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> thought he was dead! <

Clearly, he is not. And therein lies a tale.
Not exactly germane to the post but let me, if I may, indulge in a little nostalgia trip which I believe will illustrate Mr Belafonte’s innate racism.

In the mid-70s, I was in Lusaka, Zambia and bumped into him.
Literally. I had just exited a supermarket on Cairo Road, the main street in the capital, Lusaka, and positioned right outside the front door was Belafonte accompanied by Sidney Poitier. They were on a whirlwind tour through several African countries, exactly why I don’t remember. Perhaps it was to publicize a movie and/or as part of their activist schtick, though in the case of Zambia I happen to know that their visit was arranged as yet another diversion by the ruling Party to deflect public attention from such mundane affairs as the collapse of the economy, drastic food shortages and sundry other disasters bedevilling that benighted continent at that time. (so, what’s changed you may well ask).

In any event, there stood two of Hollywood’s finest surrounded by a gaggle of admirers seeking handshakes and autographs. The kids, of course, were at the forefront of the small crowd; mostly black but a few white faces too; all clamouring for the stars’ attention. Poitier was in his element, working the small crowd like the pro and gentleman that he is. Belafonte, though, was a different kettle of fish entirely. He scowled and snarled at any white child who approached, sneering at them and, finally, turning his back on any white who came within arm’s length. I grew up in Africa and, though no stranger to the ugliness of overt racism - in both directions - I had not, until then, witnessed such a naked display of ethnic-driven hatred. Poitier was, clearly, enormously embarrassed and did his best to mitigate an otherwise appalling display of unalloyed, racist hostility by his companion.

As Belafonte turned away from the crowd, towards the store exit our eyes met. We were perhaps no further apart than six feet and I shall never forget that look on his face as we locked eyes. A gaze of such furious, intense, loathing. So visceral that it was almost palpable. I smiled slowly at him and I wondered then just how he would interpret my smile. An ostensibly timorous attempt to ingratiate myself? A tentative apology for being white, perhaps? Who knows, he simply continued to glare angrily, but I wonder if he could ever have guessed what my smile hid. Little could he have known that only by great good fortune would his path and mine not cross later that night, for the local paper that morning had made much of Mr Belafonte’s arrival and, in particular, his plans to visit the ZIPRA terrorists’ headquarters, the so-called Liberation Centre, close to in the city centre.

You see, I was in Zambia quite illegally. I was, at that time an officer in the Rhodesian Special Air Service on reconnaissance for an operation which, for the history buffs out there, became known as Operation Bastille. Later that night I would rendezvous with a Rhodesian Army strike force which had covertly and boldly driven straight into the Zambian capital to attack the terrorists’ HQ and, simultaneously, the residence of their leader, Joshua Nkomo on the outskirts of the city. Our objectives were to secure as much intelligence documentation as possible, slot as many of the enemy as we encountered and blow the buildings to smithereens. We accomplished those objectives (though, sadly, we missed Nkomo). Mr Belafonte had obviously had the good sense or good luck to leave the terrorist HQ earlier.

So, if you read this Harry, do you remember that smile? Sorry I missed you……..