It’s been a year since the launch of The Keeper of the Kumm book and Dance Drama. In Litnet’s African Library Annie Gagiano says “following in the footsteps of Chinua Achebe” it is “one of the most important South African autobiographies”.
We are now working on taking this production to other centres and other parts of the world. If the reviews and feedback on social networks is anything to go by, the past year has been just the start…
The Keeper of the Kumm book launch with Shado Twala.
The Kumm Dance Drama is 90 minutes. For theatre people, partners and stakeholders there is an unlisted link to extracts from the Artscape performance as well as a video of the full run.
A feature documentary is in production and will be available next year.
It’s a moody February morning. The kind of day when the idea of running on the beach tugs at an inner sleeve. I’ve learnt to obey these whispers.
Muizenberg beach is all grey sky and green waters today. A few lonely silhouettes move along the water’s edge.
I run sometimes on the sand, sometimes in the lapping waves. The seashore is that place between this world and the next. Between the conscious and the endless super conscious.
Running on the water’s edge keeps you sharp, focused. Any moment you could tumble over to the other side.
The mountain backdrop is a rising, giant amphitheatre… seats for a drama that never ends.
Just the other day we celebrated my Mum’s 88th birthday with family and friends. The occasion has left me with a deep appreciation of the lessons that they teach me daily.
On my way home from the beach I have to pass the graveyard where my grandmother is buried. A soft voice says maybe it’s time to visit with flowers. I’m in two minds. But something reminds me to heed the whispers.
I buy some red Valentine’s roses and head for the graveyard. Near the entrance a group of workers with shovels recognise me. They’ve helped to clean Ma’s grave before. They rush off ahead of me and get stuck into sprucing up the tiny piece of land.
I sit to one side cutting the flowers and placing it in a small vase.
The man who has been building the mound and smoothing it with water puts down the piece of wood he is using. I notice the name on the wood is exactly the same as my grandmother’s… Sophia Petersen.
I pick it up thinking it’s part of an old cross that belongs to her grave. But then I notice the piece of wood has a middle name and that the dates on it don’t match.
“Nee ma,” says Rasta one of the graveyard workers, “Die behoort aan die graf daar oorkant. Ons gebruik dit maar net. Dit het afgeval.”
The middle name on the other Sophia Petersen’s cross is Magdalene… the same middle name as my mother.
Some days I fear those soft voices I hear will pull me into a world of pure magic and I will become thoroughly useless in this one.
VIA 