It starts with a clap and then the feet tap along to the beat: four times on each side, followed by a quick jump. As the melody rises, the dancers descend low and twirl.

It’s a dance that’s easy enough for anyone to learn, and people all over the world have done so, from an urban dance crew in Angola to Franciscan nuns in Europe show off their moves on social media.

The ‘Jerusalema’ dance, named after the South African hit that inspired him, created a moment of global joy during the pandemic lockdownsa welcome distraction from the isolation and collective grief.

But it was the chorus, a lament over a heavy bass beat, that was balm to millions. Low alto sung in isiZulu, one of South Africa’s official languages, the audience didn’t need to understand the song be hit by it.

The singer Nomcebo Nkwanyana, who is professionally known as Nomcebo Zikode, drew from her own intense pain when she wrote it.

“Jerusalem is my home,” she sang. ‘Guard me. Walk with me. Don’t leave me here.”

After more than a decade as an overlooked backing singer, and with her faith in music faltering, Ms Zikode, 37, was in a dark place in 2019 when she wrote those words.

Her manager, who is also her husband, insisted that she write the lyrics to help her suppress the voices in her head telling her to give up the music and herself.

“Like there’s a voice telling you to kill yourself,” she described her depression at the time. “I remember talking to myself and saying, ‘No, I can’t kill myself. I have to educate my children. I can’t, I can’t.’”

She did not listen to the song’s recording until a day after it was made. When the bass began to reverberate through her car, everything went dark, she said, and she nearly lost control of the vehicle. She stopped, tears streaming down her cheeks.

“Even if you don’t believe it, this is my story,” she said. “I heard the voice say to me, ‘Nomcebo, this is going to be a big song all over the world.'”

And that prediction quickly turned out to be true.

In February 2020, a group of dancers in Angola uploaded a video showing their choreography to the song, and challenge others to surpass them. When the lockdown came into effect a few weeks later, the song was shared all over the world.

The worldwide success of “Jerusalema” has taken Ms. Zikode on tour to Europe, the Caribbean and the United States. It also led her on the song “Bayethe,” which would to win the Grammy Award for Best Global Music Performance earlier this year.

But while ‘Jerusalema’ has brought her worldwide fame, she has had to fight to earn a financial reward for it and to be recognized as part of its creative force.

She sued her record label and a settlement in December demanded that she receive a percentage of the song’s royalties and audit the books of the label, Open Mic Productions, which owns the song.

At least as importantly, the agreement states that Ms. Zikode is to be named as the song’s “primary artist” alongside Kgaogelo Moagi, better known as Master KG, the producer behind the instrumental on “Jerusalema.”

But even this victory in South Africa’s male-dominated music industry comes with important caveats: First, Master KG receives a higher percentage of royalties. And Ms. Zikode said she has yet to see the payment. “I’m still waiting for my money,” she said.

Open Mic did not respond to multiple requests for comment, but in a statement following her Grammy win, the label said, “She is a very talented artist and we welcome this agreement as a progressive solution.”

Struggles with money are nothing new to her.

The youngest of four children born in a polygamous marriage, the father of Mrs. Zikode died when she was young, leaving her mother, the third wife, destitute. In desperation, her mother allowed a church outside Hammarsdale, a small town in South Africa’s eastern KwaZulu-Natal province, to house her daughter for four years.

There she slept on bunk beds between rows of other children. She sewed her own clothes and helped clean the dormitories. The church choir was a comfort, but she missed her home very much until she was able to return in 10th grade.

Her mother sold corn or traded the vegetables she could grow for second-hand clothes. The neighbors who asked young Mrs. Zikode to sing for them, fed her and took her in for a few nights while her mother was struggling.

When she was old enough, Mrs. Zikode learned to braid other people’s hair to earn some money, but she remembers self-consciously pressing her elbows to her sides, fearing that her customers would smell that she couldn’t afford deodorant .

But what she really wanted was to sing, and she got her chance in an open audition. She spent years singing backup for gospel stars and shared crowded apartments with other backing singers. When the gigs stopped, she took computer classes as a backup plan for her career.

Ms. Zikode’s first major South African hit came in 2017 when she sang vocals on the song “Emazulwini‘ for a well-known house music producer and DJ, Frederick Ganyani Tshabalala. But what seemed like a long overdue hiatus turned into a letdown when DJ Ganyani, as he’s known, did everything he could, she said, to avoid playing the song live on her own.

“They are trying by all means to suppress the singers,” Ms. Zikode said of the DJs and producers who hold the most power in the South African music industry.

DJ Ganyani did not respond to requests for comment.

Hoping a record label would better protect her rights, Ms. Zikode signed with Open Mic, but once the deal was signed, the label went quiet, she said, and she had to rush to record her debut album.

Her husband and manager, Selwyn Fraser, felt let down by the record company and sent messages to other artists disguised as his wife on Instagram and Twitter, trying to get bigger names to work for her.

This outreach campaign put Ms. Zikode in contact with Master KG and resulted in ‘Jerusalema’.

It’s not just the song that has made her a household name in South Africa, but also her very public fight for her royalties and recognition, in the courts and on social media, said Kgopolo Mphela, a South African entertainment commentator.

“She comes across as the hero or the underdog taking on Goliath,” Mr. Mphela said.

Despite all her struggles in reaping the financial benefits of ‘Jerusalema’, Ms. Zikode’s musical career has made her financially comfortable and she now has a music publishing deal with a division of Sony Music.

Her 17-year-old daughter and 8-year-old son lack nothing, she said. She and her husband renovated their house and added their own studio.

Ms. Zikode can also bask in the accolades she’s received with her Grammy win for “Bayethe.”

On a chilly April evening in Johannesburg, in the twilight of the Grammys, Ms. Zikode stepped out of a borrowed Bentley at an event to celebrate South Africans who have achieved international success.

As she walked the red carpet, determined to own the moment, she granted every interview request, be it from the national broadcaster or a TikTok influencer. Later that night, she received two checks, one for herself and one for a charity she founded that helps poor young women.

When she took the stage to perform the song that made her famous, she pulled up her dress to dance the “Jerusalema.”