Por: Los Hechos Ocultos

He once filled theaters across Latin America and sang in six languages, but he died quietly, wearing a T-shirt that read, “Colombia loves you.” Before fame, Sabú was simply Jorge Ruiz, a boy from Buenos Aires who slept in parks and stole fruit to feed his little sister after their mother’s death. His big break came by accident.

He was invited to sing at a fashion show, spotted by two producers, and suddenly found himself at the center of fame.

How did this runaway child become a Latin pop idol? And why did it all end so tragically? This is the true story of Sabú, from street kid to superstar. Héctor Jorge Ruiz Saccomano was born on September 12, 1951, in the dense working-class streets of Monserrat, one of Buenos Aires’ oldest neighborhoods. Among colonial churches and crumbling facades, Monserrat was a place steeped in history, but also in poverty.

There, Jorge took his first steps into a world that would give him everything, and also take it all away. He was the firstborn son of Héctor Ruiz, a stern and distant man, and Susana Elsa Saccomano, a warm but fragile mother who became the center of his universe. Until he lost her.

When Jorge was just six years old, his mother died. The circumstances were never fully discussed, not even within the family, but her absence shattered their small home. Without her, everything fell apart.

His father remarried a few years later, to a woman who made it clear that her new husband’s children were not welcome. At nine years old, Jorge and his sister Silvia, only six, were practically left homeless. They began spending more time on the streets than indoors. Then it was entire days. And then, nights. What began as a way to escape became a struggle for survival. And surviving on the streets of Buenos Aires in the 1960s was anything but romantic. It was violent, desperate, and, often, lawless. He slept in parks.

He hid under bridges. He shared stale bread with other homeless children and stole fruit from stalls when hunger became unbearable. Years later, he would remember a vendor he suspected. He saw him stealing, but never stopped him. “I think he let me do it,” he would say. He saw that I was just a kid.

The streets became his school. And in that school, he found three friends who would change his life: Juan Carlos, Luisito, and Eduardo. They were all orphans in fact, if not in name. Together they begged, stole, and looked out for each other like brothers. Jorge called them his “brothers of the heart.”

“Many of my friends from that time ended up in jail,” he once confessed. “Not me, perhaps because I always believed that something better was possible.” And he pursued that “something better” with a hunger deeper than that of his stomach.

His first escape was sports. He was fast, agile, and competitive. He tried out for the youth divisions of Boca Juniors, the biggest club in Argentina, and was accepted. It was an opportunity few kids in his community had, but while others had cleats and uniforms paid for by their parents, Jorge had to choose between training or working to eat. No one at home supported him. He couldn’t afford to dream.

So he quit. To survive, he took any job he could find. He delivered newspapers at dawn, shined shoes in downtown cafes, and worked night shifts in buildings, sleeping secretly in basements. Until a stroke of luck changed his destiny. Someone told him that the fashion house Modart was looking for young people for its new clothing line. Jorge showed up with no experience, but his intense gaze, strong jawline, and natural bearing impressed them.

They hired him on the spot. Under the alias Giorgio, he began working as a model. Fashion shows, photo shoots, magazines. Suddenly, the lights replaced the streetlights. But even though the cameras loved him, he knew it wasn’t his true calling. Something was missing.

And that something appeared by accident one night in 1968. After a fashion show, the organizers, half-jokingly, asked him to sing something to entertain the audience. Without thinking, he took the microphone and began to sing. His voice, husky, deep, and melancholic, silenced the murmur of the room. Fate had it that two important producers, Ricardo Kleiman and his partner, were in the audience, searching for new talent. They didn’t just hear a good voice; they saw a story, a star, a survivor.

Kleiman approached him after the event. “Your name?” he asked. “Giorgio,” Jorge replied. “No,” Kleiman said, smiling, “that’s a mannequin’s name. What’s your real name?” Jorge hesitated. Then, almost shyly, he mentioned the nickname his street friends had given him, Sabu, after the Indian actor in The Thief of Bagdad, a young rogue who vanquished evil with cunning and courage.

Kleiman nodded. “Perfect,” he said, “it’ll be Sabú.” And so, from that boy who once stole bread to survive, a star was born. Sabú was born. The producers loved what they heard. But Giorgio didn’t work as a stage name.

Then, he told them about a childhood nickname, Sabú, in honor of the Indian actor famous for The Thief of Bagdad. “We had similar childhoods,” he explained. “Tough beginnings, but big dreams.” And so, Sabú was born. In 1969, at just 18 years old, he released his first single, “Toda mía la ciudad” (All Mine the City). The song was a phenomenon, selling over 50,000 copies, five times more than any new artist could hope for.

His next song, “Ese tierno sentimiento” (That Tender Feeling), surpassed even that success. But Sabú wasn’t just another teen idol manufactured by a record label. He made the calls himself, negotiated appearances, and used every ounce of his survival instinct to build his name.

In no time, he was singing all over Latin America. Argentina, Uruguay, Chile, Peru, and Puerto Rico welcomed him with packed stadiums. By 1971, each of his records was selling over 100,000 copies, and his voice was being heard in six languages.

That same year, he traveled to France to record in French, and then to London for a promotional tour. He sang on the iconic Spanish variety show “Sábados Gigantes,” appeared on Brazilian television alongside Roberto Carlos, and even went to Tokyo, where he shared the stage with Quincy Jones and John Lennon. At 20, he was living a dream no one would have imagined possible for that boy who had once stolen apples on the streets of Buenos Aires. He premiered two films, recorded new songs, and toured abroad.

In 1978, Sabú disappeared. He packed his bags and left. Not only Buenos Aires, but the continent. First to New York, where he tried to lose himself in the city’s chaos. Then to Puerto Rico, where he still shone brightly. But the place that truly offered him a second chance, a refuge, and a future was Mexico.

There, far from the vultures of the Argentine scandal, Sabú began to rebuild himself. Not just his career, but his life. In the early 1980s, Sabú’s long road of reinvention found its new chapter in Mexico.

After years of silence and a few sporadic tours, he signed an exclusive contract with Melody Records, the music label of Televisa, the most powerful media empire in the Hispanic world. It wasn’t just a record deal. It was a lifeline. A second chance. A country ready to embrace him as the eternal voice of the Latin American romantic ballad. And Sabú didn’t waste it.

He entered the Mexican market with the hunger of someone who had known loss and with a voice imbued with all that experience. He recorded a series of singles that set the radio ablaze, including “Quizás sí, Quizás no” and “Fiebre de ti.” Both songs became massive hits in Mexico and Central America, appearing on romantic compilations, variety shows, and Televisa telenovelas.

But Sabú wasn’t content with simply reviving his own career. He saw something broken in the Latin music industry: young artists without guidance, without protection from the ruthless machinery of fame. So he decided to build something different.

He founded his own production company, Sabú Producciones, and began working as a mentor and producer of new talent. His most famous collaboration was with Lupita D’Alessio, one of Mexico’s most powerful and temperamental voices. When they met, Lupita was on the rise, but emotionally lost, impulsive, fragile, and haunted by her inner demons.

They became lovers. The connection was electric. Two tormented artists, both scarred, both seeking control, capable of both genius and disaster. Together they created music that seemed ripped from the pages of their own love story. Passionate, chaotic, unforgettable. But like the songs they composed, their story had a dramatic ending.

The intensity that fueled their art turned toxic in real life. Arguments escalated. Trust was broken. Their emotional extremes clashed irreconcilably. And when it ended, it ended completely, both professionally and personally. Sabú never spoke publicly about the split, but over time, his friends noticed that he never worked that closely with anyone again.

Not long after, in the mid-80s, Sabú met someone who would change his life. Not with fire, but with calm. Josefina Gil, an Argentine singer living in Mexico, had been part of the famous group Las Hermanas Gil, along with her sisters Noemí and Gloria.

Not long after, in the mid-80s, Sabú met someone who would change his life. Not with fire, but with calm. Josefina Gil, an Argentine singer living in Mexico, had been part of the famous group Las Hermanas Gil, along with her sisters Noemí and Gloria.

Unlike Lupita, Josefina didn’t chase headlines or scandals. She had left fame behind and lived a quiet life in Mexico, raising her daughter Faye, who years later would also become a pop star. Sabú was drawn to Josefina’s serenity, her elegance, and her deep understanding of both music and pain. Their relationship wasn’t an instant explosion, but a slow healing. In November 1987, they married in an intimate ceremony, far from the paparazzi. Josefina gave him something he had never had: peace.

They spent the next 18 years together, partners in love, music, and survival. But not without wounds. Sabú never had children of his own. His relationship with Fey was distant. When the teenager turned 15, she decided to live with her aunt Noemí instead of moving in with her mother and Sabú. Although they maintained cordial contact, the bond was never deep.

And perhaps more painful than that was the estrangement from his own sister, Silvia, the girl he had once protected on the streets of Buenos Aires. Years passed, then decades. They saw each other occasionally, but each encounter was colder. Some said the distance was emotional, others that the past weighed too heavily to reopen old wounds. So Sabú poured everything into the only thing that had never betrayed him: music.

During the 80s and 90s, he produced albums for other artists, gave select performances, and continued to mentor new talent. His home in Mexico became a small, quiet but constant creative hub. Finally, he had stopped running away. For the first time, he belonged somewhere. And to someone. And then, after years away from the spotlight, he returned.

By 1991, Sabú had been off the radar for almost a decade. The scandals of the 70s, his departure from Argentina, his partial retirement from the spotlight. Many believed he had disappeared. But in reality, Sabú was waiting. He was waiting for the right song. The right moment.

The right country. That moment arrived in Colombia. Invited to the prestigious FestiBuga, the most important music festival in the Valle del Cauca region, Sabú returned to the stage before a massive audience that had never forgotten him. He opened with a new single, “¿Con quién vas a pasar esta noche?” (Who are you going to spend the night with?). And in a matter of seconds, the crowd erupted. It wasn’t simple nostalgia.

It was a resurrection. The voice was still there. Deeper. Richer. Marked by the scars and the strength of the years. His charisma hadn’t aged a single day.

On the contrary, it had become more serene, more magnetic. He was no longer the teen idol of the 60s. He was a legend returning from exile. The success in Colombia reignited his career. Sabú embarked on a large-scale tour throughout Latin America. He headlined concerts in Puerto Rico, Venezuela, Ecuador, and Mexico.

In the United States, he performed in the main Latin venues of Miami, New York, and Los Angeles, reconnecting with a generation that had grown up listening to his records. But it was Colombia that gave him more than just applause. It gave him a home.

Sabú even called the country “My second homeland.” Fans welcomed him not as a fallen star, but as a survivor, a warrior of love songs. He became a frequent guest on Colombian television, recorded in Medellín, and even considered moving there permanently.

In 1999, he gave what many consider the most emblematic performance of his later years: a nearly three-hour concert at the historic Jorge Isaacs Theater in Cali. He sang all his hits, from “Vuelvo a vivir” (I Live Again), “Vuelvo a cantar” (I Sing Again), to “Pequeña y frágil” (Small and Fragile), weaving stories and memories between songs. At the end, drenched in sweat, he whispered into the microphone, “I thought I’d never do this again.”

In the early 2000s, Sabú became more selective with his performances. His concerts became smaller, more intimate. He focused on Colombia, where the public’s affection never waned. In 2004, he gave one of the most personal concerts of his life at Memorias Video Bar in Medellín, a beloved venue in the city’s Cultural District. The place was packed with fans who had followed him his entire life.

On May 7, 2005, Sabú took the stage in Quito, Ecuador, for what, unbeknownst to him, would be his last public performance. That night he sang, perhaps yes, perhaps no, with his eyes closed, clutching the microphone as if it were a lifeline. The audience didn’t know it, but they were witnessing the end of an era.

In July, while preparing to perform again at the Medellín Flower Festival, he began complaining of persistent neck pain. Thinking it was a pinched nerve, doctors scheduled cervical spine surgery. The operation went well, but a few days later, something changed. He began losing weight and experiencing difficulty breathing. His energy was fading. On July 22, as preparations for his concert in Colombia continued, Sabú suddenly collapsed. His wife, Josefina Gil, called the event organizer, who was also his last artistic manager, Fabián Montoya. During the call, his voice trembled. But Montoya managed to hear Sabú’s faint voice in the background saying, “Don’t worry, Fabián. I’ll see you there. I want to go to Medellín.” It was the last time they would speak. Shortly afterward, the doctors delivered the news no one wanted to hear.

Sabú had advanced lung cancer. Aggressive and inoperable. All that remained was to try palliative treatment with chemotherapy. In two months, he endured two grueling rounds of treatment. The disease progressed rapidly, robbing him of his voice, his strength, and ultimately, his breath. On October 14, 2005, Sabú was rushed to the Hospital Español in Mexico City. He could barely speak. Josefina would later recount that upon admission, he was wearing a white cotton T-shirt, a gift from his fans in Medellín, with the inscription “Sabú, Colombia loves you. Come back soon.”

He never returned. On Sunday, October 16, 2005, at precisely 10:30 a.m., Héctor Jorge Ruiz, that boy from Montserrat who slept in parks, who sang in six languages, and who won hearts across a continent, died in Josefina’s arms. He was only 54 years old.