Lianie laughed, a sound like gravel and honey. She grabbed a nearby guitar, hopped onto a wooden crate, and started to play. She didn't sing about diamonds or champagne; she sang about the roar of a modified Ford Cortina, the smell of a Sunday braai, and the pride of being a "Benoni girl"—tough enough to handle the mines but sweet enough to win your heart.
As she played, the café regulars started to stomp their feet. The man in the suit stopped poking his food. He watched as Lianie transformed the dusty room into a dance floor. By the time she hit the final chord, he was grinning, his tie loosened. Lianie May - Bietjie Benoni
"It’s not polished," he admitted, standing up. "It’s better." Lianie laughed, a sound like gravel and honey