Michael X, aka Daddy

Daddy

I always heard Michael referred to in my early childhood home as Daddy. I never once heard the name Michael X; the name didn’t appear in my own vocabulary until I was at least nine years old. It was only then that I fully understood Daddy was known to the general public as Michael de Freitas, and to journalists and those not known to him personally as Michael X. There was a copy of my grandfather’s biography in my family home, available for all the children to read and for visitors to read, and this was normal.

Michael is my mother’s dad. She’s his first daughter, his first child. My mum spoke about him with much love; she said he treated her kindly and was a hands-on dad. A radical dad, and well known to all in the local North and West London community. My mother’s childhood was completely different to mine. My mother played with celebrity children and grew up with celebrities in her childhood home, and this was completely normal to her. It sounded very strange to me, a child growing up in a working-class home with zero celebrity culture surrounding me. Many different perspectives of “Daddy” came from his different children. He was a girl dad, but the girls were all different ages. The elder children remember him as a good dad; the younger children were far too little to remember everything about him, but they too recalled him fondly.

My mother recalls that she heard of her father’s execution over the radio. She was just twelve years old. She says she was very shocked, even though he had appealed the death sentence over a long time. She remembers being in disbelief that it had happened, and that his life had been taken in this violent way.

I was able to decipher as a teen that the British press and literary world did not speak about my grandfather in the greatest of lights. Many derogatory terms were used in interviews with Notting Hill set, swinging-sixties people of Michael’s time, which then further added to unpleasant conversations around my grandfather.

Even as a young girl it appeared to me that people jumped on bandwagons, and that information on my grandfather was very skewed. Nobody at all interviewed anyone in my family — not in the 70s, not in the 80s, not in the 90s, and not until the early 2000s.

So where were these writers getting their research from?

It appears, as always, that the white press of the fifties, sixties and seventies regurgitated rubbish and untruths. It became apparent to me as a young woman that the general population had a very one-sided, highly inaccurate portrayal of Michael. I did find this fascinating. Absolutely nobody in my family referred to Michael as perfect — not his children, nor any close personal friends of his. He did sound like a controversial figure.

He also sounded like a normal young man who, like most, dabbled in drugs, dabbled in crime, worked hard, travelled the world, got married and indulged in women. None of this was hair-raising stuff, and it sounded pretty similar to many other young men of that time and of my own. Stories that we’ve all heard about men in their twenties and thirties.

The unique thing about my grandfather — the very thing that stood out a mile — was the fact that he was radical, unapologetic, disruptive, organised, and Black in the London of the fifties, sixties and seventies. All things that were considered extremist.

He defiantly wore an untamed Afro and an untamed beard, and spoke perfect English. His conversion to Islam and his Islamic name change all contributed to his non-conformist personality and evolution. This would have infuriated white British people and incensed the British government, because Michael — now known as Michael Abdul Malik — spoke his mind and was considered a direct threat to their status quo, echoed in Enoch Powell’s “Rivers of Blood” speech on the dangers of the new proposed anti-discrimination bill.

Eventually he was imprisoned under the new Race Relations Act for inciting racial hatred, which in turn placed him firmly on a very unique trajectory for the rest of his life. It’s incredibly ironic that the first person to be imprisoned under that act was a Black man. Michael was intensely scrutinised, followed and spied upon by MI5 and the CIA. It’s this part of Michael’s story that piqued my interest as a young woman.

I was, however, intrigued to know a little bit more about Michael’s journey into activism, and how he brought West Indian Trinidadian culture to the streets of Notting Hill. Michael and his associates discussed starting a local carnival — a carnival that represented his own Trinidadian culture and heritage, and that of other West Indian Caribbean people living in Britain. His associates took the idea and turned it into their own, dismissing his involvement entirely.

Michael was a national figure. He was revered, admired and despised. He may have been a victim of his own notoriety over the years, eventually and sadly leading to his downfall. I was intrigued by his speedy trial — not so much the outcome, which was of course his assassination, but more so an execution with a puppet trial.

It was only as an adult that I was made aware his portrait hung in the National Portrait Gallery, and another portrait hung at the Tabernacle in Westbourne Park.

I wonder how many people here today are direct descendants of the small handful of people who brought this Caribbean carnival to the streets of Notting Hill.

Every year when I attend the Notting Hill Carnival I do pause and take a moment to look around at the millions of attendees, and think that to myself. The Tabernacle is close to my mother’s birthplace. It is interesting to know that my mother grew up in North and West London, because when she returned to the UK at seventeen years old she relocated her family to South London. I wonder what my grandfather would’ve thought of that.

I think the general public fail to realise my grandfather died quite young. He wasn’t an old man. He didn’t live to become an old man. He didn’t live long enough to change his ways from hustler activist to the more mature man he could have become. He was cut down in his prime. My grandfather was self-educated, skilled and quite adored by his family, it would seem. I do wonder what Michael would’ve evolved into.

I could write a blog that echoes everything bad about Michael, but all of those stories can be found online very easily. Videos, films and documentaries all tend to spew the same repetitive rhetoric — nothing fresh there at all. Michael was very softly spoken, even when he was mad. He was known for being direct but with a quiet voice. He wasn’t loud; even angry, he was quiet, I’m told.

I hope this blog gives the reader something different. I’m currently completing an application for my own doctoral thesis, where I ask questions and conduct research around Afrofuturist television and film productions, and how they negotiate the relationships between African diaspora futurity and indigenous cultural representation — and I do believe my grandfather may just pop up in my research. My own research will glide over his opinion on identity in Black Britain, as his was extraordinarily radical for his time; he was no holds barred. Michael was in himself a Black power movement. His idea of Blackness was very in your face. He wore an Afro wild, which was very fitting for his personality — not your slick styled musician type.

“I believe he was an Afrofuturist radical myself.”

Many companies, production houses, writers and filmmakers have certainly profited from the pieces on my grandfather. It’s sad to know that family members are never contacted, never credited, never involved and never asked their opinions on these productions. Look closely at the credits — you won’t see my family’s names. You will see interviews where people claim to be friends of Michael, acquaintances of Michael, ex-girlfriends of Michael, tenants, et cetera. Me and my family have no idea who these people are — well, most of them anyway.

My mother says Michael was a very charismatic man, attracting the attention of many well-known people. She speaks very fondly of Sammy Davis Jr. I remember my mother speaking fondly of John Lennon and his son, and people like Dick Gregory and Kwame Ture, also known as Stokely Carmichael — those were very good friends of my grandfather. It would appear most of my grandfather’s actual friends are all gone; nobody alive remains from his friendship circle, as he would have been in his eighties now.

So every single production is speculative and opinion-based, and stories are second-hand retellings, filmed, edited, distributed and archived. They’re not authentic, and this is sad. I have suggested my family put pen to paper, but that would be a joint effort with everybody coming together in order to share a different light on Michael’s legacy, and unfortunately it’s not my place to insist this be done.

Like it or not, my grandfather’s name will always be associated with Black British resistance, Black power, Black activism and civil rights. I think it’s imperative that his name be mentioned in conversations surrounding decolonialism, oppression, fighting against Western standards of beauty, and fighting against institutional racism. My grandfather scared the British establishment, as do all Black leaders who stand up to oppression and remind the white man of his transgressions against Black people.

Hearing my aunts’ and uncles’ stories about the Black House and his diverse circle of friends all sounds very dramatic, but that era of severely heightened racial tension would certainly have created a difficult environment in which to survive and remain sane.

Following my grandfather’s death and murder at the hands of both the Trinidad colonial government, the British government and the Privy Council, so many people have profited off his legacy — documentary makers, storytellers and literary agents included. Most stories are regurgitated sensationalist tales, the same untrue stories passed around and around.

Michael was not charged with both murders he was accused of. Both of the deceased were found in the vicinity near his property, not on his property. His property was extensive. No evidence of his physical involvement was ever proven in court. There was no evidence against him, only the word of others. A lawyer from the US was refused entry to defend and attend the trial, and instead the courts appointed a young lawyer from another Caribbean island.

My name is Shana Michala De Freitas. I carry my grandfather’s name. He carried his father’s name. My mother kept his legacy alive by not changing her maiden name. If I could’ve met Michael, I think I would’ve liked him. I think we would’ve argued. I think we would’ve debated. I think we would’ve had agreements and disagreements. I think my family members would have pulled him up regularly on anything he was doing that was unscrupulous. I think he would’ve been praised whenever he did something wonderful.

Unfortunately, he was cut down long before he could start an uprising, because that is where he was going with his movement. He was certainly shaking the state of affairs, and he was most definitely causing a ruckus in Notting Hill.

Nobody is perfect. He was far from perfect, and as a young man he probably did cause the British establishment to shiver in their boots. But had he been given the opportunity to right his wrongs, grow up and mature, I think his radical determination to fight against a system that was overly racist would have been wonderful. I think he may have done some good for the UK. Grandad was a force to be reckoned with. He was ahead of his time — so the next time you see a photograph of my grandfather, take a good look at a real Black power pioneer. He’s the closest thing you will get to seeing what a rebellion would’ve looked like.

Fight the powers that be!

Shana Michala De Freitas writes on legacy, inheritance and Black British history. This piece appears on the Notting Hill Walks journal, where our walks trace the streets, houses and stories behind Notting Hill’s Caribbean and radical history.

Copyright and permitted use

All content contained within this blog, including but not limited to text, photographs, images, illustrations, maps, graphics, and other original materials, is provided solely for the purpose of documenting and promoting Notting Hill Walks.

All content is protected by applicable copyright and intellectual property laws. No material from this blog may be copied, reproduced, republished, redistributed, adapted, transmitted, uploaded, displayed, or otherwise used, whether in whole or in part, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.

The only permitted social-media use of content from this blog is by the official social-media accounts operated by Notting Hill Walks, and solely for the purpose of promoting or publicising Notting Hill Walks. No other individual, organisation, business, website, publication or social-media account is authorised to adapt or commercially use any content from this blog without prior written permission.

Unauthorised commercial use, publication, reproduction or distribution of any content is expressly prohibited. All rights are reserved.

Michael de Freitas — Michael Abdul Malik, Michael X. © Shana Michala De Freitas. All rights reserved. Not licensed for download, reuse or redistribution.

Contact

QUESTIONS? REACH OUT ANYTIME

hello@nottinghillwalks.co.uk

© 2026. All rights reserved.

Partners

Notting Hill Walks is part of More Curricular alongside Hidden Tudors Tours

Privacy Policy | Terms & Conditions

Message