Recently, one of my friends argued that melody is dying. I counter-argued that it will never die and reminded him of the last time everyone was complaining of melody's demise. It was a time when music that crosses generations was being produced.

It was while I was in college and we were heading to Metekel, the scene of much controversy in the Benishangul-Gumuz Regional State, for a campaign to construct houses under the Dergue. Perhaps from the anxiety of what awaited us there or a foreshock of imminent homesickness, we were all quiet as we embarked on the bus for the trip.

It was a crossing through familiar places, our guide being the great epic novel, Fiqir Eske Meqaber. Some of us boasted that we had read it several times over; thus the route being taken was almost similar. Others competed, arguing that they knew it just as well, for they had heard the audio narration over the national radio.

But it was the bus driver that would give me a memory that I remember vividly to this day. He was a fatherly, heavily-built man who seemed fit for all the vagaries of nature to be endured on the old rugged road. His encouragement, not only about what awaits us from that particular trip but also in life, persists to this day. He gave the life lessons even as he struggled to shift the gears of his old bus.

Eventually, the trip was getting tiring with its long and winding roads. Suddenly, with what looked like a magic wand from the old man, he opened a box from his dashboard, brought out a cassette tape and put it in the car stereo. It turned out to be songs from Theodros Tadesse’s debut album.

The album was a typical blend of traditional tunes with Western instrumentation – a mix that was not necessarily popular with the music industry's main actors then. Yet it prevailed thanks to the perseverance of the lyrics and, of course, the melody.