No. 069 - Incognito’s “Don’t You Worry ‘Bout a Thing” changed my life
As Karabo Lediga's childhood home fades away, the radio sends a message of hope and comfort
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This Song Changed My Life is an independent music publication featuring essays from people all around the world about the songs that mean the most to them. Created (and illustrated) by Grace Lilly.
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• 5 min read •
We call our house “triple eight” after its street address. We have come to know and love this repetition of numbers. It’s on a busy Soshanguve road that we watch from behind the fence because we’re not allowed to leave the yard. We moved to our new “big house” from a four-roomed one on the old side of the township. My parents dreamed it up and roped us into the plans. We’d visit the building foundation often, and saw this giant structure rise to glory. A corner house with separate bedrooms for my brother and me — and more than one bathroom! The cement and paint still smell fresh. Pretty things that my mother collected over many years have room here, and sometimes we actually use them. I have a giant teddy bear sitting in the corner of my bedroom that I often mistake for a ghost. Life here feels like TV.
I am 11 and my brother is 13. His best friend is visiting from the old side of the township for the December holidays. He’s brought a brand new basketball that is keeping us very busy. We’ve made a makeshift hoop in the garage and the boys are learning how to dunk. I mostly just watch. I like the rubber smell of the ball.
Although her car is here, I haven’t seen my mother in a couple of days. Our domestic worker does well in explaining her absence — my mother sometimes works day and night shifts at the hospital, and I can never tell which day is which. Our domestic worker will soon go back to Limpopo to be with her family for Christmas, which means we’re going to have to do more chores, but the upside is that the start of the new school year is still a long way away. The snacks are plentiful and play seems endless as the hot days and nights merge into one long good time.
My dad’s movements and mood are erratic. Grown-ups are like that, I guess. They talk about stress a lot. I don’t notice anything else starkly different, but it must have been there. My brother says it was — his memory is sharp. My mother’s is too — I guess it mostly happened to her.
The 16th of December is a public holiday that will soon be renamed “Reconciliation Day.” I don’t know this yet and the irony lands years later.
We are woken up too early for school holidays by men at the door wanting to enter the house. They use the door in the lounge that looks out onto the busy road. We never use that door. Our domestic worker is shown pieces of paper and soon the men are picking up furniture and appliances, loading them into a van. I don’t see the van but I know that it’s somewhere outside. My dad is not there. I seem to remember seeing him there just moments earlier. I hear our domestic worker on the phone in my parents’ bedroom and gather that my mother is in a police holding cell. I’m relieved she’s not dead because in my mind that had been the only reasonable explanation for her absence amidst such earth-shattering chaos.
The men take almost everything. People on the busy road watch as they walk or drive past, and some look on from their yards. I don’t know how long this goes on for, but it feels both brief and like an eternity. My mother’s youngest sister and eldest brother arrive and command us to pack up what’s left — mostly my mother’s pretty things; the ones that she collected over many years and have room here. With their help, we carry some items into our neighbours’ houses. We load some into my mother’s car and the rest into the one my aunt and uncle came in. Triple eight is being locked. “Repossession,” they call it. I have never heard this word before.
I’m in the back of a car full of things and my aunt is next to me. My brother, his friend, and his basketball are here too. Perhaps our domestic worker is in the other car; or is she sitting in the front of this one? Radio Metro plays as “888” becomes smaller and smaller behind us. Time moves fast but also seems to stand still as I hear Incognito’s “Don’t You Worry ‘Bout a Thing” for what I believe to be the first time. The bold, triumphant, upbeat funk seems inappropriate, yet the message — so clear, simple, and timely — is just what I need in this moment when very little makes sense. I hear every soothing word. I seem to be the only one who does. It truly feels like magic. The chorus echoes in my head long after the song is finished.
We’re driving through the old side of the township to drop off my brother’s friend and his basketball. It’s an abrupt end to a holiday that was, until now, epic. In many ways, it’s the end of life as we know it. I see my mom a few days later but my dad not for a few months. Life becomes even more complicated. “Don’t You Worry ’Bout a Thing,” though, in the many iterations I eventually discover, remains a beacon of hope and comfort. A gift. A lifelong reminder that I am always somehow held. My very favorite song. ◆
Categories
Friendship • Family • Coming of Age • Romance • Grief • Spirituality & Religion • Personal Development
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About Karabo
Karabo Lediga is a film and television writer/director from Pretoria (this is very important) based in Johannesburg, South Africa. She loves sunshine, her beautiful community, and a good time — especially in other countries in their summertime.
Instagram @karabolediga
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Thank you for sharing this story Karabo. It’s a beautiful retelling of a hard time and brings it all back to music.