In my delicate years as an infant decades ago, even while I wasn’t entirely conscious of all the happenings in my physical environment at home, there were two outstanding elements that regularly gratified my senses. First was the distinct whiff of boiled yams in the air at breakfast and, second, was the enveloping sound of this particularly curious playlist that rocked the home radio, plus everything and everyone who was within listening distance.
The frequency of playback of these songs was so high, it seemed like listening to this stuff was some kind of daily ritual in this family of mine. To the playlists, simply add a kink in the aroma, from yam to the now overpowering smell of latex balloons coupled with that strong supplanting scent of a freshly-chopped green tree—that I later came to know was a Christmas tree—and you quickly sensed that this must be the season that the famous young virgin girl called Mary gave birth to that special child whose name is Jesus! Without doubt, everything sounds and smells like Christmas!
As I grew a little older and my brain developed better understanding of things, I generally began to appreciate the beauty that music added to life. But I especially came to learn that the guy that was not only responsible for adding color to the Christmas season and giving it character; but had also been the subject of our obsessive listening ritual, was a man called Philly Lutaaya. For many years at breakfast, Philly’s songs punctuated every sip of tea and escorted each bite of yam to it’s final resting place in our bellies.
And then came a twist! Having spent his heydays working at the Central bank in Kampala, my old man travelled the world quite a bit. Returning from his work trips abroad, he often ferried tonnes of memorabilia and souvenirs from the foreign cultures and people that he interfaced with. This one time, though, he travelled to Pakistan and literally returned with a Fuso-truckload of Pakistani music tapes! Unbelievable! Fine, the music sounded good, but we had absolutely no clue what these fellas sang about. The songs were all in Hindu, or is it Pakistanian? Or whatever language it is they speak in that part of the world.
This development actually made me second-guess our ancestry. “What if we’re in fact of Asian descent and the old man had returned with all these gifts from our relatives that side!” I wondered. It was either that, or he had just concluded a mega deal to buy off some Pakistani superstar’s entire music catalogue! From then on, the only tunes that ever had the permission to interrupt Philly Lutaaya’s playlists at home were the Pakistanis! And trust kids to catch and master the lyrics of songs whose language they don’t even know! We sang along so perfectly like we had been the writers.
At the height of what was Philly’s career is when I had been delivered into this world. For the sake of those that were born last week or aren’t from around here, Philly Bongoley Lutaaya was a legendary Ugandan musician whose life was well lived in the better part of the past half-century. Better part, cos despite the prevailing political turmoil back home and the absence of the World Wide Web, he still made creations that left a lasting impression on the Ugandan scene.
The composers that originated from the past generation had a quality of music whose lyrical content was such a treasure trove of information and wisdom to guide, uplift and edify. To that, they often added sensational instrumentation textures and a delivery that appeared effortless yet, in overall summation, carried a blanketing atmosphere rich enough to engulf the listener; taking them to a place of contemplative meditation and euphoric ecstasy. All this without the luxury of the high-end facilities and technologies available today. Little wonder that decades later, audiences near and far, young and old, still get smitten with the late Lutaaya’s style of artistry. If his gripping tunes do not at the very least get you tapping your finger, wiggling your foot, or nodding to the rhythm of his beats, then we might need to schedule you for a special visit to an ENT doctor! He’ll be unclogging those ears of yours!
Back then, it was quite difficult to escape Lutaaya’s music. Our neighbor across the fence in Kanyanya, Kampala, where we lived, had this massive radio that he stationed on his verandah nearly every afternoon. Despite his Philly-playlist being relatively smaller than ours, he always blasted away without fear or favor, for the whole village to hear. The songs Sente and Tugende e Kampala seemed his favorite cos, boy, did he squeeze the juice out of them! In hindsight, it’s easy to see why Philly’s music may have been a favorite of theirs.
Word on the grapevine had it that this family had been terribly struck by the AIDS scourge. Whether or not there was any vein of truth in that is a whole other matter. However, the events on ground painted a gruesome picture that in a way corroborated these hair-raising tales. Every couple of months, these people were losing a loved one! It was so scary but also plain to see that something was horribly wrong in our neighbor’s home!
In those days, Philly Lutaaya had sidelined his stardom and became the most prominent personality to have stepped up to give a human face to the monster that was obliterating many families in Uganda, having been infirmed by the disease, himself. In his last days, as it were, the visibly frail and feeble Lutaaya took to studio and numerous platforms to champion the fight against AIDS: admonishing, comforting and giving hope through his music. That’s a real mark of character!
That said, rumor has been swirling around that there’s a new legend in town—Eddy Kenzo! I must say congratulations to him on scooping that Grammy nomination.
But alas! It seems like the Ugandan musicians of this era are always thinking of new ways to mortify us, and ever doing their best to make a stink out of every decent achievement! A Grammy nomination, a couple of hundred-thousand YouTube views and an episode of pompous self-assertion for the whole nation to see, are not exactly the material that makes legends. If anything, his rendition of Philly’s Born in Africa—the only video of Kenzo’s I’ve watched—must’ve rattled Lutaaya’s dry bones! Unless you’re a poet, a comedian or you represent a creative skill that only involves talking: if you’re a singer, you can’t just talk your way into legend status!
A few days ago I sat down to have a brief chat with a famous Ugandan songstress. I desired to pick her mind on Kenzo’s recent comments. With the knowledge that I was preparing a story, she obviously only allowed to share her views on condition of anonymity. Her very first statement pretty much summed up everything.
“We’re all different and shouldn’t compare ourselves one with another.” She remarked with a brooding expression on her face. She went on to narrate her personal journey in her early days—which I would rather not repeat here—but at the end of it all said that every generation has what will distinguish it: different facilities and ways to reach and appeal to audiences.
If the idea of this guy’s gimmickry was to cast himself into a social media frenzy so as to gather traction on the trends, maybe it worked. From the looks of it, however, he may have actually fallen foul of many of his ardent fans. Not only did his antics backfire; he’s probably feeling some fire in his backside as well. In all, Philly Lutaaya posthumously summarizes Kenzo’s problem in the song Silimba which, in translation, is to say ‘I’m not bluffing’. The highlight for me is where Philly cautions the listener against exalting themselves. The long and short of it is that if you bear witness of yourself, your testimony is invalid. This exactly is what Kenzo did by suggesting he’s greater than Philly. How about you focus on doing your music and let the audiences decide what you are! As it stands, the nearest Kenzo is to anything legend is just about the same distance between Earth and Mars. He’s a legendary opportunist at best!
In view of this gross display of shallowness and absence of any paragons of virtue amongst some of our stars—a symptom that often adds to the Ugandan music industry’s desolation—Philly Lutaaya’s genius, his virtuous legacy and it’s impact on the Ugandan scene is sure to last another generation, with only a few or even none coming anywhere close to matching his musical prowess.
