(tribute To Bojo Mujo): Summer Rain

As the female vocals began to swirl around the heavy kick drum, the first fat drop of rain hit the dusty yard. Plip. Then another. Plap.

He reached for his old, scratched CD case and pulled out a disc that had seen better days. He didn't need to look at the label to know what it was. As the first rhythmic pulse of filled the air, the house seemed to exhale. Summer Rain (Tribute to Bojo Mujo)

Suddenly, the heavens opened. A torrential downpour washed over the roof, cooling the red earth and sending up that sweet, earthy scent of petrichor . As the female vocals began to swirl around

Thabo closed his eyes. He wasn't on his porch anymore; he was twenty years younger, crammed into the back of a Citi Golf with his cousins, the bass rattling the windows so hard they thought the glass might shatter. They were headed to a tavern in Jackalberry, the sun setting behind them, feeling like kings of the world. Bojo Mujo was the architect of their youth, the man who proved you didn't need a massive studio to make a nation dance—just a deep groove and a bit of soul. As the first rhythmic pulse of filled the