For forty-five minutes, Calabar Highlife reigned. The old people wept. The young people learned a new way to move. The girl with the pink braids found herself slow-dancing with the old man in the wheelchair, his shaky hand on her shoulder, a toothless grin on his face.
He was the last of the old-guard DJs in Calabar, a city that danced to the rhythm of two worlds: the frantic pulse of modern Afropop and the golden, swaying soul of Highlife. Tonight, at the annual Mary Slessor Heritage Jazz & Groove Fest , he’d been given the twilight slot—the sacred hour between sunset and the first lantern’s glow. The slot for memory. calabar highlife dj mix
“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. For forty-five minutes, Calabar Highlife reigned
Uncle Ben twisted the EQ, cutting the bass, letting the high-hat sizzle. He brought in the second deck. Victor Olaiya’s “Omopupa” merged with the first track, the percussion locking in a conversation that hadn’t been heard in twenty years. The bassline was a lazy crocodile, sliding through the muddy waters of the Calabar River. The girl with the pink braids found herself
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.
