Mohamed was nine when he first learned how to play music, and when he chose to live by it. 

In the way that names have a way of lending themselves to history, young Mohamed Majid from Galholhu Creamge became Cream Mohamed, to Mezzo Mohamed from Mezzo band, the name that would come to define him, a man who would be the driving force and icon behind four of the band's albums, Maali, Guguri, Listen and Tenth. 

To say he was the voice of a generation is both a truth and paradox. By his own admission and chagrin, while his career was shaped by "singing cover songs in resorts for tourists," he also made something unmistakably his own through his music. Whether with his own lyrics or those penned by others – like his brother 'Lecute' Abdul Majid – lent for Mode to shape wholly in his own way. 

His own song, Heevey kos goveyhen, Heevey emmen nashaa hen, he sang, over and over, very self-deprecating, very much aware of himself and the various torments  of other men like himself. 

The "voice" of a generation, then, in its many forms. The guttural hilarity in Kamana Goathee Aadhanu Thaa, or the soft mournful outpour in Visnaa Visnaa. When you hear the opening lines, jismu nethigen  gos hafus, viyakas masheh nubalaanamey, there is immediately that angst-laden bitterness and defiance that is very characteristic of the men of the time, in those decades of repression, whose results Mohamed never really stopped talking about or lamenting, until his very untimely passing. 

Mode, it was evident, was a people person. Despite his once all-black wardrobe, and his ever-present sunglasses, those subtle protests woven into his being, it was evident that his heart was bigger than the machismo that was perhaps required of being a public personality. He is known for his kindness, especially among the Malé coffee circuit, where he often sat among his childhood friends, and those who knew him little, treating both with equal goodwill. 

"Dhiveheen ma behettee mithaanga [Maldivians kept me here]," he said, speaking of his fame. "Ma hunnan jaaga dheegen ma bahattaafa huree [they gave me the space and kept me here]," he told his friend and peer, Inthi, in a television interview last year, "Ehenoonnama Mohamadheh nuhunnaane mithaaku, albumeh nuhadhaathaa ves 14 years vejje [otherwise Mohamed wouldn't be here, it's been 14 years since I've even made an album]."

Mode was a speaker, an expresser, ever willing to share the stories that shaped him and the time.  He spoke of times sitting by the coffeeshop in Villingili as a teenager, when it was a resort, looking over at Malé, and dreaming of making music, of the ehenihen respects that music granted him. He spoke of a time when original local music had so much respect that Hindi songs were absent from the airwaves, replaced instead by the sounds of Zero Degree Atoll, Meynaa Hassaan and Fahthey. He spoke of the night of the Guguri album release where the Iskandhar grounds were so packed that the president himself had to be turned away.

And he spoke of later on, when the passion that made that music had gone boakolhu vathah – lost, unrecognisable and swallowed by a different time. 

And despite it all, Mohamed remained wry, playful – both in person and in his music. Songs he wrote, like Akiridhemey, belied a tongue-in-cheek verve that is so very Maldivian, and so very Mezzo. 

Mode was also steadfast in his beliefs, involved actively in politics, first in the MDP and then the Democrats and never wavered in his faith in achieving a more democratic Maldives. One week ago, his X account bore photos of a party gathering. Last night the party posted a heartfelt condolence, that rang of a rare and sincere affection.

It may have been fifteen years since he had made an album, but Mezzo Mohamed held solidly on to his musical dreams. He told Inthi of his plans to release an album early this year, marking five decades of his musical journey. The album was to be titled ‘Smile’ – after a single dedicated to his wife Aysha. 

And then, before it could come into being, last Wednesday ended with the striking incongruousness of his face on a kashunamaadhu announcement – so familiar and so living, now pressed into the stillness of this final, untimely declaration. A friend later posted a photograph of him 45 minutes before he passed, sitting at a coffee, the neat coiffure, the sunglasses. It beggared belief, how quickly an end comes about. 

The loss is to the people – certainly to the music, to the memory of a certain time. But how much greater will it be to his children, of whom he was so evidently and immensely proud? To his family and those who knew him closely, and experienced his kindness and warmth.

Mezzo Mohamed Majid died on February 12, two days before Valentine's Day and with the full moon poised to rise. It is too soon to speak of his legacy, the loss too raw and awe-filled in its suddenness. 

Rest in peace, our very own legend.