Two visitors from the U.S. stopped by today—and since November, about two‑thirds of my readers have been from there. Your presence takes me back to Texas during my AFRIMA nomination for Best Female Vocalist in Southern Africa. Thank you for listening, reading, and cheering me on.
I check my blog stats the way some people check the weather: a quick glance to see what the day might bring. This morning, it told me two small stories—two visitors from the United States. Just two clicks, two footprints in the dust, and somehow they felt like postcards addressed to my heart. Since I started this blog in November, most of you reading—about two‑thirds—have been from there. I don’t take that lightly.
“Hello” feels too small a word for the Atlantic’s wide embrace, and yet that’s what I want to say: hello, and thank you. Your presence conjures a memory that lives in Technicolor—Texas, and the warmth that rose from the pavement like music in the air. I was there during the AFRIMA season, a nominee for Best Female Vocalist in Southern Africa, trying to be both calm and present while the world spun quickly around me. The streets were wide, but the rooms felt intimate—full of people who loved songs for the way they open a window and let the wind in.
There are moments on a journey where time slows to show you its face. A backstage whisper. A stranger saying your name as if it were always meant to be sung. The quiet just before walking out under lights. I kept thinking how music has a habit of folding maps—Botswana, Texas, New York, Gaborone—edges pressed together by melody until distance becomes a crease you can smooth with your hand.
I’ve carried that feeling home with me—the soft clink of ice in a glass after soundcheck, the laughter at the corner table, the way everyone seems taller when a good horn solo lifts the ceiling. Sometimes a memory is a city; sometimes it’s a chorus. Texas became both for me. And when I see that many of my readers today are from the United States, I feel that city again, that chorus again—like a brass section arriving right on time.
If you’re reading this from the U.S., tell me where you’re listening from. Which track have you kept on repeat? Is there a lyric that found you on a quiet afternoon and decided to stay? I’m stitching together a little map in my mind—dots of light across a night sky—Austin, Seattle, Detroit, Atlanta, maybe a tiny pin in a town I haven’t heard of yet but now will never forget.
Music travels on trust. You trust a voice you haven’t met. I trust that you’ll let these songs into your days: the coffee mornings, the night drives, the in‑between hours. Thank you for the gift of your listening. Thank you for reading to the end. And thank you, Texas, for teaching me that sometimes the road is a rhythm section—steady and sure—and sometimes, it’s a solo that surprises you by how beautifully it lands.
With love,
Nnunu
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Nnunu Ramogotsi: Africa's Jewel 