A Flight to Remember:

My Journey with Roberta Flack

March 2005. A crisp evening at JFK International Airport, the golden glow of terminal lights reflecting off polished floors, the hushed anticipation of a long-haul journey ahead. I was bound for Johannesburg, cradled in the rarefied luxury of Business Class, where plush seats and whispered service softened the edges of time. But what I hadn’t anticipated—what no frequent flyer miles or seat upgrades could have prepared me for—was the singular honor of sharing airspace with the one, the only, Ms. Roberta Flack.

I had always considered myself composed, poised, a picture of cool collectedness. And yet, as I settled into my seat, casting casual yet incredulous glances across the aisle, my internal world unraveled in a spectacular, silent explosion of fan-induced hysteria. Roberta Flack. The voice that had cradled my emotions, underscored love stories, and transformed moments into melodies. She was right there, reclining in her seat, completely at ease, while I sat utterly undone by the sheer presence of greatness.

The meal service came and went—a parade of delicate courses, silverware clinking softly in the dimly lit cabin. I managed to feign nonchalance, engaging in polite conversation with the flight attendant, nodding at the right times, pretending that my heart wasn’t thundering at supersonic speeds. But fate, ever the whimsical orchestrator, had more in store.

As trays were cleared and the hum of the aircraft settled into a soothing lull, she spoke first.

A light conversation—travel plans, music, the gentle cadence of connection. She was on her way to Cape Town for the Jazz Festival, and I, seizing the moment with all the grace I could muster, steered the conversation toward the very fabric of her legacy: her music.

When I confessed my love for People on a String and Making Love, her eyes lit up with delight.

"You know those?" she asked, a trace of pleasant surprise in her voice.

I nodded, emboldened by the warmth in her gaze. And why stop there? I added Oasis to the mix, praising its tribute to Madiba, the great Nelson Mandela.

A thoughtful pause. Then, a slow, approving smile.

I had struck a chord.

And so, with the steady hum of the engines and the boundless African sky waiting for us, I asked her, "If someone were to ask you your thoughts on the African continent, what would you say?"

She leaned back, eyes drifting momentarily as if gathering the right words from a well of deep, personal reverence.

At that moment, I held in my hands a copy of Andy Andrews’ The Traveler’s Gift, a book of wisdom and introspection.

"Give me your book," she said, extending her hand and unfolding the tray table in front of her.

With steady, deliberate strokes, she inscribed a message that would become a keepsake of immeasurable worth:

"Dearest Kenneth, What would the human race do without the Beauty and Mystery of Africa? I hope we never have to find out. Roberta Flack 03/05"

There are moments in life that tether themselves to our souls, refusing to fade, refusing to become mere memories. This was one of them.

I have carried that book with me through the years, through the continents, through the echoes of her voice that have never once dimmed in my heart. I have seen her at every possible performance since that fateful flight, watching, listening, cherishing the artistry of a woman who gave the world not just music, but meaning.

And now, as I sit in the quiet sorrow of her passing, I realize there are no words to truly contain the depth of loss.

Rest, Mama. Rest. Gone you are. Forgotten you will never be.