The Crackle of Comfort

There I was, all of 14 years old at 6:30 p.m., my trusted microphone in hand, singing my heart out to the familiar tune of Roberta Flack about a stranger singing my life with his song. What could I possibly know about life, love, and heartbreak? On my make-believe stage, dressed like a star, I was singing to my audience. I closed my eyes and felt the pain of unrequited love. My audience was my cat, Me Pal, and my trusted microphone was the broom. I would never have thought this little singing session would stay with me for the rest of my life.

Every day, as soon as I get into my car, I turn on the radio and tune in to 95.6 FM. Almost instantly, I feel my shoulders drop. The day’s stress begins to ebb away. Ever since I started working, I’ve looked forward to being on the road at 6 p.m. I’d often have a solid 40 minutes to decompress before getting home. You can imagine my joy when I left work early and discovered that the show Sundowner now starts at 5 p.m. That small discovery felt like a win: more time to let go, more time to listen.

I don’t remember exactly when I started tuning in, but one memory stands out clearly. I was on a school break, maybe around Class 8, cleaning the house one evening, when Bryan Adams’ "Summer of ’69" came on. There I was, mop in hand, jumping up and down, bobbing my head, strumming imaginary guitar strings until my fingers "bled." That moment hooked me not just on Bryan Adams, but on rock music in general. From then on, Sundowner became an integral part of my evening routine. Every evening, while cooking or cleaning, it had to be on.

It might have been influenced by my older siblings, who back then would have had a tape in the radio deck ready to record their favourite songs. Or maybe it was my parents, because some of the songs played on Sundowner were truly the soundtracks of their lives. The person in my family who introduced me to Sundowner has no idea what a blessing they gave me.

The music genre varies, with each day having a different theme, depending on the day’s host and their speciality in music. Sometimes it was country music hosted by John Obongo Junior; other times it was R&B, and sometimes it was golden oldies hosted by Catherine Ndonye, my all-time favourite Sundowner host, playing classics from ABBA and Kenny Rogers. ABBA was always a favourite in our household, introduced to us by my father, and I bet there is no Kenyan who doesn’t know Kenny Rogers’ song, "My Land is Kenya."

Many times, the show is an eclectic mix of music genres, and one simply has to accept, love, or hate what the host decides to do. What I distinctly remember from my childhood was that the music being played was from those old black vinyl albums. I can imagine the host spending hours before the show selecting and arranging the records, as well as planning the music, the songs to be played. The result was a magical sound—some crackling, skipping of songs, sometimes because the album had been overplayed and there were probably scratches or dust on the vinyl. We don’t seem to have that problem nowadays; everything is digital.

About a year ago, I decided to recreate that experience in a more modern way. I built my own Sundowner playlist on Apple Music and called it "Sundowner: Soundtrack of My Childhood 0-23." Why 0-23? I don’t know... maybe because I felt my childhood ended at 23. I loaded it with songs I’d loved over the years: "Whiskey Tennessee," "Dream Dancing," "Never Been to Me," "Forever Young," and many others. The idea was simple: at any time, day or night, I could recreate the magic. If I were stuck in traffic or just needed a mood shift, I could blast those songs from my car speakers and sink into that familiar rhythm. Each time I heard a song on the live radio broadcast that stirred something in me, I’d download it to the playlist. Over time, I’ve downloaded hundreds of tracks, and it felt like a perfect setup, my very own Sundowner, available on demand.

Then something strange happened.

One day, on my way home from work, a favourite song came on the radio. I turned the volume up and sang along, smiling. I wanted to hear it again, of course, but you can’t rewind the radio, so I queued it up on my playlist. I turned on Bluetooth, found the song, and hit play.

It wasn’t the same.

The next track came up… then another… and another. All familiar, all favourites. But something was off. The release I usually felt didn’t come. My body stayed tense. My mind didn’t drift. I was confused; these were the exact same songs. So why didn’t it work?

I switched back to the radio. And just like that, it clicked into place again—the familiar dropping of the shoulders, blank mind, unclenched jaw, all happening simultaneously.

That moment made me reflect. The difference wasn’t just in the sound quality, though the radio’s slight crackle and white noise did add something. It was the whole package: the host’s voice easing in between songs with a quick anecdote or fact I didn’t know, a commercial break, the imperfect timing, the unexpected track order. It was human. It was alive.

Even the interruptions, the news bulletins, and government announcements were part of the rhythm. They gave the show texture and presence. My playlist, while technically perfect, lacked that soul. It was polished, but it didn’t have the companionship of the broadcast.

From that day on, I made a rule: the playlist would be for emergencies only, or the occasional earworm that just wouldn’t let go. But between 5 and 7 p.m., especially on the drive home, it had to be the real Sundowner—on the radio, in real time.

There’s something profoundly therapeutic about that drive. For that one hour, the world quiets down. My mind goes blank. No rushing thoughts, no deadlines, no multitasking, just lyrics I’ve known for decades, flowing effortlessly back. I sing. I remember. I visualise the lyrics. Sometimes I see scenes from my life. Other times, I imagine what the songwriter might’ve been going through when they wrote the words.

Woe unto you if you were a passenger in my car. There is a high likelihood that I will not speak to you, or if you attempt a conversation, you will be met with a "shh," a hurried response, or a firm request for silence. For me, this is my space, my quiet moment in time; I do not tolerate interruptions.

By the time I pull into my driveway, I’m lighter. I don’t walk into the house burdened. I’m calm. The day’s worries stay behind in the car, carried away by the rhythm of Sundowner.