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It was 2 a.m. Rain drummed a lazy rhythm on the corrugated roof—the same kind of rain her grandmother used to call nomvula , the mother rain. Thandi had first heard the song at her aunt’s wedding in Mthatha. Freshlyground’s violins had poured like honey over Zolani Mahola’s voice, and the room had stopped. Everyone had felt it—that rare thing: a song that understood their bones.
Which of those would you like?