Here are some things we know about the late, gone-too-soon Benjamin Zephaniah. He was a prominent Rastafarian in the days before Rastamouse and Levi Roots made people of that faith palatable to the mainstream public; a time when they were more often fodder for the Metropolitan police’s racist mania for stop and search. He was outspoken on social justice issues such as policing and failings in the education system. He carved out a place in the public affection that led even those who hand out honours to offer him one, and then he turned it down. Then – unlike some who spurn the offer and then keep it quiet for fear of brickbats and reprisals – he spoke freely about it, becoming a kind of poster boy for the truth that community recognition is just as good as acclaim from the snooty establishment. I once saw him accept a community achievement award from a campaigning group in south London. He was so chuffed on the podium and speaking about it afterwards that he seemed unsure whether to beam that toothy beam or shed a grateful tear.
How did he do this? How did he maintain strong, radical and uncompromising positions and retain wide public respect and affection? Not many public figures can pull that off. Swim against the mainstream tide and the rightwing press reacts: it misinterprets what has been said, and depicts you as dangerous, subversive, strident and all the other terms applied to people who expose militant middle-class groupthink.
I think there was a sort of genius to him; he carried an iron fist in a velvet glove. I can always see him smiling, even as he was challenging some injustice or dismantling a racist, illiberal argument. He had fire, but not the visible anger the right seizes upon and weaponises. He had a smile and moral clarity, but also wit and a sense of mischief that made you smile even if he wasn’t doing what you wanted or saying anything you agreed with.
Occasionally I would try to reach him. Usually I found it easier to do so through mutual contacts. But sometimes, just for the lolz, I would ring an old number he once gave me. I rang it this morning, because the answerphone message – which he left intact long after he ceased to use the number itself – always made me laugh, because it seemed nice to hear his voice and because it was just him. It says: “Hello, if you recognise my voice, you know who I am. If you don’t, you’ve just got the wrong number. This used to be my number but it no longer is. If you are a friend, you will know how to find me. If you are just trying to find me for one reason or another you can get me through my agent or one of my agents. I’m sure, you’ll know how to do that if you’re a professional. If that all fails, you can just contact your local police station. Or contact Scotland Yard. They know exactly where I am. Yeah, it’s true. Peace.”
Within that cheery message he said several things: I am a public figure, but I control that; I will speak when and where I want to, but this will be on my terms; don’t expect me to do all your legwork for you; and I am fully aware of my position, acceptable to some, but prompting unease in others – and I live with that.
The tension arising from these various levels of acceptance and suspicion was there from the outset of his public life. I first had contact with him more than 40 years ago. I was a cub reporter, the apprentice on the Newham Recorder, in east London. He lived in the area and was a local celebrity to us, the stuff of shorts and picture stories. And then, just after I had left to try my luck in national journalism, a story broke that he was being offered a visiting fellowship at Cambridge University that thrust him into a vicious spotlight. “Would you let your daughter near this man?” asked Kelvin MacKenzie/Rupert Murdoch’s Sun. “A Rasta poet,” screeched the rightwing outrage machine. What next? It’s off to hell in a handcart. Zephaniah became the subject of a media frenzy, chased by newsrooms and journalists. But I had his number and as they chased, he spoke to me. It got his story out, and it set my career on a path for what would follow.
Whenever we spoke afterwards, I’d remind him of that, but he’d brush off my thanks and say “Newham – that was way back,” and smile that quiet smile. Because so much happened thereafter: the books, the music, the acting, the campaigning, but for all the success, he had the same demeanour, struck the same tone as he always had.
And that explains the acclaim and the sadness following his untimely death. People saw the dreadlocks, but more than that they saw and heard authenticity. Even our denuded public culture still values that.
Hugh Muir is the Guardian’s executive editor, Opinion
