By the time the sun lifted over Gaborone, the kettle had already clicked and my inbox was humming. I set the mug beside a neat stack of lyric sheets and a spreadsheet of ISRCs—tiny barcodes of identity for the songs that carry my voice across borders. Today wasn’t a stage day. It was a backstage day—the kind that decides whether the music we make travels well, gets found, and pays everyone it should.
First job: COSBOTS. There’s a quiet satisfaction in opening a portal and saying, these are my songs; these are the hands that wrote them. Line by line, I logged each title, the composers and authors, the label, the release dates. It felt like stitching name tags into a beloved suitcase before a long journey. The work is small, almost invisible, but essential—so that when a melody of mine floats through a café in Francistown or a hall in Maun, the paper trail is already there, ready to do its job.
My phone lit with a message from Zenzele, my Events Manager—calm even when calendars aren’t.
“Stage plot for April 30 confirmed. Want a small horn section or keep it intimate?”
April 30 is International Jazz Day, and our “Homecoming” show is the north star on my wall. I smiled and typed back, Intimate. Let the words breathe. She’d handle the rest: load‑in times, run‑of‑show, crew—so that when I step out in Ramotswa, it all feels inevitable.
From the other side of the room came the soft, dependable rhythm of the printer—my husband Richard again, shepherding documents like a stern librarian of our little music life. He does it without ceremony, between drafting memos for the University of Botswana and juggling meetings that stretch his days thin. He’s the quiet figure behind so many of my “wins,” one eye on my deadlines and one on his own.
A little later, we met in the kitchen. The house was in that gentle hour when the light turns honey‑soft along the counters.
“Passport scans are in the folder,” he said, sliding a plate of toast toward me, “and I renamed the files—same pattern as last time.”
I laughed. “You and your patterns.”
“They save tomorrow,” he said, and rested a warm hand on my shoulder. No speech, no big moment—just a small kindness that says, I’m here. He kissed my forehead, grabbed his jacket for campus, and the door clicked behind him. The room felt steadier.
Back at the desk, I swung from COSBOTS to the South African trio—SAMRO, CAPASSO, SAMPRA—each a different doorway into the same house of rights. Compositions here, mechanicals there, recordings over there; a three‑part harmony that only works when you sing each line cleanly. It isn’t glamorous work. But when metadata matches all the way down, the future gets simpler, fairer. I lined up the splits and pressed save.
“Check your inbox,” Tlhomano pinged—my Creative Designer & Social Media Manager. He has the rare gift of making sound look like itself. In the attachment: new artwork drafts, restrained and elegant, with a brush of gold that felt like late light on a sax bell.
“If we run with this,” he wrote, “our captions go intimate—shorter sentences. More breath.”
He talks about pictures the way a producer talks about silence—like it’s a real instrument.
At noon, a shared doc opened on my screen: sponsor proposals, two versions. Telecoms—ideas for live‑stream support, data bundle tie‑ins, co‑branded content around key moments. Mining—community workshops, music clinics, a thoughtful through‑line on cultural heritage and education. The bones were there; I threaded in my story: how “Homecoming” isn’t just a date on a poster but a promise to show up for the places that raised me.
On our team call, Megan and Bigani—my Web Team—sat against a backdrop of tabs and code. We mapped the Media Hub we’ve been dreaming about: a press‑ready trove with my EPK, hi‑res photos, stage plot, showreel, credits, lyrics, and a living log of press and airplay. The goal is simple: make it easy for a journalist to say yes, a promoter to book, a festival to verify, and a fan to fall down the right rabbit hole.
“We’ll push a build tonight,” Megan said. “Tomorrow we polish.”
After lunch, I slipped into the gentle, satisfying work of streaming optimisation. Tiny buttons in big rooms: a fresh Artist Pick on Spotify, new Canvases that sway like breath on glass, synced lyrics ready for Apple Music, tidy end‑cards on YouTube so one song leads you kindly to the next. It’s the sort of work you measure in inches, then look back months later and realise you’ve gained miles.
Late afternoon belonged to radio. For Kaya 959, I prepped a clean radio edit—no edges, no stray syllables—paired with artwork and a one‑sheet that says this is who I am and where I’m going. For 702, I drafted a note to a producer about conversations that matter more than playlists: the business of modern jazz, creative entrepreneurship, and how a song can be both a livelihood and a love letter between countries. With 702 it’s about the story; I breathed into that space and let the pitch carry my voice without the melody.
Evening gathered around the house. The printer finally fell quiet. Richard looked over and nodded—a small victory drum no one else could hear. Zenzele sent a final thumbs‑up—backline requests delivered. Tlhomano posted a gentle teaser: a warm photograph and a caption that felt like a hand on your shoulder. Megan and Bigani dropped a staging link—clean lines, fast loads, everything in its place.
I closed my laptop and let silence climb back into the room. This is the work no one claps for, and yet it’s the reason the clapping ever happens—the licences, the notices, the codes and credits and calls; the decks that build bridges with partners who care; the pages that hold everything we’ve done and everything we intend to do next.
I don’t do this alone. I never have.
Zenzele steadies the calendar.
Tlhomano gives the music a face and a voice when I’m not in the room.
Megan and Bigani keep the house open and the lights on.
Richard my dear and hard working keeps the ground beneath it all firm, even with a university resting on his shoulders.
Tomorrow I’ll sing.
Tonight, I’m grateful for the quiet work—and for the hands that lift it with me.
Nnunu Ramogotsi: Africa's Jewel 