Calling the protest an ‘invasion’, the cover page of The New York Times (February 16, 1961) characterized the incident as the ‘worst day of violence’ in U.N. history. The Amsterdam News (February 18, 1961, p.8) countered by portraying Lumumba’s death as an ‘international lynching’.

RIOTS HIT GALLERY IN U.N. DEBATE

February 11, 1961, gathered at Lewis Michaux’s National Memorial African Bookstore in Harlem, New York City, are Abbey Lincoln, Rosa Guy, and Maya Angelou, representatives of the Cultural Association for Women of African Heritage.

Rosa Guy: «What the shit do you think? We’ve got to move. We’ve got to let the Congolese and all the other Africans know that we are with them.»

[…]

Mr. [Lewis] Micheaux was fast moving, quick talking and small. His skin was the color of a faded manila envelope. We stopped him on one of his spins through the aisles. He listened to our plans impatiently, nodding his head.

«Yeah. The people ought to know. Tell them yourselves. Yeah, you tell them.» His short staccato sentences popped out of his mouth like exploding cherry bombs. «Come back this evening. I’ll have them here. Not nigger time. On time. Seven-thirty, you tell them.»

[…]

Mr. Micheaux’s amplified voice reached us as we neared the bookstore.

«A lot of you say Africa ain’t your business, ain’t your business. But you are fools. Niggers and fools. And that’s what the white man wants you to be. You made a cracker laugh. Ha, ha.» His voice barked. «Ha, ha, crackers laugh.»

Because of my height, I could see him on a platform in front of the store. He held on to a standing microphone and turned his body from left to right, his jacket flapping and a short-brim brown hat shading his face from view.

«Abbey, these people»—the human crush was denser nearer to the bookstore—«these people are here to hear us.»

She grabbed my hand and I took Rosa’s arm. We pressed on.

«Some of your sisters are going to be talking to you. Talking to you about Africa. In a few minutes, they’re gonna tell you about Lumumba. Patrice Lumumba. About the goddamn Belgians.  About the United Nations. If you are ignorant niggers, go home. Don’t stay. Don’t listen. And all you goddam finks in the crowd—run back and tell your white masters what I said. Tell ’em what these black women are going to say. Tell ’em about J. A. Rogers’ books, which prove that Africans had kingdoms before white folks knew how to bath. Don’t forget Brother Malcolm. Don’t forget Frederick Douglass. Tell ’em. Everybody except ignorant niggers say ‘Get off my back, Charlie. Get off my goddam back’ Here they come now.» He had seen us. «Come on, Abbey, come on, Myra, you and Rosa. Come on. Get up here and talk. They waiting for you.»

Unknown hands helped us up onto the unstable platform. Abbey walked to the microphone, poised and beautiful. Rosa and I stood behind her and I looked out at the crowd.

Thousands of black, brown and yellow faces looked back at me. This was more than we bargained for. My knees weakened and my legs wobbled.

Abbey Lincoln: «We are members of CAWAH. Cultural Association for Women of African Heritage. We have learned that our brother, Lumumba, has been killed in the Congo.»

The crowd moaned.
«Oh my God.»
«Oh no.»
«Who killed him?»
«Who?»
«Tell us who.»

Abbey looked around at Rosa and me. Her face showed her nervousness.

Mr. Micheaux shouted. «Tell ’em. They want to know.»

Abbey turned back to the microphone. «I’m not going to say the Belgians.»
The crowd screamed. «Who?»
«I won’t say the French or the Americans.»
«Who?»
It was a large hungry sound.
«I’ll say the whites killed a black man. Another black man.»

Mr. Micheaux leaned toward Abbey. «Tell ’em what you all are going to do.»
Abbey nodded.

«On Friday morning, our women and some men are going to the United Nations. We are going to sit in the General Assembly, and when they announce the death of Lumumba we’re going to stand up and remain standing until they put us out.»

The crowd agreed loudly.
«I’m coming.»
«I’ll be there.»
«Me too.»
«Yeah, stand up and be counted.»
«That’s right!»

A few dissenting voices were heard.
«Bullshit. Is that all?»
«They kill a man and you broads are going to stand up? Shit.» And, «They’ll shoot your asses too! Yes, they will.»
The opposition was drowned out by the larger encouragement.

Mr. Micheaux took the microphone.
«Come here, Myra.» The little man could spell my name but he never pronounced it correctly. «You talk.»

He turned to the crowd. «Here’s a woman married to an African. Her husband just barely escaped the South African white dogs. Come on, Myra. Say something.»

I repeated what had already been said at least once. Repetition was a code which everyone understood and appreciated. We had a saying: «Make everything you say two-time talk. If you say it once, you better be able to repeat it.» Black ears were accustomed to the call and response in jazz, in blues and in the prose of black preachers.

Mr. Micheaux took the microphone from me and called Rosa.
She looked out at the faces and spoke very quickly.

«We’ll be there. Any of you who wants to come will be welcome. We are going to meet at eight-thirty in front of the U.N. We’ll make up extra veils and arm bands and our members will be waiting to distribute them. Come all. Come and let the world know that no longer can they kill black leaders in secret. Come.»

She gave the microphone to Mr. Micheaux and beckoned to me and Abbey. We were helped off the stage. The crowd parted, and made an aisle of sounds.
«We’ll be there.»
«Eight-thirty on Friday.»
«See you, sister. See you at the U.N.»
«God bless you.»

[…]

The little white man so far away leaned toward his microphone, his bald forehead shining-white. Dark-rimmed glasses stood out on the well-known face.

A scream shattered his first word. The sound was bloody and broad and piercing. In a second other voices joined it.

«Murderers.»
«Lumumba. Lumumba.»
«Killers.»
«Bigoted sons of bitches.»

The scream still rode high over the heads of astounded people who were rising, clutching each other or pushing out toward the aisle.

The houselights came on. Stevenson took off his glasses and looked to the balcony. The shock opened his mouth and made his chin drop.

A man near me screamed, «You Ku Klux Klan motherfuckers.»
Another yelled, «Murderers.»

African diplomats were as alarmed as their white counterparts. I was also shaken. We had not anticipated a riot. We had been expected to stand, veiled and mournful, in a dramatic but silent protest.

«Baby killers.»
«Slave drivers.»

Terrorized whites in the audience tried to hustle away from the yelling blacks. Security guards rushed through the doors on the upper and lower levels.

The garish lights, the stampede of bodies and the continuing high-pitched scream were overpowering. My knees weakened and I sat down in the nearest seat.

A woman in the aisle beside me screamed at the guards.
The guards were shouting, «Get out. Get out.»
The woman said, «Don’t touch me, you Belgian bastard.»

Below, the diplomats rose and formed an orderly file toward an exit.

When the piercing scream stopped, I heard my own voice shouting, «Murderers. Killers. Assassins.»

Two women grappled with a guard in the aisle. Carlos had leaped onto a white man’s back and was riding him to the floor. A stout black woman held the lapels of a white man in civilian clothes.

«Who you trying to kill? Who you trying to kill? You don’t know me, you dog. You don’t know who you messing with.»

The man was hypnotized and beyond fear, and the woman shook him like a dishrag.»

Maya Angelou, The Heart of a Woman (New York: Random House, 1981), pp. 147–158