Growing up, the radio in our home wasn’t just an appliance — it was a treasured family heirloom, a village status symbol. What status exactly? No one could ever explain. But if your family owned that big wooden radio with speakers the size of small
boulders, you walked a little taller.

In our house, playing vinyl on the radio happened once a year — a tradition so rare it made solar eclipses look common. And as Christmas approached, my sisters would begin their annual campaign: nudging, pestering, practically begging my father to “please check if the radio is working.” They knew the lurking threat that could
sabotage all festive joy: the stylus needle.

Ah, yes, the stylus — the tiny tyrant with absolute power over our Christmas soundtrack. If you remember the long stick (the tonearm) you lifted on and off the vinyl, that’s where the headshell and cartridge lived. Attached to that was The Needle, the microscopic hero that brought music to life. When new, it delivered pure magic. But as it wore down — which it did with the commitment of an overachiever — it could distort songs or tear up records. And if it was worn out? No party. No dancing. No nothing.

Every household also had a DJ, but not because someone had exceptional skill. No, no, no. It was simply because only one person was allowed to touch the sacred machinery. In our home, that was my father — the man, the myth, the chief custodian of the radio. The rest of us were merely spectators, grateful to be in the presence of such
authority.

That radio even came with a built-in compartment to store vinyls, each one lying in wait like ancient scrolls. And the record changeover wasn’t just a changeover — it was a
full-blown ritual. Today’s DJs sweat over seamless transitions as if they were performing surgery. Back then? Silence. A complete stop. A reverent pause. We would stand in collective suspense while my father performed his ceremony.

He would slowly, ceremonially, pull out the next record as though unveiling a sacred relic. Then he’d examine the cover with great seriousness, reading the track list as if
something might have changed since last year. After that came the cleaning —
always cleaning — done with a special towel and a technique only vinyl monks
could have invented.

Then came the placing of the record onto the platter with surgeon-level precision. Lifting the tonearm followed — and no one has ever handled a newborn more gently — before he guided it onto the very edge of the vinyl.

And we waited.

Oh, how we waited.

Music stopped entirely during this process. And even after the needle touched the record, the song didn’t begin right away. First came that soft, mysterious hiss — a whisper of what was coming. Then the tiny crackles, like the vinyl clearing its throat. And finally, gloriously, the music burst alive, sending us racing to the dance floor like we had been rebooted.

There was something almost sacred about that pause — the hush as the tonearm hovered, the soft hiss of the needle finding the groove, the conspiratorial crackle before the instruments arrived. It felt like the room held its breath together. The
waiting didn’t delay the music; it deepened it. Anticipation made the moment
matter.

In that suspense, there was a kind of communal alchemy. Family, friends, neighbors, and random gatecrashers exchanged smiles, cracked jokes, and shared the delicious
impatience that binds people. And when the song finally came, we reacted with one voice — dancing, shouting, laughing. The music didn’t just play in the room; it played through us.

And you needed stamina —real stamina — in those days. Dancing through all sixteen minutes of Leonard Dembo’s “Chitekete” was a test of endurance and commitment. No one dared leave the floor. This was our once-a-year moment. You committed to the arc of the song: the build-up, the breakdown, the payoff. No skipping through highlight clips — you experienced the whole journey, the story the artist intended.

Skipping tracks? Do not even think about it. If your favourite song wasn’t Track 1, that was your personal tragedy. Under my father’s regime, lifting the tonearm to jump ahead was a cardinal sin. You danced through the entire album — and funny enough,
that helped us appreciate the artist’s full talent.

Back then, you learned patience. You didn’t rush the music. You didn’t rush the moment. You waited. You listened. You danced till the song ended — every single time. Today, everything must be instant. No gaps, no pauses, no breathing space. But those long silences, those suspenseful crackles, that ceremonial ritual — they taught us something priceless: anticipation enriches experience. The waiting wasn’t empty time. It was part of the composition.

If you ever want to feel a song more deeply, try bringing a little of that old-school patience back. Pause. Breathe. Let the first crackle pull you in. The music — and the people around you — will thank you for it.

Good things take time. Great music is always worth the wait.