Uncle Ben wasn’t just mixing songs. He was mixing eras . He layered a Prince Nico Mbarga guitar lick over an Etubom Rex Williams keyboard solo. He used the mixer’s filter like a spice, adding just enough resonance to make the old recordings sound fresh, new, urgent.
He dropped Dame Patience Umo Eno’s “Inyanga Nka.” The Ibibio lyrics washed over the crowd like a prayer. Men in suits loosened their ties. A fish seller from Watt Market closed her eyes and sang along, her voice lifting above the speakers. She was sixteen again, dancing at the May Day carnival.
That was the second sign.
And the generator, as if understanding the assignment, coughed once—and died for good.
Rex Lawson’s “Yellow Sisi” began to play. Not the original, but a rare, extended club edit that only DJs in the old Calabar Hotel poolside knew. The tempo was unhurried, the guitar line a shimmering heat haze. calabar highlife dj mix
And then, as the final track—a live recording of “Oru Ede” by Celestine Ukwu—faded into a rainstorm sample, Uncle Ben lifted his hands from the mixer. The silence that followed was not empty. It was full. Full of ghosts, full of gratitude, full of the scent of palm oil and burning plantain from a thousand long-gone parties.
“He’s doing the Calabar bridge ,” Etim whispered to no one, watching Uncle Ben’s hands. The old DJ crossfaded hard left, then rolled the pitch fader up two percent. The tempo increased, but not into chaos—into joy. Uncle Ben wasn’t just mixing songs
Uncle Ben ejected the silver disc, blew a single grain of dust off its surface, and smiled.