His first big hit, (1989), was a seven-minute epic recorded in a single take in a church hall in Alexandra. The story goes that Eddie had just been dumped by his fiancée. The producer, a man named Bra Solly, handed him a microphone and said, “Sing until it stops hurting.” Eddie sang. The backing vocalists—three domestic workers who happened to be mopping the floor—joined in. The recording captured a mouse scurrying across the floorboards. They left it in.

“Who is this?” Thandi whispered.

The taxi wound through the Johannesburg twilight, its rusted chassis groaning in harmony with the crackling radio. Inside, Thandi leaned her head against the rain-streaked window, watching the city lights bleed into gold and amber smears. She was fleeing a breakup—the kind that leaves you hollow, where the silence in your own flat becomes a living, breathing enemy.

“You know, love is not about finding someone perfect. Love is about looking at someone’s scars and deciding they look like constellations.”