ACT 9: The Village Fire

What happens when a city that stopped listening suddenly hears its own voice again? And for one day, St. Louis remembered what it sounds like to belong.

Beginning at the end? Try ending
At the beginning: ACT 1

Because ‘The World of Songa’
Season 1. Finale.
Starts. Now.

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It started with a whisper—literally.

A rogue tech planted a line of code into an abandoned control room, reactivating a long-silent radio signal from a once-beloved community station. It had been quiet for over a decade, its silence a symbol of something deeper: a city where people had stopped listening. Inside the station. Inside their homes. Inside themselves.

Today, the frequency is live again—but not from the tower. It’s radiating from Tower Grove Park, across the street from Songa Studios.

The Spellings are going for it.

A makeshift stage stands at the park’s center, strung with borrowed cables and found lights. Families are already arriving—some with picnics, some just with questions. The sound check bleeds into the evening air: laughter, guitar chords, the clink of folding chairs.

I’m standing offstage, notebook in hand, trying to keep up with the miracle unfolding in real time. Emerson’s pacing behind the speakers, fiddling with a tablet streaming the illegal signal.

Sage walks up, tuning her guitar. Behind her, Lewis Blues and the rest of A Band Called US gather with quiet confidence. They’ve just returned from a break, having performed the Songa catalog to a world that—by the sound of it—needed to hear it.

With each passing song—“17 Gigs a Month,” “Our Town,” “Beat of Your Drum”—the frequency of the city begins to shift. A Songa soundscape blankets the metro.

Because with each passing song - 17 Gigs A Month, Our Town, Beat of Your Drum – the frequency of the city’s radio grow louder, merging into one collective Songa soundscape that blankets the metro area.

Sage speaks into the mic.

“We didn’t plan this. But maybe it planned us.”

She breathes, but this time, her voice turns direct—almost like she’s hosting a broadcast.

“St. Louis,” she says, “if you’re listening to this through a car speaker, from a back porch, or hanging out a window with a boombox—this one’s for you.”

She pauses.

“There was a time when radio connected us. A time when art brought us together—not algorithms. But the station that used to bind us stopped listening to itself long before it stopped broadcasting. Just like we stopped listening to each other. In our homes. In this city.”

She looks out at the crowd and into the cameras now catching this live.

“What Are You Waiting For is the next song. It’s also a question we’re asking every St. Louisan who’s forgotten what it feels like to gather. To create something new. To stop rehearsing old arguments and start writing new music. Because this isn’t just a song—it’s a turning point. For us. For our city.”

“And just like Lewis and Clark stood on this soil and looked west into what was possible—we’re standing here tonight with that same choice: to look forward, or to fall apart.”

She strums. And the park hushes. "

She swallows hard. "Here goes nothing," Sage says, her voice cracking along with the mic.

She closes her eyes. Takes a breath. And with eyes still closed, begins to sing:

What are you waiting for,
Is there something you can't do
You just tell yourself a story,
About something so untrue.

If you hold onto your vision,
It will come to you
Voices of your inner spirit,
Begging to break through.

She’s finding her footing, but the crowd’s losing theirs.

They’re rocking out.

Strangers are dancing with strangers, though I can already tell—they won’t stay that way for long.

Children twirl barefoot in the grass, their laughter rising like its own kind of melody.

And at the center of it all, the eighty-eight-year-olds are more raucous than the eight-year-olds— jumping, laughing, alive in a way that feels like remembering.
Like their bodies never forgot how to be children.

Then the chorus returns— this time, they know it word for word.

The entire park sings in unison, screaming at the top of their lungs, but from the bottom of their hearts:

Why do we wait, why do we wait?
Why do we wait for permission?
Why do we wait, why do we wait?
Why do we embrace indecision?

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Across the city, radios tuned to the pirate signal carry it to kitchens and porches. People sing with them, from miles away.

As the final chorus echoes into the night, three more figures approach from the far end of the park—May Dove, Mohammad, and Wyoming. They came.

Not alone. With their children.

It’s as if the song pulled them back into the orbit of something real. Something they could no longer deny.

Wyoming had spoken to them. Not in persuasion, but in parable. He’d taken them not to a boardroom, but to an abandoned rooftop. Played them a cassette of a street musician from Kathmandu. Told them, "Some things you can only understand with your ears closed and your heart open."

They had argued. Cried. Listened. And then decided: not only would they return—they would fund a local license. They would give Songa the signal, legally, to grow. The moment of reversal happened quietly. But the consequences rang loud.

Now, they sat in the second row. Not as patrons. As believers. Their kids stared wide-eyed at the stage, then whispered to each other with that kind of awed excitement that only comes when your parents finally do something surprising. One of Mo’s boys leaned against her side and mouthed the words to the final chorus.

“I miss being on the same team,” he says.

She nods. “So let’s make something together. Not just a company. A life. No more image management. No more quiet resentments. Let’s try honesty, even when it’s ugly.”

He looks at her. For once, not performing. Just present.

They both turn, watching Aaron laugh as he helps a younger kid find their dad. Sylvie is already sketching the scene in her notebook.

Emerson reaches for Erin’s hand. She lets him.

Aaron and Sylvie appear at their sides. Sylvie’s taken a photo of the crowd mid-song. She shows it to them—hundreds of people gathered on the grass: toddlers with face paint, grandmothers with folding fans, teens with earbuds half-removed, thirty-somethings in band tees, couples swaying, babies sleeping on picnic blankets.

There are families who haven’t attended anything together in years. Groups of old friends reuniting over wine in plastic cups. A man in his seventies clapping off-beat, smiling like he used to be in a band. A few Gen Z kids livestreaming the whole thing on cracked phones. A little boy on his father’s shoulders mouthing the lyrics.

This isn’t a demographic—it’s a village. A mosaic of memory and possibility.

“Is this what it’s supposed to look like?” Aaron asks.

Emerson and Erin look at each other.

“It’s better,” Erin says.

Out front, May Dove is crying. Mo reaches for her hand. One of their daughters tugs at her sleeve and asks, “Can we stay after this?”

Mo smiles at Wyoming, then at the child. “Yeah. We can stay.”

She leans toward Wyoming and murmurs, “You confuse me. But somehow, you always know where we need to be.”

Wyoming, never one for encore bows, takes a final sip from his thermos and quietly walks away from the lights. By the time I look again, he’s gone.

The music swells. And from the edges of the park, more people arrive. Some barefoot. Some suited. Some unsure why they came—only that something was calling.

The signal rides the airwaves across the city, slipping through cracked windows and open hearts. It reaches kitchen radios and dashboard dials, reminding the people of this divided city that unity isn’t just possible—it’s playing live.

And just when it feels like the night has resolved into hope—two figures emerge at the park’s edge.

A silver sedan pulls up near the vendor tents. From it step Emerson’s parents—his mother in a navy shawl, his father still in a blazer despite the humidity. Emerson freezes, mid-step.

They don’t wave. They don’t make a scene. They just walk forward, slow but steady, like they’ve rehearsed this.

“Emerson,” his father says, nodding.

His mother steps closer. “You built this?” she asks, her voice carrying something between admiration and regret. “I didn’t even recognize Sylvie. She looks like the poems you used to write.”

Emerson looks from them to Erin, to Aaron and Sylvie who are just starting to notice. “We built it,” he says quietly.

“We want to be part of it,” his mother says. “To support it. And… maybe get to know our grandchildren.” Emerson’s father adds, “We always thought success would bring you back to us. We didn’t expect it to take you this far away.”

Erin’s arms cross before she can stop them.

“Now you want to be part of it?” she says.

“We didn’t know how to help before,” his father offers. “But maybe we can now.”

Erin glances at Emerson. Part of her wanted to scream. Part of her wanted to believe them. All of her was tired of being polite.

She turned back to them. “You didn’t come when Sylvie was born. You didn’t call when Emerson almost lost the house. And now you want in—because the lights are finally bright enough for you to see us?”

Emerson says nothing. The reunion he always wanted now feels like a test. And not just for him.

I watch from the side of the stage, scribbling a note:

The city was singing. The family was shifting. The fire would burn through the night—but morning would bring decisions no song could delay.

The fire glows brighter. But so do the shadows.

And somewhere between the light and the dark, I feel it—something shift in me too. I came to St. Louis to report on a story. I didn’t realize I’d stepped inside one. This city, this movement, these people... they’re not just what I’m writing about. They might be what I’ve been writing toward all along.

This is social radio. This is the village fire.

And it’s burning brighter than ever.

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Art goes where words cannot. And questions? More powerful than answers. So…
“What Are You Waiting For?” Listen below—along with the full Season 1 album.

🎶 The World of Songa – Season 1 (Original Soundtrack) 🎶

ACT 1 – Welcome to the Fire
Everyone has a spark inside —
Just waiting to be lit. Ignite yours.

ACT 2 – Belong, Be Strong, Reach Far
We all deserve to belong. This is what
it sounds like to go farther—together.

ACT 3 – Let’s Just Let It Rain
When life gets stormy, this is for the ones
who don’t run from the rain.

ACT 4 – Beat of Your Drum
Relationships lose rhythm. Find your
own beat—while staying in tune.

ACT 5 – Embrace Every Part
Connection starts with acceptance.
A song for presence, not performance.

ACT 6 – Our Town
Home isn’t found. It’s built. This song isn’t
just the blueprint. It’s an invitation.

ACT 8 – 17 Gigs A Month
This one’s for the dreamers—startup and stage.
Hustle hard. Have heart.

ACT 9 – What Are You Waiting For?
Art goes where words cannot. And questions?
More powerful than answers.

👇Check it out below👇
Season 2 drops soon—subscribe for new stories, songs, and a new way to belong.