Lucky Dube is dead. "There is no truth in the world".
This was the music that everyone played in newly independent Namibia, the sound that rose up from the smoking tyres and scarred townships in South Africa during the last bloody years of Apartheid. Lucky Dube played a unique brand of South African reggae - brassy, defiant, infectious - and I cannot listen to his songs without finding myself suddenly half my age and half a world away. There is a lump in my throat that is bigger than the senseless carjacking that took his life. I remember how it felt when John Lennon died, but I was 12 and everyone I knew understood the significance of the loss. Here in NW Connecticut I weep alone, but in southern Africa and wherever people were touched by his music, I have no doubt there is profound grief and sadness.
Rastas never die.