The steady hand behind the bewitching voice

Fred Obachi Machoka, the celebrated voice behind Kenya’s enduring love for rhumba. [Courtesy]

Prof Egara Kabaji is right that Fred Obachi Machoka's voice has bewitched Kenya, and possibly beyond. Over the years since his days at the national broadcaster VOK, now KBC, many of us, across all ages, fell in love with rhumba. There was a time when the music was tied to class; if you drove a Mercedes-Benz or a Land Cruiser – not even owned, just drove – you loved rhumba. But our retired general made it a treasured fireside commodity for everyone.

Where I differ is on how it happened. Kabaji describes a deliberate spell. Yet no host, however gifted, can force an audience to adore a show. Talent gets you noticed. It does not keep you standing.

Kabaji likens his shows to the old storyteller by the fireside. Let me extend the image. No fireside storyteller was born one. Someone older sat them down, corrected them, and taught them when to pause, when to joke and when to stop. The microphone is only a bigger fireside, and Machoka, too, had an elder.

His entry into radio was pure luck. In 1975, while still an officer in the General Service Unit (GSU), he entered a Sanyo radio talent competition dubbed "SANYO juu SANYO tops". He won and travelled all the way to Nairobi to collect his prize, a Sanyo radio. Then, a producer from Voice of Kenya (VOK), now KBC, was mesmerised by his unique, deep, natural baritone and invited the young officer to work with him. That voice catapulted him into recognition, and he eventually resigned from the GSU to venture into broadcasting.

But a great voice alone does not make a legend. Unlike several of our fallen celebrities, Uncle Fred had someone who guided him. By Machoka's own account, the late Said Amarika Sonko patiently taught him everything and moulded him into our King of Rhumba, including how to handle the limelight. Fame arrives faster than wisdom, and someone has to bridge the gap. I attribute Machoka's fascinating 50 years in radio, honoured by the Media Council of Kenya, not only to hard work but also to his support system.

Consider what happens without one. Martin Kamotho, a.k.a. Githeri Man, was showered with money, land and other gifts, including the Head of State Commendation from former president Uhuru Kenyatta. Corporates, Safaricom among them, scrambled for him as a brand ambassador. Yet nobody was there to guide him, and all that attention simply greased his slip.

By his own admission, the world proved cruel. Fame and wealth lured him into alcoholism, which is devastating enough on its own. He has said those who "sponsored" him should have noticed his existing drinking problem. Rehabilitation was publicised, perhaps too publicly. It did not hold. Then came the photograph of him blacked out on a trolley, which angered thousands online.

It was easy to condemn him. Many wished they had received even a whiff of his opportunity, and called him ungrateful and wasteful. But the truth is, he was just a man handed a national stage, with no one to show him where the right steps were. As predicted, his fame faded as swiftly as it had come and he was forced to withdraw from the public eye. Today he leads a quiet, modest life in Kayole, occasionally appealing for public support.

Machoka, by contrast, seized his moment and rebuilt his life around his fame. Radio technology and audiences have changed; the internet has arrived, yet he remains relevant. He has probably secured a comfortable retirement, with a ranch in Kajiado County run by his son Victor. All because someone held his hand.

This matters more today than it did in 1975. Social media can make a stranger famous by lunchtime, with corporates, politicians and well-wishers arriving by evening. Kenya is good at producing sudden stars. We are poor at producing Sonkos: patient elders who teach a newcomer to handle money, praise and envy before the cameras leave.

Kabaji says artists rule by occupying the imagination of their audience. True. But that is a crowded, unforgiving space; few stay there for half a century without someone who taught them how to stand. Happy belated birthday, Uncle Fred.