Whitney

February 11 was an amazing night for me. I took part in a fantastic classical music concert here in Accra with Japanese pianist Naomi Suzuki, and American baritone Antonio Watts. The hall was packed, everything went smoothly, we had some lovely wine at the reception and around midnight, hubby and I climbed into bed in our room at the Movenpick Hotel.

The morning of February 12 couldn't have been more depressing.

I woke up around 8:30am to use the bathroom and hubby switched on the TV to see what was going on in the rest of the world. I distinctly remember washing my hands in the bathroom sink when hubby solemnly approached me and asked me to come and look at something on TV.

"This is going to wake you up," were his exact words.

I'll never forget where I was when I saw that awful headline across the screen on CNN. As my brain tried to digest the words "Whitney Houston Dies," my heart sank. I couldn't believe what I was reading and even as each reputable news source corroborated the story, I refused to accept it. Not Whitney. Not my Whitney.

As we learned, she had passed away on Saturday afternoon, which was Saturday evening over here. As I was on stage trying to navigate sweeping passages of Brahms' music with careful breath control, my musical icon was taking her last breath. The most beautiful voice in the world was gone.

We all know of the much publicized deterioration of Whitney Houston's glorious instrument and the demise of her once illustrious career as the greatest female pop singer of the 20th century. There hasn't been a comparable voice since we all fell in love with Whitney in the mid 1980s. My childhood was spent gazing at her music videos adoringly, admiring the colourful I Wanna Dance with Somebody video, listening to her records incessantly and playing dress up with my cousin as we awkwardly attempted to imitate her passable dance moves, all the while dreaming of one day being able to sing like Whitney. 

God doesn't give that to everybody. That voice. That sound. That beauty. That level of superstardom. She was and is peerless, a fact that is so painfully obvious and such a shame considering the damage that occurred to her gift and her person because of her long battle with substance abuse. She talked about it herself and she went to rehab several times to rid herself of that awful poisonous addiction. If there's any well documented example of the immense tragedy of unconquerable addiction, this is it.

Michael Jackson... Amy Winehouse... Whitney Houston. 

Over the past few days I've watched several tributes and news stories about Whitney and most of her music videos. Each time I marvel at this gorgeous creation that has now left us, I can't help but think of how preventable this was. How could the ingestion of a small substance mark the beginning of her end? Some people are lashing out at Bobby Brown saying that he introduced her to drugs and encouraged her habit. Others have said that her addiction began long before she met Bobby. Few people actually know the truth but it doesn't matter any more. We are left with recordings to remind us of the mastery that flowed through her very soul. That kind of musicianship and artistry cannot be taught or bought. She just had it.

I could probably write about Whitney for days -- and forgive me if I do -- because I feel like she was such a huge part of my life as a singer, music lover and devoted fan. Even in her worst moments, I was rooting for her, praying that she would be able to triumphantly return to the musical genius we all loved and accepted as our sister Whitney. The beautiful model whose face could light up a screen. I will forever cherish the night I saw her live in concert at the Fox Theatre in Atlanta, Georgia. Drug abuse aside, her voice was still powerful, she was still innately musical and she shared her spirit with us. 

Dear Whitney, I will always love you.