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Ibrahim Alfa: Buddhist Jailbird, Former Techno Star and Son of an African Dictator's Sidekick (Part 2)

Part 2 of this fascinating conversation with the once-lost 90s techno star.

In Part 2 of Joe Muggs's interview with long-lost techno producer Ibrahim Alfa, they continue the story of his coming back to the UK, and how his life went onto take several, sharp turns. You can read Part 1 here.

So, Ibi, what happened when you went back to England?

Ibrahim Alfa: At this point, I felt like I had to do something for myself, so I enrolled in a film degree. I wouldn't say I had fallen out of love with music, but so much had happened and so much was being said about me due to shit that I'd let slide, and all while my relationship was falling apart. A load of angry producers seemed to think that I'd withheld royalties from them, despite every release on the labels losing all kinds of money.

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I'd be, "C'mon dude, I gave you a place to sleep when you were homeless, you've lived with me for months, you've seen that I don't make money beyond what I can support my family with - do you honestly think that's the way I do things?" This was only a few people, though. Most of the artists were really, really cool, right up to today, when they were happy to be a part of my new label without even blinking, despite not having heard from me for years. The people who were deeply unpleasant or angry people, though, that it stung me. It pushed me away more and more.

Angry people working in techno? You're breaking all my illusions, Ibi.

Ibrahim Alfa: Ha, yeah. There are a lot of maladjusted people in that world. I reached this point where I just felt psychologically I was best off out of it. So, I'm doing this film degree - I've broken from the techno world which I'd basically been in since I was 17, existing on my student loan and actually having an okay time – and living round here in Peckham, as it happens. When you come to London and you're on your own it can be pretty daunting, but day-to-day survival meant that I didn't really process that it was overwhelming me. All I thought about was, "How am I going to get a few quid to go and see my daughter?", and "Oh, she needs this thing." Through this and that, I knew a few people who were essentially career criminals, and in gradual steps I fell into selling drugs.

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Are these people you'd met through raving and clubs?

Ibrahim Alfa: I had a fairly extended "anti-social network." I knew a lot of criminals. I think I'd met some of these guys when they'd moved to Brighton for a couple of summers, to make money then move back. Then the last place you need to see them, there they are: "Oh hello mate, what you up to?" Catch up, go and have a cup of tea, and before you know it, I'm sitting and answering the phone for them, getting a bit of money, then it's getting your own line….

After a while, it's a job like any other. The stakes are a lot higher and it's immoral, above anything else – but then, I glossed over that with the classic "Well, I'm not standing outside school gates selling, I'm not pushing this on anyone, the people this goes to really want it", and so on. I was naïve to the whole evil of profiteering from people with addictions. To me, drugs were about raving and partying. They weren't about the utter, utter misery it causes.

But it was a routine, and this went on for years. It got to a point where I almost forgot that I ever was a record producer. If I did tell anyone about it, they'd think I was winding them up, or they just wouldn't be interested. I had a whole new life where nobody had any clue about music, and in a way I felt really comfortable with it. If people thought I was okay, if I became friends with people, it wasn't because they were trying to squeeze a record deal out of me, and that felt good. It was cathartic in a strange way, and after a while you realise that all your insecurities have been masked by going out raving all the time, or "Oh, I've got to get to the airport". You just don't really think about the emotional toll it might be taking, about the reality of it. It's not a healthy existence. Maybe it's different now that everyone's got a Macbook and everyone's producing, but it was pretty lonely…

Ibrahim Alfa Live PA@Neue Heimat Prag 02.09.2000 A by _L▄L_Mülli_L▄L_ on Mixcloud

Ibrahim Alfa Live PA@Neue Heimat Prag 02.09.2000 B by _L▄L_Mülli_L▄L_ on Mixcloud

Well, there's social media too, now. Where DJs would once be sitting alone for hours with a comedown, on the way to the next gig, now you see them chatting away on Twitter and Facebook.

Ibrahim Alfa: That's a very good point, mate. One of the things that would drive me mad – literally drive me mad – would be sitting in a hotel room at the weekend on my own. For the first few years, of course, it's amazing. You're like, "Oh yeah, this must be what it was like for Led Zeppelin eh? There's a mini-bar! Woah!" Then a couple of years later, it's more like, "I wouldn't mind being at home watching Coronation Street, you know." It would have been a lot easier if I'd been able to chat to someone at times like that, even if it was just on Twitter, instead of fretting about whether to make a mobile call because they were ridiculous back then. 

I was scraping by for a bit, treating it as a job, and after a while I had quite a firm. You just get to a place where everyone you know is pretty lawless. Not necessarily in a way that would impact anyone on the street, not flash, not out to intimidate anyone – strangely enough, a lot of them were a lot more sober than anyone else I knew, because their reality was coming from a very austere upbringing and this was their only way to push through the very low glass ceiling that exists for a lot of people.

If you come from so-and-so estate, the ambitions that you're instilled with are so much lower than if you're born in Hove or wherever, and the only people showing you a different way are presenting you with this route where you have to be ruthless and focused. You have to pick yourself up from having lost in the geographical lottery of life. Money was the objective, not gaudy displays of wealth. 

Before I knew it I'd been doing it for a good few years, and after a while you literally let yourself forget that it's criminal. Once in a while your friends might be going to jail, for quite long spells, but the cliché is true – you see it as an occupational hazard. And you're in a bubble: if you run a line, there's no days off, there's no sick pay and the hours are ridiculous. I didn't get on with the boss, but he seemed to recognise that I was a steady worker ad so after a couple of years I was in charge of quite a lot. The more I was, the more I was just locked into the pattern of doing it and forgetting the outside world. I had plenty of out-goings just to keep afloat, plus paying for my child's upkeep. I wasn't broke, but it was a treadmill like any other.

OK, so you said you managed to blinker yourself to the effects this line of work was having on people further down the line – but what about the immediate risk of violence? Was it not daunting?

Ibrahim Alfa: It got to the point where the police weren't even a concern. My two issues were first my boss - who was an old guy, and the most miserable, grumpy man you can imagine, which meant walking on eggshells all the time – and secondly, other firms. We had one guy we knew who would actually phone us up from prison making all kinds of threats, which is maybe an illustration of what a weird bubble of reality it is - that this could even happen, let alone be treated as normal. I did my best to insulate myself from all this as best as possible, as did we all. Most of the guys were as old as me or older, and most of us had families too. 

These guys had been in the biz for a good long while, and some of their kids were too; but it's not like some intense crime family thing like in the movies – I most folk are just looking to make their money and keep off the radar. But yeah, on road – in answer to the question of was I scared or daunted – no, I wasn't. I don't know why, but I wasn't. On those few times I was confronted with it I just stood my ground and did my thing. And if I'm honest I was numb to it, too: a hell of a lot of customers, co-defendants, "colleagues", acquaintances etc. have passed away early, to the point where I stopped counting after a while. I've been out of that life for years now but even this year 4 people that I cared about have died violently, there are no happy endings in that world violence you grow truly grow numb to it.

So, for the second time in the conversation, the question arises: what went wrong?

Ibrahim Alfa: One night, I was walking home. I got to the end of my road – I was sharing a flat with a couple of guys who were all in on it as well – and it looked like the set of CSI. My road was a really sleepy little corner of west London, and you could see all the neighbours standing around all thinking "heh heh – finally!" I knew they hated us, and they looked so happy, watching people getting bundled into the back of the vans. I just thought, "Oh my god, just keep walking Ibi", and luckily I avoided getting caught then. You're living pretty much a cash existence. There's nothing to tie you to anything. For a couple of years I hadn't even used a bank. All my phones were burners; no contracts, no real record at all of my existence – just cash.

I think deep down I knew it was inevitable from that point, though. There's an irony here: I actually bought a Macbook, and thought to myself, "just have another go at doing some music." This is a bit over four years ago, and maybe – maybe – that was me realising that I needed to move on. But I didn't [move on]; what I did was decide to sign on, because Christmas was coming and all my mates were going, "Oh you should do it, you're dumb if you don't, it's free money for a couple of extra pressies!" 

So I organised the appointment, and they were really prompt about giving me the day of the appointment. Bizarrely prompt, in fact, and one of my friends said, "Hmmm, that sounds really dodgy, because it usually takes a good while before the appointments come up." I thought, "Nah, it doesn't sound dodgy", but then I thought, "Well, be careful." So I turned up about an hour late, recce'd the Job Centre a bit, then thought it all looks legit, went in and said sorry that I was late. The lady did look a bit bright red faced. I thought at the time this was just annoyance, but she said, "Oh no, no problem, just come back tomorrow!"

When I got back, my friend said, "This sounds really dodgy, Ibi. You've missed an appointment. Normally, that would mean they'd put you off for ages." But I was really blasé. I went back – again, I left it really late, over an hour - and again she went, "oh no, no problem, come back tomorrow." All I could think of was, "Well, Christmas is coming, and this'd be an extra £300 for the Christmas period." It was worth it. I wasn't really doing anything during the day. We'd narrowed things down so we'd work in the morning, 10 til 1, then we'd turn the line back on at 4 or 5 through til midnight. I had the afternoon to just hang out. 

So I went into the Job Centre the next day, and as I went in I saw two really rough looking guys and one really rough looking woman sitting on the seat in there. I smiled at them, thinking a bit arrogantly, "Oh they look a bit rough, probably been signing on for a good while." I sat down, answered a few questions, all very polite: "Are you planning to look for work Mr Alfa?" "Oh yeah yeah yeah", then the woman said "Could you sign that?" So I did, then I looked down again, and realised there was absolutely nothing of any correspondence to starting a Job Centre claim in any way on that bit of paper. "Oh," I thought. "That doesn't seem right..."

I went to get up, I pushed the desk away from me, and as I turned round I suddenly noticed that these three people sat on the seat behind me all had brand new sneakers on - and that was it. The guy yelled "DON'T MOVE! DON'T MOVE!" and I just went "Oh man, I'm not going anywhere, c'mon dude". So I was bundled out the magic side door that any Job Centre has, and that was me. 

So what did they get you for?

Ibrahim Alfa: Well I was wanted for a few things: mainly the shotting, intent to supply, but all sorts of minor charges around it. It was a bit of a mess. When you're living cash-only, off the record, they can't find you, so they just chalk things up under your name. When the police showed me the evidence, I couldn't believe it – they'd been through every possible record of my existence, and pieced things together. I was just like, "Wow you've got a lot of information on me." And they went, "Well, yes, we have been trying to get hold of you for quite a while." They were actually really nice. I remember one calling me "civil": "You're a very civil young criminal, Mr Alfa!"

So yeah, that was me, off to various jails for a couple of years. To be honest, it was OK. I was massively institutionalised anyway – I started boarding when I was 6, after all. It's another of those massive clichés that are actually true: that if you've been to public school, going to prison is not a massive jump. In fact, there was less of a foreboding feeling of dread in jail. Definitely, people were more jovial. In school there was always the air of depression. 

You must've been relieved it was only a couple of years - it could've been worse, right?

Ibrahim Alfa: Well, that's what I served, I was sentenced to five, and served two and a half all together. But, I was lucky. This guy, who's now a very dear friend of mine, was the district judge for West London… He must've seen some hope for me, because he moved heaven and earth to get me a smaller sentence. It was really, really strange actually. The day I was supposed to be sentenced, I was on remand, he was due to be sentencing me but wasn't there – now I didn't know this, but he was having a triple bypass surgery.

He actually wrote to me in jail saying, "I'm really sorry I couldn't sentence you, you probably got a tougher deal because I was having this surgery." I just thought "Oh for fuck's sake mate, you've just had a triple bypass, I think I'll let that one go, don't worry." But he must've had some influence, I think. He's now retired and settled in Israel, where he'd been hoping to move for years. We're still in touch, and I'm really happy that he's healthy and settled. I'm fairly certain that he saved my life, actually. He reminded me that there are better things to do in life than organising dodgy shit and selling drugs. 

You know, when you're doing the business, it's not like you ever think "Oh yeah, this is great, I really want to be doing this." It's just that everyone's locked into it. You're facilitating something for them, they're facilitating something for you, you're all cogs in a machine just like any other business. You can't just walk out because it disrupts everything around you, and you're certainly not likely to get a P45; you're more likely to get something a little bit more severe if you just dust off one day.

Did your ex know about all this?

Ibrahim Alfa: Oh, I'm pretty sure that she had an inkling, but I don't think she knew until more recently that it was that serious. I think she knew I was occasionally getting into trouble, but I never said anything – because I didn't want my daughter to know too much about it mostly – and she never asked. But when I wrote to them from jail saying "I've been captured and the game's up", she had to acknowledge something was up, but even then I don't think she realised how serious it was, either. Then when I'd been transferred to the next jail and been in the system a while, they started to twig. 

I got out of jail eventually, and then was straight back in for breaching some tiny bail condition. The thing is, you get 4 years, you serve 2, and people think that's it, you're free then – but for the next 2 years after that you're out in the community, if you so much as scratch your arse the wrong way, you're back in jail really rapidly. You have a lot of commitments you have to adhere to, plus of course the temptation of the road calling constantly.

You're broke because you're in jail, your probation officer can be really good or a complete tyrant but they have total power over you, and if they do decide that some minuscule misdemeanour is enough to send you back, you can quite often be there for a number of months before anyone will listen to the fact that you didn't really do anything wrong. Then they'll suddenly go, "Oh fine, yes, you were just in the wrong place at the wrong time, no problem, you're free to go," but you've still been back in jail for another 3 months and you're back at square one again.

But eventually, I got home properly, and the council and the probation service said to me, "Well you seem to be serious about making a go of it, so maybe you can start making some speeches to young people, and mentoring them," so I did that. With the very last bit of money I'd saved while I was in jail, I bought a really cheap, ancient Macbook, and started knocking out the dirges again.

Was there a specific point where you made a decision that you were walking away from your previous life?

Ibrahim Alfa: It was weird. I was always amoral enough to think that quaffing loads of drugs myself was fine, but I never thought at any point, "Wow, I really want to be a career criminal." It was just one of those things that end up happening because you're not paying enough attention, and deluding yourself that everything's fine. I do think that if I didn't have so many financial burdens at the time, it's very unlikely I would've gone down that path for those years. I'd have been OK to say "I don't have any money at the moment, but that's OK, we'll go to the park instead of the cinema", or whatever. 

But, then I got to jail, and at that point I had time to think for the first time in I don't know how long. You'd see some people – and it'd always be the biggest guy, or the one who looked like the biggest clichéd villain – where the moment the reception door shut, they'd be [cowers, whimpers] "Woooooah, what's going to happen?" One of my cell-mates, he actually had his prison number tattooed on his neck, but he never stopped crying and wittering on about what was going to happen with this or that. I just thought, "For god's sake man, you might stop and add up a few things before you cry about your situation".

What did you make of your own situation, by then?

Ibrahim Alfa: It gave me a chance to cauterise quite a few things that were happening in my life. Rather than being outside and try to disengage from the firm, or gang, or whatever you want to call it - which is pretty much impossible when you're existing on road – you're living with them, working with them, you're always seeing them, you can't walk away. Something else had happened that made it easier. 

At the point I went to jail, there had just been a massive problem with supply in what we were selling. The police were all jolly and would tell me, "Oh yes, that's because we've enforced so much at the ports", which obviously isn't totally true, but something had happened, and the price went from £500 an ounce, to double that or triple that – and really fast. It stopped even being a viable way of making money for a little while, and a lot of my friends dropped out of the business back to just doing nothing. Quite a few of them are now builders or decorators, though, to their credit. So that was a way out for quite a few people, myself included in a way. But the time to myself in prison gave me a lot of time to think over things, and to get back into my little faith.

Which is?

Ibrahim Alfa: My faith? Well, I'm a devout Buddhist. It was there before, but I guess it was more a pathetic fashion statement, I'd have to admit – I mean, even now I still don't follow all the guidelines one should, I'm really not one for ritual. But I think that's OK if one's trying to do one's best; accepting as being a human you are naturally never going to be even close to perfect, not wasting time with guilt and self recriminations, just trying to work on yourself and learn from your mistakes. I don't want to go into it too much, I'm not an evangelist and there's a different path for everyone, but the books that helped me were called Hagakure and The Book of Five Rings. They are quite abstract, but very much about trying to eliminate one's ego and live self sufficiently. Of course, it's an impossible task, but striving towards that and working on your character everyday is what I try and do.

That chance to think in jail – like having a lot of time to think – is what people hate more than anything. It's not so much the loss of freedom that makes you suffer, but the loss of distraction: you have plenty of long, long nights to look deep into your character, and its not always very pleasant. It wasn't pleasant for me, but I did find a peace I'd never felt before. They are quite abstract but very much about trying to eliminate one's ego and live self-sufficiently; of course its an impossible task but striving towards that and working on your character everyday is what I try and do.

I finally got released from Pentonville. I'd been dicked about really badly because the computer had got my release date wrong, and all the day I was supposed to be released they were going "No, no, you're winding us up Alfa, shut up, it's not today," but of course when you're inside you know to the day when you're due out. Then eventually they spotted the error about 9.30PM, flung open the cell door and went "Wow, you weren't bullshitting were you Alfa? It's your lucky day, here you go, get your stuff and fuck off!" But because it was so late, my wallet and keys were locked up somewhere else, and I ended up just standing outside Pentonville in the late evening wondering what the fuck I was going to do. 

What did you do? Did you have somewhere to stay?

Ibrahim Alfa: Thankfully, I'd kept my flat on, and even though my stashed away money had run out, it was still there. I was able to get a key, and though it was massively dusty it was as I'd left it. I got in, and just thought, "You know what, that last £100 you've got, get a shit computer and see what's happening with the music." When I was inside, I'd get the Wire mag sent in. I hadn't had anything to do with electronica for so long, but my interest was growing again and I would read it just to try and get a grip on what was happening. And you could almost hear what the music was by what those guys had written! Really, when I finally heard the tracks, it would quite often be "Wow, that's kind of how I imagined it would sound."

I got the computer, put Renoise on it, and tried to build something new. I wanted to understand footwork, and grime and all these things that I'd only imagined inside. I didn't see any music friends the whole time I'd been... working. I did get in touch with Toby Smith [aka Tobias Schmidt] as soon as I got out, and we talk often, but all my European techno friends thought I'd died or something. It made me quite emotional. I'd had the same Hotmail account for years and years, probably since about 1999 – and I'd log in but not really look at it, just so it stayed live. Every so often I'll flick through the thousands of unopened emails and there'll be one from 2007 or something saying "Ibi, Ibi, where the fuck are you, Alfa?" But people were half used to it – one of my really good friends said I used to vanish all the time, then I just vanished for a really long time.

But yes, I had help. I had my friend the judge, who'd made clear he'd do anything to help me avoid slipping back into involvement with drugs. I had a few old faces that came out of the woodwork like David – Move D – who would always look after me; he'd always take me out for a weekend, show me a good time, then quietly slip a £20 or a bag of weed or something into my pocket when I wasn't looking at the end. But really, from the moment I got home, it wasn't a question for me that I was going to stay out of it. I made a promise to my daughter, who was 16, 17 by this point, that she was never going to have to deal with her dad going back to jail. It would be a second strike if I did, and it wouldn't be 2 years this time. 

So, I have a hell of a lot less money now, but I do have my freedom and I'm really, really happy. A whole set of odd things happened in conjunction with me "hanging up my cape" (as I used to say) to the kids I mentored, since I stopped being a super-villain. My long lost family found me, and I found them, thanks to the joys of social media. My brother, who I hadn't seen since I was 5 years old, my sisters who I hadn't even met before – one sister it turned out was living not a mile away from me, and now we are unbelievably close and speak daily. 

These being your dad's other kids?

Ibrahim Alfa: Mmm, yes. My sister and I are almost inseparably close now. She's absolutely awesome. My daughter really gets on with her, too. It's really nice for my daughter to have someone else to connect her to her family. She's always known her mother's parents but my family were a real mystery, so it's nice that she can put faces to them and feel part of something. 

And, last year, I met one of my other sisters' mothers. She was like the matriarch of our extended family, she explained to me a lot about my childhood that had been eating at me somewhere inside me, and it felt literally like a cloud was evaporating above my head. Sadly she just passed away about a month ago, which obviously was pretty bad, but she met my daughter and spent some time with her, and it was great that that had happened and she was able to do that. She said a few things that really put me at peace with so much about my youth – I mean, she had more reason to resent my existence than anybody, but she said that if she'd known half the things that were going on when I was young, they'd have rushed to pick me up. 

Well.... what now?

Ibrahim Alfa: Well, here I am. I'm free from having to be locked into techno, but I can go out to Europe and play it when people ask me and the gig is right; for all those people hidden in those little pockets around the place, who have never stopped loving it. I've got great people like Move D, Tony Thorpe and and my old Chichester mate Gregg (who now does amazing studio mastering) encouraging me, and I feel like, with my knackered old computer and minimal software, that I may just be writing the electronic music that is what Ibi as a kid would really have wanted to do, and with no fear about how people will receive it. I'm old enough and ugly enough to want to just do it with no more drama. I can just turn on my computer and do what the fuck I like without worrying about what it is, or where it fits. That's a pretty good place to be.

Ibrahim Alfa runs a record label called Oyabun Audio. You can check out releases here, and you can follow him on Soundcloud hereJoe Muggs on Twitter here: @joemuggs