Moses Moi Papa, sleep well. The good night I was not ready to say, trembling in my reading room, fearful of the Lake between the two Mountains.
I can't imagine I will not see you again. The Kwanjula in Luwero were Moi, Mbalire Frank, and me. We were arguing about who is older: Moi, 78 from his words; Frank Mbalire, 74; and me, the old boy in 60 miles of the journey.
I can't forget that meeting. Akiiki Mansour, me, and Papa Moi, the master saxophonists. Three men at the shore. Mwannaa Ben wesonyiwe.
I will tell you the full truth now, because the Lake has taken the greatest saxophonist in my time, but Moi's proverb stays.
I would be among the first few patrons of Afrigo Band. When Afrigo was still a small light in a dark hall, before the suits and the big stages, I knew Papa Moses Matovu and Akiiki Mansour closely. Not as a fan — as a brother. We would chat and have fun before they started performing. I would move with Madame. They knew the Engineering in me. They knew me as a man who loved brass more than gold.
Then Bukumunhe hit the streets.
How IBM was to marry a named artist cum radio presenter. "HAVE YOU HEARD?" The Red Pepper that had just started, with its red mouth, hit me for a month. My face on the street. My name in the market. My young family shaking inside a house that had started to smell.
My house had Enva'nungi inside that was no longer nnungi. Tasty relish that had overstayed. That was rotting the whole house.
Akiiki Mansour called me 1st. Not to gossip. To build. He said, "Engineer, I want to build on my plot near the crossroads in Rubaga. Come see where." A saxophonist who trusts an engineer with his foundation. Real friend. He wanted a sketch.
After Kimeza at Obligato, by 2100 hours, Akiiki had arrived. He wanted to get the sketch of the house he was to build because his land was sloping. We sat on low chairs, men talking about iron and blocks and wind direction.
At around 2200 hours, Papa Moi arrived. Slow. Big smile. Saxophone case on his lap like a baby. He joined our seating. He listened for two minutes. He looked at my tired eyes, the eyes of a man whose roof was keeping rotten relish.
And the first thing Moi told me, in a joking way, laughing with that gap in his teeth:
"Mwannaa... Envanungi zigaga mangu."
Tasty relish gets spoiled very fast.
Ggwe! It slipped my heart like a knife in warm butter. It did not fall on the ear. It fell in the heart.
I understood that night — you don't keep tasty relish in a closed house, hoping it will become tasty again. No. Once it has started to smell, it will spoil the whole granary. It will spoil the children. It will spoil the white bedsheets.
That proverb saved my young family.
That night I made a decision. I removed the roof sheets from the house which was keeping Enva'nungi. I let rain enter. I let wind enter. I let thunder wash the walls. I let that marriage that had become Bukumunhe leave with the wind.
You did not preach, Moi. You blew a proverb the way you blow a saxophone — short breath, long meaning.
Ok, Moi, goodnight forever, but your saxophone is moving on.
Because of the Middle East culture, you have not gone with your saxophone as Akiiki Mansour went with his. Akiiki went with his brass inside his chest. You left yours here at MMJ Cottages, Bunjako. Brass facing the lake. So when the night wind from Lake Victoria passes, it still passes through your mouthpiece. It still plays.
And when it plays, it joins the world ancestors:
Moi of Kampala joins John Coltrane in New York, who took the Lake and turned it into A Love Supreme, who blew until God Himself said, "I hear you, John."
Yoke with Charlie Parker, Bird, who flew too close to the Lake, burned his wings, but before falling taught every bird after him how to sing in flight.
Papa Moi, just like Manu Dibango from Cameroon, Soul Makossa, who took the African Lake to America and told them, this is how we sip.
Like Grover Washington Jr., who made saxophone whisper like a woman at 2am, like Enva'nungi that has just been cooked.
Just like Kenny G, who proved that even the softest sip from the shore can make a million women close their eyes.
Like Stan Getz, who took Brazilian beach Lake and made bossa nova.
Isaiah Katumwa, our own Ugandan, who kept brass alive when everyone wanted drums, pick a page from Moi.
But none of them, NONE, blew a proverb that removed a roof to save a young family on Mawanda Road.
Only you, Papa Moi.
Sleep well, Papa.
You are not dead. You are just tuned to a frequency our ears are too noisy to hear.
Joanita Kawalya, jangu wano. Tuvudde wala.
MMJ Cottages will hold your saxophone.
And every time the wind blows, my grandchildren will ask, "Who is blowing?"
And I will say, "That's Papa Moi. He still tells us 'Envanungi zigaga mangu.' "
Tuvudde wala.
Ezziga lyomukulu livaa wala naye mazima wankabiza Papa Moi.
Tunatoka Bali sana.
I cried when Philly Bongole Lutaaya died, I cried when Lucky Dube died, I cried when Princess Diana died, I nearly cried when Kazini, Kiddu died, I cried when Whitney Huston, Louis Vandross died. But you, Moi, I have cried, trembling in pain, wondering at crossroads in hollow thoughts.
Oracle of Kifuuta, Friend of Brass
