“Ntwa ke ya madula mmoho” is a Sesotho expression that can loosely be translated to mean: those who stay together are bound to fight. Conflict is inevitable — sometimes internal or private, sometimes public and global — but the moments of reconciliation often arrive unexpectedly, surprising us with their timing and their tenderness.
This month, I have been thinking about the significance of April. It begins with April Fool’s Day — a day when real events can sometimes feel unreal — and in South Africa, it progresses towards Freedom Day, a date laden with history, pain, and hope.
April also reminds me of the lessons of Afro-feminisms, particularly the notion of intersectionality: how oppressions based on race, class, gender, and other markers intertwine to shape our identities and lived experiences. As humxns, we carry stories too complex for everyday conversations.
Sometimes, a child, angry for years over what felt like unfair treatment from parents, guardians, or teachers, carries a heavy silence, never finding the words to ask why — or to say sorry. Likewise, a parent, acting out of love or fear, may never know how deeply their intentions were misunderstood or how far their actions reached.
But then, there is theatre!
Not the kind that merely entertains, but a kind that intentionally switches the spotlight — from the actors on stage to the audience on life’s stage. A kind that blends with Playback Theatre, where, after a performance, the audience is invited to share whether the story resonates with their own lives.
An audience member raises a hand and tells their story. In a moment of collective witnessing, a narrative of care, sacrifice, and messy imperfection, born of love and fear, is played back to them. Somewhere, sitting unseen, a child’s anger softens. They do not rise to declare forgiveness aloud. Those who hurt them are not physically present. Outside the theatre space, a blackboard and chalk await. Audience members are invited to leave reflections. Among the scribbled words, one phrase stands out: “SORRY MOM, I’ll do better.”
A performer reads it later and feels a lump form in their throat. They later share that the comment freed them too. The reciprocity is real.This is the power of theatre: a space where entelechy — the realization of hidden potential — takes root. A place where unseen possibilities of empathy, growth, and understanding are given life.
Theatre makes room for stories shaped by the intersection of oppressions, not in abstraction, but in flesh and blood. And sometimes, through these deeply personal performances, theatre brings us to a global reckoning. It reminds us that apology is not just a private act — it is historical, collective, necessary, and deeply needed.
Just before his death, former South African president F.W. de Klerk recorded a video in which he said:
“I, without qualification, apologise for the pain and the hurt and the indignity and the damage that apartheid has done to black, brown, and Indians in South Africa. I do so not only in my capacity as the former leader of the National Party, but also as an individual.“
Through the intimacy of theatre, the child’s quiet apology to their mother echoes across continents — alongside apologies still owed, still unfolding across generations, nations, and histories.
From the theatre, a seed is planted: the recognition that healing — whether between mother and child, or between peoples — begins not with perfection, but with the willingness to truly see one another’s wounds, and to imagine, together, what might grow beyond them.
– Lalu Mokuku is the Chairperson of ASSITEJ SA and Vice President of ASSITEJ International. She will be performing her solo performance of SERURUBELE at the upcoming National Arts festival, in an endeavour to enrich intergenerational conversations through theatre.
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