Butterfly on the sidelines…Something on my mind to my friend Osama Piccolo in heavens

Abdul Latif Mojtaba

Holding it with both his brown hands as if that small instrument was trying to escape from him while he continued to flog and smile. It seems that the matter of this instrument is more complicated than we imagine. Rather, we did not realize the nature of that being whose voice hovers like a butterfly in the margins of the melodies and looks like the phoenix, that mythical bird, but this time he flies in the vast and expansive skies of conscience with the wings of Osama Babiker’s fingertips sometimes he seems like an ancient Indian magician who is knowledgeable about the insides of things, without revealing the secret of his instrument with anything other than those smiles and greetings spread across the stage right and left, inflaming the enthusiasm of those wandering in the space of sweetness, serenity, and the beauty of those souls from which the melodies flow like a garden with flowers collected for its fragrance. Thoughts of creative people from words, melody and charming fingers.
That (solo) to which the picklo instrument chanted was nothing but a shout in the whisper of longing that Osama Piccolo’s fingertips rang out and the hidden secrets of magic were revealed in it, and in those moments no one could distinguish whether the picklo was his own instrument – and it radiated a glow from his hands or was he the same woman, so the matter became confusing and it was difficult to distinguish between them, until she became his name, lineage, and son-in-law, replacing his father’s name? What is the secret of this strange identification? Hey Piccolo!
Osama Babakir Piccolo immortalized his biography and wrote it with his generous, noble fingertips. He wrote a line for us through (Something in the Mind), that sweet album that forms a package of emotional tracks. We did not realize at the time that they were his commandments to the homeland and love. Indeed, they are. Now we have learned the lesson, Piccolo. When we contemplated that thing that came to your mind and conveyed it to us during your recitals, and we understood what you meant, after our forced absence from all of our homes, and we tasted the taste of that piece that bore the title: “A Tour in the Old Neighborhood.” How can we pass by the morning of Eid, when the homes and mosques are devoid of their people and buildings, and the sounds of takbir and cheers on the morning of Eid and how can we cheer for the life of the homeland without singing (Long live, O Sudanese, O Sudanese, in your highness and glory) How, O Piccolo, when you poured from your fingertips a fragrance in this immortal melody, let us sing with you while you are absent (The Handsome Hearted Rado), that melody by Ahmed Al-Mustafa, which was not just a passing melody, but rather a shadow and will continue to be an incense fragrant in the halls of our consciences filled with love and beauty.
Even that song that I called my love for the Emirates was nothing but a tip of the scale to assess the distortion and confirm that peoples’ relations are always supreme.
Now I realize, great musician, that every moment you lived between us was nothing but a profound lesson that you presented in humility and love.
You will remain in the mind something dear, soaring in the skies of conscience and hearts full of beauty, with your bouncing awareness and dewy mind. You will remain a source of familiarity and affection in your absence, present in all scenes.
May God have mercy on you and make you dwell in His spacious gardens with the righteous.