Budoy, the Original Sigbin

Remembering a Visayan Artist, Musician, and Cultural Icon

“What happened to Budoy?” was the message a friend sent to my inbox, dated December 4, 2025. Why would she be asking me that? There was no reason—or so I thought. We just saw him the day before in Santander. He was fine. But when I opened Facebook, what I saw stopped me cold.

Dennis, his best friend and business partner from Sweden, had just posted—only minutes earlier.

It is with a heavy heart that I write this. Today at 3pm, my partner at Sigbinhaus and my best friend for almost 20 years, Errol “Budoy” Marabiles, suddenly left us.

I stared at the screen. I couldn’t process the words. My mind refused to accept them. My first thought was, maybe he had a motorcycle accident? He’d been over the week before showing us a new bike! My mind collided and spiraled into a wall of disbelief. The news had drained all strength from me in one breath.

Budoy wasn’t just a friend. His friendship was a constant presence. He was at every holiday; he was in all our stories. His laughter and creative chaos were a necessary spark of mischief in so many of our lives. And now—suddenly that laughter and that friendship was silenced. Now, words felt insufficient. I told my family sitting with me and they were stunned as well. They thought it must be an internet rumor, fake news!

For days after, memories came in waves, along with our grief. Some loss is almost unbearable. You weren’t supposed to go yet, Budoy!

In mere moments, the internet exploded. It was so sudden and happened all at once. Budoy’s name was on post after post, memory after memory for days. Tributes rose from every corner of the Philippines. Grief traveled fast, braided with love. As I write, there are still memes filled with photos, jam sessions and tribute concerts in his honor.

Who was Errol Budoy Marabiles?

As musician, artist, and cultural worker, Budoy was a quiet force of nature, he was for many of us, a conscience. He was the living spark behind Junior Kilat band, the frontman shaping a sound that was unmistakably Cebuano: raw, organic, reggae-infused, and proudly radical. His lyrics entertained and they awaken—calling out injustice, naming hypocrisy, reminding us that art is not only decorative, but also inherently political in nature. His art and music were acts of dissidence and resistance.

His quietest work carries the deepest echoes. Through the Sigbin Art Hub, Budoy brought art to underprivileged children in Cebu and Dumaguete—planting seeds of courage and possibilities. What he gave continues to ripple outward powerfully with so many young.

Everyone has their own personal stories of Budoy, how he touched their lives. I tribute to these friends, young and old alike. For me, I knew Budoy, long before he became a Cebuano reggae icon. I knew him when he was simply Budoy.

It was the summer in the Nineties. I had just separated from my husband in Germany and had no idea where to go or how to begin or continue. I returned to my source to recalibrate, Cebu. I was untethered. I’d been living in Germany for over a decade. Everyone I knew, family included, were busy with lives of their own. Even though I felt like a stranger inside, Cebu was still home.

One day, I saw a newspaper ad for a summer art workshop at Kukuk’s Nest. I signed up. Budoy was the teacher, already an award-winning artist and photographer. That was also where I met Bambi, the owner of Kukuk’s Nest. The venue was a hippie hostel tucked into the heart of the city. A decade later, it would emerge as the center of the Cebuano punk rock scene and a haven for writers and theatre students from the University of the Philippines, just a stone’s throw away.

That summer everything changed for me. The workshop became my refuge. Acquaintances became anchors. And somewhere between art, conversation, and shared beginnings, friendships were forged. From then on, Budoy, Bambi and I were close, they became my favorite people in the world.

Bambi herself became a cultural icon in literature, arts and cinema and the mother to many indie musicians, artists and filmmakers who grew up in the crèche that was the Kukuk’s Nest’s. Later, Bambi was the recipient of the Deutsche Welle Freedom of Speech award, but that’s another story for another day.

Suddenly, I had a key to Cebu. Never underestimate the importance of inclusion. Budoy began inviting me everywhere—concerts, art shows, gatherings I would never have dared to attend alone. Through him, I met the city’s creatives and eventually, I felt something lift. These are my tribe, I thought. No judgment. No questions. Just acceptance. In the Nineties, divorce still carried a heavy stigma, and I wore it like a scarlet letter. It diminished me. But this circle of artists welcomed me as one of their own.

In return, I tried to create spaces for Budoy’s art to grow. It started small—at my dad’s house, where he transformed one of our toilets into a psychedelic bloom of colors and flowers. Later, he painted a mural at my sister’s beach house, Conni’s Island Paradise in Camotes Island, which led to government-commissioned murals in San Francisco proper.

While on the island, his work expanded beyond walls. Together with another friend, Amitabha—a devotee of Ananda Marga—we offered art classes for children in the fishing village and yoga lessons for kids and expectant mothers. We distributed school supplies, shared food, and taught simple skills like candle-making, soap-making, and cooking nutritious plant-based food. It wasn’t grand or polished; it was just an earnest attempt to give back in a sense of community. My sister, Conni, generously hosted us and allowed us to operate from her beach house.

What touched my soul most was the day Budoy came to me and shared that they had just finished a successful music gig in Cebu City. They had earned well, and they were looking for a community to give back to. He immediately thought of the fishing village in Camotes Island, Taliwang Bas.

It wasn’t a formal foundation, we were just doing what we could, quietly, in small ways. Budoy showed up with GK one day and the rest of his bandmates. Amitabha brought some LGU (local government units) volunteers. He even brought Pilar Pilapil, a renowned actress, and a good friend of Amitabha to join in the fun, carrying sacks of rice and canned goods. Together we distributed them to the village. It became a meaningful memorable weekend full of laughter, music, and shared meals.

Then came the celebration of my 40th birthday. It was intended to be a quiet affair at my house. My cousin Junx Muana, who is no longer with us—was a music producer and ran the Backyard Project Music Studio. He and Budoy conspired to gather several bands together. That night, our garden came alive with music. Band after band performed beneath the vast expanse of the sky. I am still utterly moved today. Those instances deeply affected me and shape who I am in ways that I still can’t fully articulate.

I like to picture them, Budoy, Junx, and my rocker brother Randy—somewhere beyond all this, jamming together, music spilling through heaven’s door.

Years later, I left for the USA. As much as I loved the island’s slow rhythm, reality set in. I needed work. I wasn’t comfortable relying on my aging father indefinitely. It was time to go back to the grind, back to the hustle.

While I was in California, messages began to find me. “Your friend Budoy—he’s famous now!” Friends from Cebu sent me newspaper clippings, whole pages devoted to him. Apparently, Budoy and his band, Junior Kilat, had broken through nationally. By 2005, Budoy’s song “Ako si M-16” won Song of the Year at the NU Rock Awards, and their music was played everywhere.

Budoy moved beyond music and stepped into television, co-producing and hosting ISMOL TYM on Cebu’s independent cable channel RCTV—a magazine show that spotlighted small businesses and everyday stories. Then came Pinoy Big Brother. When Budoy entered the house, the entire Visayas rallied behind him. The energy was electric—much like during Manny Pacquiao’s fights, when the whole country pauses, and even crime rates seem to drop because everyone is glued to their screens. From half a world away, I watched my friend transform—not just into a contestant, but into a symbol, a voice, an icon.

And I thought back to the Budoy I knew—the one who taught art workshops, painted murals, and carried sacks of rice to the fishing villages. When I returned home, I saw Budoy again. In his usual humble, almost understated way, he tried to tell me about his brush with success and sudden visibility. He spoke of it lightly, laughing it off like just another story.

I didn’t understand his humility until I walked through Cebu city with him. There he was, his face stretched across a towering billboard, advertising bottled water. People called out his name, strangers smiled and hands waved. Everywhere we went, fans wanted a selfie, a moment, a connection. And yet, he was still Budoy. Grounded. Humble. The same friend I’d known for years. Our friendship rekindled effortlessly—like I had never left, and he had never become anyone else, anyone famous.

When the startup I had poured myself into in the Philippines began to falter, I returned to the U.S. to earn my keep. In 2010, my daughter Tifani spent several months in Shanghai working in the World Trade Expo. She invited me to visit for a week. On my first day there, she told me she had a surprise. We went out for dinner, and there—inside a pub, sat Budoy. He was in Shanghai as well, one of the Filipino delegates representing the Philippines Arts at the expo. When my daughter worked long days, Budoy filled in as my tour guide to Shanghai. On his motorbike, we explored the city—art galleries, side streets, places he had discovered on his own. He showed me the face of a Shanghai that felt lived-in, textured, and generous. It was an unexpected reunion, brief but meaningful.

A couple of years later, in late 2018, my husband, Darwin and I finally retired to Cebu City. Budoy and Darwin connected instantly. They were kindred spirits, both visual artists and musicians. Together, we drifted through bars, art shows, long philosophical conversations, late nights and home cooked meals. Budoy, who lived and worked in Busay mountain of Cebu, would often drop by our home at the foothills of Lahug. At the time, he was managing his own bar, restaurant, and gallery up in the Tops of Cebu. Business weighed on him. He missed the freedom of a purely creative life. He had a talent for it, but he admitted he wasn’t cut out for entrepreneurship.

Not long after, Darwin and I moved south to a beach community in Moalboal, carrying with us everything we owned. A year later, after liquidating his business, Budoy moved to Moalboal too. We recognized that the universe was again conspiring in our favor. He was offered an opportunity to manage a kitchen there by a Danish resort owner—and, of course, the restaurant happened to be right across the road from where we lived.

“Hey Buds,” I teased, “are you stalking us or what?”. We saw him every day. Darwin shared Mexican recipes with Budoy and his crew, and our lives blurred into an easy rhythm—borrowing salt, swapping cheese, sending plates back and forth. When I wanted a drink, Budoy would simply send someone over with one of his perfectly mixed margaritas, if he didn’t bring it himself. Those days were pure delight. Full of laughter. We were having a blast, unaware of how fleeting time would one day seem.

When the pandemic arrived, everything came to a screeching halt. Businesses shut down. The beaches were closed. It was Chaos. Budoy slipped away to Dumaguete. We had always wanted to visit, but the islands were strict about letting anyone cross. Darwin and I waited patiently, quietly—until travel ban was lifted. After the pandemic ended, Super Typhoon Odette, a Category 5 storm, tore through Moalboal. Cebu was without electricity for three months, so once more, we packed up and moved—this time to Dumaguete city. By then, Budoy had already settled in Valencia, just a few miles from the city. He joked, “Who’s stalking whom now?”

Once again, Budoy was suddenly everywhere. He showed us hidden spots, introduced us to local artists and gently ushered us back into the art scene. When we eventually moved to Valencia ourselves, he was only five minutes away, he often dropped by with European bread or cheese for breakfast, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Somehow, we adopted each other.

Budoy was a constant. He house-sat when we traveled, he dog sat for us between gigs. We did road trips to Cebu or Bacolod city to visit art galleries or support his gigs, when we can. At home, we watched Game of Thrones, Money Heist, and many netflix blockbuster series together. When it got too late, or when he needed some quiet, he had a room ready at our house—our home was his, too. When friends and family visited, he took time to show them around, sharing his Dumaguete the way only he could.

We spent a lot of Christmases and New Years together. On nights when he had no gigs, he came home to us just to sit, to chill, to be. Those were ordinary days, stitched together by laughter and quiet belonging—and only now do we realize how extraordinary those days were.

In 2025, Budoy moved to Santander to open SigbinHaus at the Eden Resort, a live music venue, in partnership with Dennis. We were sad to see less of him, but happy—for his new venture. It brought him a sense of stability, and a place to work on his Electronic music. We found ways to stay close. If we were heading to Cebu, we’d stop by Santander. When he came to Dumaguete to shop for the bar supplies or performed at an event, he always stayed with us. That rhythm—of meeting, parting, returning—felt endless. Until it wasn’t.

Then came the day his heart suddenly stopped beating.

In Cebu, the city answered with music. Concerts bloomed in his honor. Thousands came—not because Budoy ever sought the spotlight, but because he had gently touched so many lives. At his memorials, people stood and spoke of how he changed them—through music, through art, through kindness. He was simply there. Fully present. A friend to everyone.

How do you say goodbye to someone like that? You don’t!
You carry them forward—in stories retold, in songs replayed, in the way you show up for others. Budoy’s heart may have stopped, but his legacy lives on.

Dubbed the Original Sigbin, after his beloved hit song, Budoy embodied the myth. In folklore, a sigbin is rumoured to steal hearts. True to his own legend, Budoy did exactly that. When his heart stopped beating, he took all of ours with him—and left behind a music that will never fall silent.

Watch Budoy’s performance of his hit song Original Sigbin, shared here as a tribute. All music and video rights belong to their respective owners.

https://www.youtube-nocookie.com/embed/Z7GoBYZpHTI?rel=0&autoplay=0&showinfo=0&enablejsapi=0

Here’s another link, an interview of Budoy by my brother, Mario Suson—a chance to hear his voice, his spirit, and his truth once more.

If you’ve made it this far, thank you for reading and for holding space with me. I needed to set this grief down somewhere, and as a writer, words felt like the only way. Until next time—take care of your friends and loved ones, and thank you for reading.

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All the best,
Mitos Ming Suson

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