Unworthy farewells for icons

IT WAS while listening to Kabomo Vilakazi's debut album, 2011’s All Things Grey, that I rediscovered and fell in love with Sankomota’s Papa.

The musician, writer and actor covered the song, and I realised I hadn't heard it in years. He did it in a way that made you appreciate his take on the song, while reminding you how special Tsepo Tshola’s voice was.

Papa was made for Tshola’s voice. And what a voice it was.

After hearing Kabomo’s cover of Papa, I remember digging out my Sankomota CD and playing it nonstop for a few weeks.

It took me back to the car rides with my grandfather, who was a fan of both Sankomota and its lead singer, Tshola.

Tshola, affectionately known as the Village Pope, had a voice so distinct and comforting, it felt like he was preaching to you, piercing your soul to make sure you get your salvation. His music transcended language. I never knew what he was singing when I was younger, and yet I was moved. Always.

Besides his string of hits with Sankomota and his solo career, which include Papa, Ho Lokile and Akubutle, I especially loved Joko Ea Hao, an old Sotho hymn about God’s burden being light. Once again, preaching to us through song.

Joko Ea Hao is a popular hymn to which many artists have added to their arsenal of hits. Steve Kekana was one of those artists. His rendition was more traditional, while Tshola’s had a bit more soul. Different versions, both stirring.

One of my first memories around Kekana’s music was at a wedding. I was a page boy and the adults were dancing to Take Your Love. Eight-yearold me tugged at my mother’s dress and asked why they are singing along about taking love away at a wedding. She laughed and told me to go eat my dessert.

Kekana passed on three weeks ago, and it’s almost ridiculous to imagine how South Africa is going from one loss to another.

Tshola and Kekana’s passing has, once again, reminded me that time is never on our side and we are slowly losing the icons who were the soundtrack of my life.

I have always imagined their lives being celebrated by a gathering of the continent’s finest. The legends, who were making our parents forget about the horrors of the apartheid era and the troubles of the early ’90s.

That there would be something akin to Oprah Winfrey’s iconic Legends Ball, which celebrated the lives and achievements of African-American icons.

The worst thing about Covid-19 is how it isolates us from our loved ones. It is a cold, heartless monster of a disease, that reminds us just how alone we can be in the world.

And now, in a time where we are supposed to come together to pay tribute to icons – we can’t. We can’t give them the farewells they deserve, all because of a virus that has forced us to change the way we do things.

All that’s left is to keep playing their music in the hope that they will not be forgotten.

And that the royalties will eventually get to their families.