And there’s a hush beneath it, the black-shirts working to make sure the mics are working and the lighting’s right. Bottles lifted, smiles and eyes and energy all shared and given free. But I’m here, and slowly, as I sit, I let the safewarmfree of this place settle in my gut and the excitement build.Īnd there is excitement. Whether I should have waited or gone home. So tonight, the night it all begins, I sit alone, my back against the bar. But I waited by the BigTall tree, and Janet never came. And tonight, Max was public property, right here on our ground. If you asked Janet, she would tell you how she’s made for Maximillius, that their futures were entwined, that he just didn’t know it yet. “Being seen by who?” I smirked, but she stared right back at me, refused to be embarrassed.

“We’ll show you what music is really,” she said, all excited, “the being there and being seen. My bestbest friend was meant to be here too. And this-small and quiet as it is-is my rebellion.Īnd yes, I know you shouldn’t go into the dark alone. Hammered out so many times I feel their indentations on my skin. You pick something else.” Old words, tired. Or perhaps it really started with the argument. Worth the endless all week talk from my best friend. Worth the sneaking and the boom-boom-boom fear of my heart as I walked the streets at night, one hand curled into a fist and waiting, just in case. Tonight the hosts of UmziRadio are here, in this little bar of ours, for us. Nothing special on the outside, but inside, tonight, two hundred people cram together beneath the corrugated roof and wait, turned out in their Friday Bests, because everyone knows you have to look good for the radio. One of ours, in the heart of Khayelitsha. But everybody has a song to sing, their own personal story leaked into the world. There are angry songs and sad songs and songs that make you want to dance. We sing with other instruments: There’s song in stories, and in art, and in getting up before the dawn and putting food onto the table. Some of us, some of us don’t sing at all, like that.

Some of us sing a cappella, and some stand on a stage beside a band and let the whole world share their song. Some of us sing quietly, alone, only in the dead of night or in the shower.

But everybody has a voice, and everybody sings. Every voice, including yours.Įvery voice is different, its pitch and tone and intonation as distinct as the words we choose and how we wrap our mouths around them. And it’s a song that only works with every part in place. It has an energy in everything, a song all of its own. The movement and the bustle, the spring of young and creaking of the old. The lazy buzzing heat and the singing laughing joy.

Like a kaleidoscope song