This is the first festive season without you, ATI. So I thought, let me also take a leaf from Letters to Seretse and write to you, to let you know how we are doing so far. This festive season will move on, as seasons do, but it will move differently without you.
It feels strange writing this sentence, even stranger believing it. August came and took you after a short three-day stay in the hospital, leaving behind questions, shock and a silence that sent sadness across the country. You were found lying motionless in a hotel room, a scene that many could not help but compare to the haunting memory of Whitney Houston.
Would you believe that we only got to know of your relation to President Duma Boko through his speech at your memorial? You did not quite get a State funeral, but the Presidency was there throughout the bereavement. Batswana were there too, and indeed Lerala turned into a buzz of activity on the day we laid you to rest. I still remember how you ‘quite’ looked in your casket, a memory that is sometimes hard to forget.
December has always belonged to you. If there was one certainty about the festive season, it was that ATI would be booked, overbooked even. From village celebrations to the biggest stages, your name was never missed from line-ups. In fact, you would rather miss events than have events miss you. You brought more than music; you brought sweat, movement, colour and that unmistakable energy that made crowds feel alive. This year, the stages are standing, the lights are on, but your spot remains painfully empty.
Back home in Serowe, the pain has taken physical shape. Your father has started erecting a stage in your honour. Serowe raised you, and it was only inevitable that one of the country’s biggest events, Born and Raised, staged in your home village, would set aside a full hour just for you. An entire hour, ATI, an hour to remember your music, your movement, your laughter, and the joy you gave so freely. It is both beautiful and heartbreaking that a tribute has replaced a performance.
Your producers have told us that you left lots of unreleased music. They are working with your family on how we will hear your voice once more. I wonder which song they will release first.
But for now, I will tell you that the biggest song of the festive season, almost next to your Mankalankaleng, is Ezra’s Merwalela. None of the more established artists has come close to touching its reach.
Far down the line would probably be Han C, who teamed up with Wave Ryder for Chomi Yaaka, Amantle Brown joining forces with Spiza on Tafite, and Chef Gustos with Chomi Yame. Those are the few that have managed to stand out, but Merwalela has taken the crown.
I know you would appreciate that. You always had a soft spot for talent, not status. You believed in the music first, the hunger, the effort. And because of that, I am happy to tell you that the future looks promising. We have Ey Breezy, Jakalase, Dada Kavino and Basho Vision they are young, fearless and gifted. I know you would be impressed by their sound. You were never threatened by new voices; instead, you welcomed them.
Most of your fans remember you most during times like these, ATI during the festive season, when people want to forget the year that was. They yearn for your creativity, for those energetic moves that felt almost athletic, for the way you commanded a stage without trying too hard. You made performance look effortless, even when it clearly was not.
Do you know it is only now, as videos resurface of your performances of Mankalankaleng, that we have noticed how you hardly performed it the same way twice? Sometimes you would just stand there, and your people would do the rest every time the banger dropped.
The hook line “re tsamaela gone koo” has now become part of the Zebras’ AFCON campaign as they take on Africa’s giants on Sunday.
There is no doubt that many festivals will pay tribute to you. Your music will be queued between acts, and your name will be shouted into the night. It will never be the same, but it will be something, a collective refusal to let you disappear.
Oh, by the way, not long after you left, there was a brief moment of tension involving your management. A post went up, then quickly disappeared, asking Batswana not to use their image for financial benefit. It stirred conversation, confusion and emotion, proof, if anything, of how much you meant to people. Even in death, your name still commands attention, debate and respect.
Your friends and collaborators have also taken it upon themselves to keep your memory alive. Producers, creatives and close companions have been sharing stories, old videos and behind-the-scenes moments. Thato San and Slim Kidd, in particular, have reminded the nation of the work you put in , the late nights, the studio laughs, the seriousness with which you treated your craft. Through them, many Batswana have finally put a face to the name you spoke so proudly of as your producer, understanding perhaps for the first time the teamwork behind the magic.
ATI, you left at 35, I would say too soon, too abruptly. But I am sure if we were to have this conversation, you would ask me, “Why do you say I left too soon, Sharon?” And you and I would agree that you left your footprints.
This festive season will move on, as seasons do, but it will move on differently without you. You lived loudly, danced fiercely and loved your art deeply. The stages miss you. The crowd misses you. Rest well, son of the soil. Your music is still hitting the airwaves.
