"Don't call me a legend!” -- A Tribute to Uncle Hugh

 Note: I wrote this in January, 2018 after Uncle Hugh passed away. I found it in an old documents folder and decided to publish it here. 

It was 2010. I was about to embark on a musical project -- an album of Christmas songs with a twist. I discussed the idea with Edward and Irene Akufo-Addo, a benevolent couple who had been supportive of my musical endeavours. They immediately offered to help and invited me to their home to “meet our friend, Hugh.”

Even as I type this, the surrealness of that moment still amazes me. There I was, a returnee looking to make the most of my highly specialised profession (classically-trained singer) in my beloved country where operatic music is among the rarest of genres, and the Akufo-Addos were offering to introduce me to a musical genius whose name evoked memories of the anti-apartheid movement. Surely, this wouldn't amount to anything, I thought. After all, why on earth would Hugh Masekela -- THE Hugh Masekela-- spend his precious time doing anything with me?

Specific details of that magical evening elude me now, probably because I was starstruck, nervous and overwhelmed with incredulity but I distinctly recall entering the sitting room of the Akufo-Addo residence with the producer of the album, James Scott-Bennin, and meeting a gracious, down-to-earth, warm, welcoming, jolly soul with an effervescent personality. He approached me and greeted me heartily. I don't remember what I said; I probably sounded like a bumbling idiot! But there he stood, in all of his understated glory, and he asked me to sing for him.

There was a piano in the sitting room. Mr. Scott-Bennin sat down on the piano bench, tickled the keys and asked me which song I wanted to sing. Miraculously, my mind immediately settled on one of my favourite songs in the Ga language, Mi Y3 Gbomo Ko. As we traversed each verse of the song, Uncle Hugh listened to us with seemingly keen interest. I thought he was just being polite. A few minutes later, our performance was over and I braced myself for a courteous dismissal by Uncle Hugh. Instead, what I heard was a string of complimentary remarks and his assurance that he would, in fact, feature on the album.

I don't know how I got from that house to my house that night. I was on cloud 9!!!

Over the next few weeks, Scratch Studios in East Legon, Accra, became our hub for the Nubian Noël project. Uncle Hugh wasn't present for every recording session (I never expected that!) but being the consummate professional that he was, he made time to go there even when I wasn't there, listened to my vocals and blessed us with his flugelhorn in his signature melismatic style. He had a wicked sense of humour. He experimented with various melodies. He even encouraged one of his colleagues, the great percussionist Francis Furster to add live percussion to some of the tracks. It saddens me to think that social media and camera phones were not as ubiquitous then as they are today. In hindsight, I should have made efforts to document our studio sessions more diligently. Lesson learned.

About a year later, we launched the album in Accra. Uncle Hugh’s presence at the event was a testament to his commitment to the project. He expressed his delight at being part of Nubian Noël, noting that working on an album of Christmas music was a new experience for him. He was 71 at the time and I remember thinking that if he, a Grammy-winning, transgenerational artist, could still have new experiences with music at his age, then we can all benefit from opening ourselves up to the vast range of opportunities and possibilities that exist in artistic expression. In other words, it's never too late to learn or try something new.

I didn't see him much after our project was completed but I often asked of him and he sent warm wishes my way as well. The last time I saw him was by pure coincidence. It was January 9, 2017. He and his band were in town for the inauguration of President Nana Addo Dankwa Akufo-Addo and we happened to be at Buka restaurant in Osu for lunch at the same time. I saw him as soon as I entered the restaurant and immediately went to greet him, hoping that he would still recognise me. After all, we hadn't seen each other in 6 years and had barely communicated. My fears were allayed when he saw me and gave me a great, big hug. Then he started singing Ave Maria, one of the tracks from the Nubian Noël album. It actually brought tears to my eyes. This time, I had no excuse to let our meeting slip by without a customary selfie. As we smiled and took what would be our last picture together, I made the ‘mistake' of referring to him as a LEGEND. “Kokui, don’t call me a legend!” he said with his trademark sense of humour and a twinkle in his eye. “All the legends I know are dead!”

Rest in Power, Uncle Hugh.