The Sound of Summer

1. No Funny Business

"I don't want this to sound bad, Sifiso, but that line is bullshit," I say to my brother, trying hard to soften my tone so the words don't sting. We're sitting in his room trying to figure out how to make his new song less garbage than it sounds. Every so often the room is flooded with the sound of beeping horns and sirens that float up from the streets of New York City into his open window.

Moments like these are much rarer than they used to be. Things have been so different since Fiso left for college two years ago. Even though he's still in the City, I don't seem him as often as I want to. Thank god it's the summer and he's moved back into the apartment again.

"Well damn, Lungi you didn't have to say it like that," he pretends to be insulted, though I can see he understands where I'm coming from. The first time we wrote together, I'd been so nervous to say a word he practically had to force it out of me. We've been doing this for long enough now that there's no hesitation when I speak up anymore.

"I know I know, but hear me out. It's a love song, but that doesn't mean it's got to feel mushy. I think it should be raw, and extremely uncomfortable, but still warm and familiar. Use words that feel... visceral. Do you understand what I mean?" And he does. I know he does because I immediately see how quickly the cogs in his minds begin to turn.

Watching him work is half of the fun of these sessions we have. The other is how well we bounce off each other. He listens to me when I speak, and he always makes sure to try my ideas out even if he doesn't like them. Especially if he doesn't like them. This particular one though, he does like and before long, he's written a line that melts my insides into putty. By then, the sun is setting and my mom calls us to the kitchen for dinner.

"It's so good! It's gonna sound even better with the rest of the band," I say as we stand to make our way into the house.

"I hope so. We need something new for our set this weekend," he says with a hint of uncertainty in his voice. My brother and three of his college friends started this band called Blame Society one night on a whim. At first, it was just something to kill time, but they're gaining a lot of popularity in the underground music scene in the City. They have a huge sold-out show coming up at Baby's All Right this weekend, which is no wonder he's scared shitless about everything being perfect.

I make my way to the dining table, making sure to revel in how beautiful New York City looks with the pinks and oranges and purples of the sunset splattered across its skyscrapers. I'm welcomed first by the mouth-watering aromas of my mom's cooking, and then her warm smile.

"You sounded good in there, Fiso! Is that one new?" my mother asks him as she sets the food down on the table. She gives us each a kiss on the head before she goes back to work.

"Yes ma'am. This A & R rep is coming, so we need new material." I can tell how nervous he is about it from the way he fidgets with his cutlery. I give his hand a firm squeeze for support before digging into my meal.

"You're gonna do great, my son. I wish you were that dedicated to something Lungi," my dad says, knowing full well how his words would irritate me. At first, I don't bother to respond fearing he might get mad at me, but the fear disappears quickly when I notice how focused on his phone he is.

"I for one think being the family disappointment is a lot of work," I say as I cheekily take a bite of my dinner. He simply grunts in response and goes back to what he's doing. It's only when my mom politely asks him to put his phone away that he does.

"Lungi Zwane," he says, first as a way to reprimand me for my earlier comment, but then continues, "are you prepared for your physics exam tomorrow? I can't believe my last born has finished with high school already," he says, accidentally showing more emotion than he's ever shown.  I really have to laugh at his attempt at making conversation. God bless him.