Mmamotsamai smiled, the wrinkles around her eyes deepening. "Because, Thabo, Nyakallang is not a song for when things are easy. It is a command for the heart to find hope when the eyes see only dust."
For months, the rains had stayed hidden behind the clouds. The earth was parched, and the village’s spirits were as dry as the cracked soil. But tonight was different. Tonight was the night of the annual choir gathering at the old stone church. Nyakallang
Her grandson, Thabo, watched her from the doorway. "Gogo, why do we sing when the corn is dying?" he asked, his voice small. Mmamotsamai smiled, the wrinkles around her eyes deepening