I stand here, in the quiet, and it’s not the comfortable hum of a crowd anticipating the drop. It’s not the warm crackle of vinyl about to deliver its gospel. No, this silence is a void, a gnawing echo where the rhythm of my life used to pulse. For a DJ, not being able to spin is not merely an inconvenience; it is a torture of the soul, a separation from the very essence of who I am.
The universe has thrown a temporary curveball, and I am currently grounded. They say music fills the airwaves. Drop after drop, new tracks emerge, a constant, tantalizing stream. And I am here, on the sidelines, my hands empty, my spirit aching. It’s like watching a feast from behind a pane of glass, smelling the aromas, hearing the laughter, but forbidden from partaking. My turntables, my mic, the sacred tools of my craft—they are absent. And with them, it feels as though my very freedom has been stripped away.
Trapped in a Shell: The Mixtress Without Her Mix
I feel like a fiend. The one thing that calms my nerves and makes my soul smile has been taken away. This isn’t a physical wound, but a mental anguish that runs deeper than any cut. I feel trapped in a shell of myself, observing life unfold while a vital part of me lies dormant.
As Mixtress Africa Allah, my very name speaks of ancient rhythms, of ancestral beats that flow through my veins—from the rapid-fire energy of Soca that drives the carnival to the intricate flows and profound storytelling of Hip-Hop. To be denied the act of mixing, of curating that journey, feels like a betrayal of that sacred calling. It’s like a priestess without her altar, a warrior without her shield. The music is toying with me, each new track a reminder of the energy I long to unleash.
The Beat Within: Finding Rhythm in the Exile
But even in this exile, the rhythm persists. It beats within me, a stubborn, resilient drum. I may not have the decks before me, but my ears are still sharp, my mind still mixes. I find myself crate digging in the digital realm, building phantom playlists, curating imaginary sets. I close my eyes and practice the “mix in my mind,” hearing the perfect blend, feeling the energy shift from one track to the next. It’s a painful but necessary exercise, a way to keep the muscle memory of my soul alive.
This silence, while deafening, is also forcing a new kind of preparation. It’s a time for research and study, for diving deeper into the history of the grooves that shaped us, for dissecting the masters, learning new techniques even without the physical practice. I am planning my triumphant return, envisioning the most incredible sets, the most powerful drops, the most unifying journeys for when I finally stand before the crowd again.
This is not the end of the Mixtress. This is merely a recalibration. A painful, agonizing recalibration, yes, but one that will ultimately forge a stronger, more hungry, more spiritually attuned artist. The silence is deafening, but soon, my roar will shake the foundations.
Until then, I breathe. I listen. I plan. And I remind myself that the music, like the soul, cannot truly be caged. It merely waits for its moment to explode.
Have you ever felt incomplete? Have you ever been separated from the one thing that gives your life meaning and makes your soul smile? Share your story in the comments below.
