“Uncle,” Etim asked, “what do you call that mix?”
That was the second sign.
His nephew, little Etim, watched from behind the speaker stack, wide-eyed. “Uncle, the laptop is dead.” calabar highlife dj mix
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. “Uncle,” Etim asked, “what do you call that mix
“We don’t need a laptop,” Uncle Ben grumbled, pulling a dusty, silver flight case from under the table. Inside, nestled like a holy relic, were two CDJ-1000s and a battered mixer. “We need soul.” The old people wept
Uncle Ben ignored her. He slid the first CD into the deck. It was a burnt disc, labelled in faded marker: CALABAR HIGH LIFE – THE ROYAL MIX ‘04 .