The Wheels are in Motion

I woke up with that feeling you get on the first day of spring—the air a touch lighter, the sky a shade brighter, the calendar suddenly more exciting than intimidating. Today was the day we would knock on a new door.

Just after breakfast, we sent our request to Lesedi FM for playlist consideration. It wasn’t merely an email; it felt like a small dispatch of hope and craft, carrying the song we’ve been living with for months—Sephonono—out into another orbit. I pictured it traveling through servers and inboxes, carrying every take and retake, every silence between the notes when we asked each other if we’d found the right breath. I took a long sip of tea and resisted the temptation to refresh my inbox every few minutes.

There’s a particular kind of waiting artists know too well. It isn’t empty. It’s listening to the hum of possibility while pretending to fold laundry or answer texts. It’s hearing your phone vibrate and telling yourself, “Let it ring twice before you look.” It’s the strange combination of muscle memory and faith that keeps you steady even as your heart goes tap‑tap‑tap.

By lunchtime, a reply arrived—from Lesedi FM’s music compiler—measured and professional and exactly what we needed. They wanted to confirm that the metadata for Sephonono matched: the details living behind the song’s face—ISRC, artwork, title casing—the careful lines that give broadcasters confidence and systems clarity. It may sound technical, and it is, but for me it felt like a quiet voice saying, we see you clearly. I read the email twice, then once more, and smiled the way you do when a stone you’ve thrown skims the water instead of sinking.

I thought of the afternoon sunlight in studios I’ve loved, of warm takes and cooler heads, of the friends who made sure the credits were spelled right, the fades felt natural, the artwork spoke without shouting. Music is vocation and administration, breath and paperwork—and on good days, the two learn to dance.

By late afternoon, we had sent our response back—thankful, concise, ready. It’s a particular kind of joy to answer quickly with everything in order: not reaching, not forcing, simply meeting the moment with clarity. The exchange felt like opening a window in a quiet room and letting a breeze in. I realized the wheels were no longer waiting to turn. They had already started.

A day like this can seem small in a calendar full of shows and release dates. But to me, it’s exactly the kind of day that keeps a career honest. There are the big headlines—stages and lights and late‑night applause—and then there are the days made of emails exchanged in good faith, of respectful timing, of a shared rhythm between creators and curators.

Today was a rhythm day.

I stepped outside as the sky softened, and Gaborone held that gentle hush that sometimes visits us before evening—a promise that the busy will become the beautiful if we let it. I thought about everyone who poured themselves into Sephonono: the hands on instruments, the eyes on screens, the ears that caught what needed catching, the patience to fix the almost‑right until it became right. I thought about Richard, whose timing and care steady the whole ship, and about the listeners who have already found the song and made it part of their day. I thought about strangers who will hear it for the first time and maybe pause in traffic or in the kitchen, and feel a little less alone.

There is an intimacy to radio that still amazes me. A voice and a song slip into your day without knocking too loudly, and yet they can change the room you’re in. To be invited into that space is a privilege. To be seen clearly—in the metadata and the message—is a quiet victory that matters.

When I came back inside, I made another cup of tea—jasmine—and put the kettle away with the kind of ceremony only musicians can make of the ordinary. I checked the inbox once more, not out of anxiety but in gratitude, to see the small thread of conversation with Lesedi sitting there—evidence that artistry and industry can meet in kindness and efficiency.

If there’s a single sentence to hold onto tonight, it’s this: the wheels are in motion. Not racing, not grinding—moving. And for anyone who has ever built a song from silence, that motion is everything. It’s the sound of faith becoming fact, of notes finding new ears, of work yielding to wonder.

Thank you for walking with me—through the long nights, the careful mornings, and days like this one when three small steps add up to a leap. I’ll keep singing. You keep listening. And together, we’ll see where this road—patient, promising, and in motion—leads next.