life marked by struggle.

The daughter of a sangoma, she was born in 1932 in to captivity and spent the first six months of life in jail with her mother. Later in life she spoke her mind on the struggle against apartheid and was consequently exiled from her homeland for 31 years, the notorious Afrikaner regime even preventing her from attending her mother’s funeral.

In its clumsy attempt to marginalise the indefatigable singer, the South African government of the time inadvertently granted Miriam a three-decade run as black South Africa’s de facto musical ambassador to the Western world and helped make her famous not only in her own country but around the world.

Under the tutelage of American crooner and civil rights activist Harry Belafonte, Miriam pleaded the case of her people to audiences across America during the height of that nation’s own civil rights struggle, eventually reaching the ear of the most powerful leader in the world when she performed at President John F Kennedy’s famous 1962 birthday party in Madison Square Garden, the same concert where Marilyn Monroe infamously sang a seductive Happy Birthday to the doomed president.

As if it weren’t enough to be shunned in one country, Miriam went through the whole sorry mess again when, in 1968, after two previous marriages (one to South African trumpet legend Hugh Masekela), Makeba married controversial black American activist Stokely Carmichael of the controversial, militant Black Panthers and lost her spot as toast of the town. She was simply toast.

Her gigs and recording contracts were cancelled, her career in the United States stalled (although Europe, especially France, continued to adore her) and the inevitable public and media backlash forced her to move to Ghana until the strife in South Africa captured the fickle, wavering American imagination during the ‘80s and she became popular in that country once again.

All through this tumultuous, rollercoaster ride of a life, she sang. Today, at age 72 and celebrating half a century in the business, she lives back home in our new South Africa, her house surrounded by bushes of La Rose Miriam (the first successfully grown French rose and named after her in tribute), and she remains a working artist on the road.

“I have to sing and I will not stop singing until the day I die,” she exclaims energetically when I mention the word retirement. “I’m lucky in that I get to work with a lot of young people, wonderfully talented young musicians who give me energy. And there are days when I need some extra energy, when these old bones are tired. But even if I couldn’t move a limb and had to spend all my time in bed I would still be singing!”

Gifted with a dynamic, powerful voice, a voice that has grown even richer and more commanding with age, she was first noticed when she sang in a church choir as a child, going on to record her debut single, Lakutshona Llange, as a member of the Manhattan Brothers in 1953 for the Gallo recording company – “I helped to launch Gallo,” she only half joked at a recent press conference to announce her return to the record company where she began her career.

Although she left that band to form an all-female group named the Skylarks in 1958, she reunited with members of the Manhattan Brothers when she accepted the lead female role in the musical version of King Kong, which told the tragic tale of African boxer, Ezekiel “King Kong” Dlamani, in 1959.

The year before, Miriam performed in an 18 month tour of South Africa with the musical extravaganza, African Jazz And Variety, and made an appearance in a documentary film, Come Back Africa. These successes led to invitations to perform in Europe and the United States.

When she arrived in the US in 1959, Miriam was embraced by the African-American community and was soon popular on both sides of the Atlantic. The reason for her popularity, she says, is simple: no one else sounded like her or looked like her. She sounded singular because she sang mostly in South African languages, not attempting to curry commercial favour by changing her style or her music to suit Western tastes. She looked singular because she refused to wear much makeup or straighten her hair, a loud statement from a black woman in late-‘50s America.

“I am constantly asked what it takes for a South African musician to be successful internationally,” she says. “Be yourself. If I had gone over to America and sang their music, they would have laughed and ignored me. Instead, I sang my music, African music, which they had never heard before and they loved it because it was something new and different.

“Later I did start to sing songs from different countries and cultures - Portuguese songs, French songs, Brazilian songs, American jazz standards – but I did this to show my appreciation for their music, their cultural history. Most of my music, though, is South African. It’s my music. It’s our music.

“So my advice to any young musician is to not change. Don’t try and sound like the Americans or the British. Be yourself. Be us.”

Mama Afrika’s introduction to US audiences took place at possibly the world’s most famous jazz club, New York’s Village Vanguard in 1959 where she played to sell-out crowds for a whole month.

She later made a guest appearance during Harry Belafonte’s ground-breaking concerts at Carnegie Hall that same year, the beginning of a professional relationship and personal friendship that would last years. A double-album of the event, released in 1960, received a Grammy award, Miriam’s first. The duo released another album, simply titled Miriam Makeba and Harry Belafonte, in 1972 and Miriam much later was part of the Harry Belafonte Tribute at Madison Square Garden in 1997.

“That man taught me so much,” she says of Belafonte, her eyes crinkling at the corners with both sadness and joy as she recalls the special bond she once shared with the late singer. “When I look at concert footage today of those early years I cannot believe I was so sophisticated as a performer and it’s thanks to Harry that I was so comfortable and so professional as a live performer.

“Probably the most important thing he taught me was discipline. To be a great artist one needs discipline and it is something lacking in many of today’s performers. He was a strict taskmaster, especially with stage discipline. If you were to perform with him on stage, you had to be at your very best. He demanded it of you and of himself.”

It was at this time that her political voice became as powerful and as important as her singing voice, although she has always rejected the label of political singer or political activist, countering the claim with the assertion that she merely conveys the truth.

“All I ever did was tell the people who wanted to know how we lived in South Africa,” she says. “I just told the world the truth. And if my truth became political, I couldn’t do anything about that.”

Miriam spoke out against the horrors of apartheid, telling the truth to both the smaller audiences at her concerts and to the world at large when she addressed the United Nations.

“It was 1963 when I first spoke at the UN,” she remembers, “before the Decolonization Committee. In ‘64 I spoke again, before the Committee on Apartheid. It was the African National Congress leaders in exile in America and Britain who approached me. They asked me to speak because I was a performer and a popular lady. I agreed, because it was necessary.

“After that I was exiled and watched by the spies of apartheid South Africa. It became even worse after I spoke at the General Assembly in 1975 and ‘76. And my marriage to Stokely Carmichael was not very well taken in some quarters either, which made it worse still.

“It was very painful to be in exile,” she remembers, “and then to go back home and see all the things that were happening to the people. I felt so helpless; sometimes I would even feel guilty. It’s painful to be banned and not able to go home. But it’s also painful to not be there and be with your people and, you know, maybe even…throw a stone, or something.
“It all happened back home and I was there and not here. That was very painful. Sometimes people would come from home, with church groups or things like that, to sing, and when they left, I’d go to the airport and wave. Then I would go back to my car and just cry.

“I said, ‘Yeah, I know I’ll go back home one day.’ Then this dark cloud would come over me and I’d think, ‘What am I talking about? I will probably never see home again.’

“I always felt I was physically away from home but emotionally, mentally and otherwise, I was always home. When people ask me now, ‘How did you feel when you came back? Wasn’t it difficult after 30 years?’ I say, ‘No, in my mind, I’ve always been here.’

“I never forgot the language, the culture, anything. When I first arrived back in South Africa (in the early ‘90s) many people came up to me and felt like they should speak to me in English. And when I answered them in Zulu or Sotho they’d say, ‘You have such a good accent.’ But how could I forget? When I left home I was 27. You can’t forget your language at 27 unless you really want to, and I never did.”

Nor did she forget her social conscience. Ever since returning to South Africa, Miriam has focused her energies on creating homes for destitute young girls, with the first Miriam Makeba Home for Girls now open in Midrand and Miriam hoping to create more.

“My greatest desire to see one of these homes in each of our nine provinces,” she says. “It’s slow coming, but I think it will happen because now even the Ministry of Social Affairs is looking at the project, and trying to help us raise funds. We already have several girls staying at the Midrand home and we expect more soon.

“We have a lot of children on the streets, too many, and most of the girls have been abused and mistreated. I decided to try and open these homes because most of the other shelters, the majority of them, are for boys.

“When we get the girls we counsel them and try find out what they want to do with their lives. If they want skills, then we help them get those skills so they can run by themselves. And as they learn the skills, then we can let them go, knowing they can make a living. When we take them in it’s like they still have forever. That’s why we want them early. It is a time when you can still talk to them, still teach them. After they turn 18, they’ve got their own minds.

“These girls are the future mothers of our country and if we don’t look after them, what kind of mothers will they be and what kind of children will they raise? I know what it is to be young and not have any help. My mother had six children and I was the last one. She was so tired by the time I came along, she had to work, work, work, work, and she didn’t have time for me.

“When I look at these children I sometimes see myself and think, ‘Okay, they call you Mama Afrika, so what the hell are you doing? If you die now what will you leave? What will they say Mama Afrika did right?’ So I’m really trying hard before I die to see this thing happen. It will make me so happy because I think we should always extend a helping hand to those in need.”

Extending a helping hand is something Miriam thinks artists, especially those who are successful, do not do enough of. It is imperative, she says, for our country’s wellbeing that those who are better off help the less fortunate.
“If each of us just gave a little of ourselves we could make South Africa a truly great country,” she says with conviction. “God gave some us a wonderful talent and that talent has given us a great life. Singing, for instance, has taken me around the world but if all I ever did was sing then my life would mean little. By helping someone you make your life worth something special.”

Mama Afrika is also of the opinion that music can and will make a difference despite those who claim the arts cannot play a role in changing people’s perceptions and ideas. She believes that through music and the other arts, artists can help reconcile the people of South Africa.

“Of course music can make a difference. To think otherwise is wrong. People listen to music but does anyone really ever listen to a politician? Politicians make many speeches but who remembers them? People get bored with listening to politicians, they fall asleep. But not with music, with music they listen.

“In an audience of 1 000 people you may only reach 10 or five or only one with your message,” she admits. “But those 10 or that one are so important. They can go on to reach another 10 and that 10 another 10 and so on.”

And reaching those people remains as important today as it was back in the dark days of apartheid says Miriam. Despite all that has happened, she says, South Africa still has a long way to go, a fact born out by what happened to Miriam when she performed at the Klein Karoo Festival in 1997, when she was pelted with beer cans by a minority in the audience.
“I remember that,” she says, grimacing at the memory. “I went to sing and I sang, sang, and then I sang Soweto Blues and some rowdies started talking and throwing some things on the stage. But I didn’t move and I just kept on singing.
“After the song I said, ‘Those of you out there must know that this is a new South Africa and you must change. Those who do not want to change, the boat is waiting!’ Then I got up and left.

“We can think of so many things that are wrong, and keep on hating, but that is like a wheel turning without end. We have to stop at some point, and look back and think. But we also have to go forward, and to go forward we have to go forward together. If we can’t come and sing without having cans and stuff thrown at us, it’s not happening. It can’t happen.
“We cannot afford to go on like that. We all have to live here, and we are the majority to begin with. Where do they think they are going to put us? Where? They can’t wish us away and we can’t wish them away, either. The best thing is to just say, ‘Hey let’s just forget it.’ And masakhane.

“Masakhane is one of my songs,” she responds to my befuddled look. “It means you help me and I help you, together we’ll be all right. And in the song I say I’ve been around the world telling the story of my country and my people and in that journey a lot of people listened and raised their voices against injustices. Those voices helped bring us where we are. I also say thank you to our children for the part they played. I say thank you to our mothers for their nurturing and their prayers. I say thank you to our traditional healers for their part, but most of all I say thank you to our leaders who are gracious and have taught us how to be tolerant: who tell us that while we may never forget, we must forgive. And so masakhane: let’s build together.”

All through her life, through the ups and downs, the joy and despair, Miriam has remained musically active, returning to world-wide fame after her self-imposed exile from the US when she joined fellow South African musical legends Ladysmith Black Mambazo on Paul Simon’s worldwide Graceland tour in 1987 and ‘88. Two years later she joined jazz legends Odetta and Nina Simone for the One Nation tour.

Miriam published her autobiography, Miriam: My Story, in English in 1988 and had it subsequently translated and published in German, French, Dutch, Italian, Spanish and Japanese.

Following Nelson Mandela’s release from prison, she returned to South Africa in 1990 and performed her first concert in her homeland in thirty years in 1991, receiving a hero’s welcome from her legion of fans.

Makeba then appeared in the award-winning musical Sarafina, in the role of Sarafina’s mother in 1992. Two years later, she reunited with her first husband, Hugh Masekela, for the magnificent Tour Of Hope. And in 1995, in one of the personal highlights of her career, she performed at the Vatican’s Nevi Hall during a world-wide broadcasted show, Christmas In The Vatican.

Her first studio album in a decade, the Grammy-nominated Homeland, was released in 2000 and this was followed, most recently, by Reflections, a collection of old songs newly recorded, her first album for Gallo since the ‘50s.
Despite her own success, Miriam is distressed at what she sees in the South African music industry, an industry, she says, that still has a long way to go.

“How many South African musicians have died paupers?” she asks. “Too many. Even though I’ve been mostly well looked-after by the companies I’ve recorded for, I have also been cheated out of money: I never saw one cent from Pata Pata (her best-loved and best-selling song).

“I was never in one place long enough to look after my interests and when you move around as musicians do, some people will take advantage of you.

“Unfortunately not that much has changed in South Africa for musicians. There’s not much work for us here, and I am not happy about that, because I still have to run around the world going to sing here, sing there. I’m too old for that sort of thing! And the venues are either very small or you have to sing in stadiums. I hate singing in stadiums.

“The biggest problem is people’s attitude toward artists and it’s an attitude that is fostered by some in the government. You know there’s something very wrong when a spokesperson from the arts and culture ministry says that musicians are not workers.

“What are we then, vagrants? And if we are, then why do we have to pay taxes like everyone else? It’s so difficult to make a living as a musician in South Africa and that sort of attitude only makes it worse.
“I also find it astonishing that we have something called a South African Music Week. There should not be a need for something like that. Every day should be South African music day.

“The TV and radio stations and other media do not do enough to promote our music. I’ve lived and travelled all over the world and you don’t hear radio stations in America or England or France playing South African music 80% of the time. They play their own music mostly, so why can’t we?

“Things are getting better,” she admits, “but not much. We still have a long, long way to go.”
As does Miriam, who continues to thrill audiences worldwide with her magnificent voice and caring soul. “All I hope is to continue finding good songs to sing,” she says of her musical future. Amen to that.