I first heard the music of William Onyeabor without realising I had heard it. On Caribou’s ‘Ye Ye’, released in 2012, underneath all the wobbling synthesiser lines and overdriven percussion, you can hear, chirping away, a little synth arpeggio. Something that, if removed from its context, might sound almost upbeat and childlike.

My face dropped years later, when, listening to a recording of a farewell set at London club Plastic People, Four Tet and Floating Points mixed old with new, and the original with the remix by dropping ‘Ye Ye’ side by side with Onyeabor’s ‘When The Going Is Smooth and Good’. It’s a transition that tells us of the debt modern club music pays to music of the past, especially that written and recorded by people of colour.

And it seems fitting that Onyeabor of all people would be hiding all this time beneath a club smash. The Nigerian funk musician, who died earlier this year, was a virtual recluse and what little we know about him has been gleamed from the investigations of the record label Luaka Bop.

He was born in 1945 or 1946. Some say he studied cinematography in Russia. He was a businessman in the city of Enugu, Nigeria, where he recorded his music. He released eight albums from 1977 to 1985. He later became a born-again Christian and went off grid.

At least there is a great deal for us to say about his music. Throw on 1978’s ‘Atomic Bomb’, an effortless eight-minutes of pop that seems to pass in seconds, built around two chords and a simple refrain of “I’m going to explode.” Not since ‘99 Luftballons’ have allusions to nuclear armageddon been made to sound quite so hip.

“His musical output is simply exhilarating: every song explosively joyful, simple and yet expansive.”

‘Fantastic Man’ runs along the same lines, a mechanical drum beat and catchy bass riff serving as the backdrop for extended organ and synth solos and Onyeabor’s exuberant voice. Lyrically, his music looks not just at love but at more sombre topics like disloyalty and war: “You want small boys to die for you / Innocent souls are killed every day.” His musical output is simply exhilarating: every song explosively joyful, simple and yet expansive.

Onyeabor poses a curious question about the separation of artist and art. Recent articles about his work focus strongly on the mystery of his identity and life and Luaka Bop’s long-awaited 2013 compilation was rather knowingly titled: ‘Who is William Onyeabor?’. We might know little about Onyeabor the man, but instead we are drawn to Onyeabor the enigma.

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To take a more recent example, contrary to his deliberate removal from the public eye, Frank Ocean’s post-2013 seclusion up to the release of ‘Endless’ and ‘Blonde’ last year became the focus of extensive media attention. Now he seems to practise a kind of selective anonymity, drip-feeding us information about himself and his life via his Tumblr account and music releases. He might flaunt his wealth — “I got new money, and it’s all cash,” he sings on recent single ‘Chanel’ — but we only hear about it when he wants us to.

The kind of anonymity that Onyeabor practiced is one unconnected to the social media of modern times, but perhaps it tells us that the artist can never truly escape connection with their work