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Dinner at The Market Theatre last night (pasta and salad, glass of plonk) was merely the entree to Hugh Masakela and Sibongile Khumalo in ‘Songs of Migration’ – a two-hour non-stop tour de force, a history in music, a nation’s soul in song. A wonderfully gifted and passionate company of singers and performers, but Masakela was a standout, singing from the heart, metamorphosing in a minute, in voice and gesture, from township tsotsi to rural migrant to shebeen hustler and barfly – and then of course, his golden trumpet, pealing, bleating, speaking, moaning, punctuating and welding the whole ensemble together. Sibongile Khumalo has a voice like warm butter, a sly and playful sense of humour, the physical presence of Mother Africa. All in all a wonderful night out.

Our last date, Rob said, as single people, as we drove home along a darkened and quiet Jan Smuts Avenue. In forty-eight hours, the party begins, and it doesn’t stop, not for the next 3 1/2 weeks.

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