"I’d like to know what it’s like to be you," she belted out, the band swelling behind her in a jubilant crash of percussion.

She thought about the faces she saw on the Minibus taxis every morning—the weary eyes of a woman heading to a long shift, the restless energy of a teenager with a backpack full of dreams, the quiet dignity of an old man selling oranges on the corner. The song was a bridge. It was the desire to strip away the labels, the histories, and the fences that kept people apart.

The song they were building, "I’d Like," wasn't just a track; it was a prayer for a world that felt increasingly fractured.

"I’d like to see the world through different eyes," Zolani sang softly, her voice barely a whisper against the acoustic guitar. "I’d like to feel the sun on everyone."

Zolani sat on a stool, her eyes closed, humming a melody that felt like a secret she wasn't quite ready to tell. Around her, the band was finding their groove. Kyla’s violin began to weave a delicate, mournful thread through the room, while the bass provided a steady, heartbeat thump.

In that moment, the four walls of the studio seemed to vanish. The music spilled out of the open window, drifting over the rooftops and into the salt-heavy breeze. For the length of a four-minute song, the distance between "me" and "you" didn't seem so impossible to cross. They weren't just playing a melody; they were practicing empathy, one note at a time.

The sun was just beginning to dip behind the silhouette of Table Mountain, painting the Cape Town sky in streaks of violet and burnt orange. In a small, cluttered rehearsal space in Woodstock, the air was thick with the scent of rain-damp pavement and old guitar cases.