At the Market Theatre for the opening of Under the Shade of a Tree I Sat and Wept, I love the Market Theatre.
For 10 performances only. Get your tickets now!
There are certain spaces that do not merely host performance—they hold memory. The Market Theatre is one such place. You do not simply enter it; you step into a living archive of South Africa’s artistic resistance, a space where stories have always carried the weight of truth. And in Under the Shade of a Tree I Sat and Wept, that truth is not revisited gently—it is ruptured, reassembled, and forced into the present tense.
This is not a conventional play. It is theatre about theatre. A self-aware, shape-shifting work that refuses the safety of illusion. At one moment, you are submerged in the harrowing testimonies reminiscent of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission—stories steeped in brutality, injustice, and the unbearable intimacy of violence. The next, the illusion fractures. The performers step outside their roles. They eat pizza. They laugh. They complain about costumes. The stage becomes a rehearsal room.
And just like that, the audience is disoriented.
This oscillation—between immersion and interruption—is not accidental. It is the architecture of the piece. The breaking of the fourth wall does more than disrupt narrative; it implicates the viewer. Where does performance end and truth begin? What does it mean to represent trauma? And who gets to tell these stories?
The play moves like a psychological pendulum. One moment, it descends into the darkest recesses of apartheid’s violence. A performer recounts torture so viscerally it becomes almost unbearable to witness—the body reduced to a site of cruelty, dignity stripped away in acts that defy comprehension. Another narrative lingers on the grotesque image of a severed hand, preserved not as evidence, but as a macabre symbol of power. These are not distant histories; they are rendered immediate, alive in the bodies and voices on stage.
And then—without warning—the tone shifts.
Laughter enters the room. The heaviness lifts, if only briefly. The performers become themselves again, navigating the absurdities of production—the discomfort of a costume, the casual intimacy of shared food, the rhythm of backstage life. It is disarming. Almost jarring. But it is also deeply human.
Because this is the truth the play understands: trauma does not exist in isolation. It coexists with the mundane. With humor. With survival.
At the heart of the production is a remarkable ensemble, each performer moving seamlessly between character and self, between witness and storyteller. There is a precision to their delivery—a discipline that ensures not a single emotional beat is lost. Yet within that precision lies a looseness, an openness that allows moments of spontaneity and connection to flourish.
Bongile G Lecoge-Zulu emerges as a vital presence, her comedic timing cutting through the density of the material like light through a storm. But her role is not simply to entertain. She acts as a bridge—between audience and performer, between fiction and reality—reminding us, gently but insistently, that what we are watching is constructed, even as it draws from very real histories.
Gontse Ntshegang’s moment of resistance—her dissatisfaction with a plastic costume—becomes more than a fleeting aside. It is a rupture in the fabric of performance, a reminder that even within the act of storytelling, there are tensions, negotiations, and acts of defiance. The performer refuses to disappear entirely into the role. She remains present. Visible.
Visually, the production expands the language of theatre. The integration of live video transforms the stage into a hybrid space—part theatre, part cinema. A camera captures the performers in real time, projecting their faces onto a large screen. Every tremor, every flicker of emotion is magnified. The audience is drawn into an intimacy that feels almost intrusive, as though we are not just watching, but examining.
This interplay between scale—between the physical body on stage and the enlarged image on screen—creates a duality that mirrors the play’s thematic concerns. Reality and representation. Distance and proximity. Memory and performance.
There is a choreography not just of movement, but of emotion. The transitions are fluid, yet unpredictable. The play does not allow the audience to settle into a single mode of engagement. Instead, it demands constant recalibration. You are asked to feel, to think, to question—all at once.
And perhaps that is its greatest achievement.
Under the Shade of a Tree I Sat and Wept does not offer resolution. It does not attempt to neatly package the complexities of forgiveness, reconciliation, or the enduring consequences of apartheid. Instead, it lingers in the discomfort. It asks difficult questions and resists easy answers.
What does it mean to forgive?
What does it mean to remember?
What does it mean to perform pain—again and again—so that it is not forgotten?
In the end, the play becomes more than a narrative. It becomes a ritual of witnessing. A space where past and present collide, where performers and audience share in the act of remembering.
And in that shared space, something extraordinary happens.
Theatre transcends performance.
It becomes truth.
Performers
Gontse Ntshegang
Ilire Vinca
Kensiwe Tshabalala
Arben Bajraktaraj
Amernis Nokshiqi
Les Made
Bongile Gorata Lecoge-Zulu
Written by Jeton Neziraj
Dramaturg: Greg Homann
Congratulations Blerta Neziraj and the whole team for a great show and a deserved standing ovation.
Gaga sent me back here, Gaga is endorsed by Sam. A troll this movie is, “Joker: Folie a deux”, it’s in the name, thought you were getting something critically acclaimed but you are getting a musical. Same camera guys, same director, same team but you are getting a musical – bring in Lady Gaga!
Caught me off guard the first time, 23 minutes in, I paused and checked the internet, I thought it was a psychological thriller. Blood on the streets, a barrage of negative reviews, still have 2 hours to go. Let it breath, let it breath, abandon the mission. I saved time, what if they butcher the memory of the first movie? Let it breath, let it breath, if it’s good, it will come back again. A couple of months later, I fall in love with Gaga and she sends me back to Folie a deux. Let’s try again.
The story continues, Arthur is trialed for the murder of 5 people, one live on TV. Arthur’s shadow catches up and engulfs his life, underrated masterpiece. Impossible to beat the former but you have the same team, exist in a different form, innovate, do something unexpected, be contrarian, it will stand the test of time, it will be a cult classic, time is the great teacher. Delusional sociopath Arthur Fleck is, defending yourself as the joker is comical, couldn’t help but laugh when he didn’t put up a defense against Harvey Dent. He was proving Dent’s point, the easiest case you’ll ever get for the prosecution. I get it now, it’s a musical, it had flashes of that in the first one. In Folie a deux, the shadow is fully manifested, the comedy continues. Arthur is guilty of murdering those 5 people, 6 if you add his mother. Interesting how people love the joker and hate Arthur, oh well, that’s entertainment. The projected image is always better, it can be enhanced, manipulated, spun in a narrative and packaged for mass consumption. The joker is a marytr, a form of escapism, a symbol, he provides hope, the chance to day-dream and busk in your primal animal urges. The joker is everything you fail to acknowledge about yourself, he lies doormat, waiting for the opportunity to burn everything to the ground.
When you live like Arthur, you attract psychopaths who are just like you. Arthur meets his demise courtesy of a man who is just like him, he stabs him multiple times and watches him die while laughing uncontrollably in the background. It’s chilling, it’s Arthur’s shadow in the flesh, inhabiting another body. The hellish city of Gotham wins again.
Another Todd Phillips classic, might not get the plaudits because it was unexpected. I understand why it had to be a musical, musicals move time. The sets are fixed to a limited few, dialogue attempts to explain, it doesn’t show and the story is straightforward. Musicals give you another dimension, they have depth, they compress time and they move timelines. Musicals also have a kind of delusion and day-dream about them, a play on Folie a deux. The world wanted a sequel, it got one. Maybe not like the former in appraisals but it is misunderstood and an underrated masterpiece. I am happy Gaga brought me back here.
I’ve found that to be successful, you have to be a monster. Integrate your darkside, shatter glass, break the forth wall. A good man is one who knows he is dangerous but controls himself. We often lie about success claiming that if you work hard enough you’ll attain everything you ever want. But that’s a lie, although not popular, success is given. You are given that corner, move product, make money. If the corner is unoccupied, take it, claim it, it’s yours now, protect your territory, move product, make money. You ascend to the top because you know someone and worked out something that is mutually beneficial. You ascend to the top because of compliance and connections. You ascend to the top because you butchered everyone on the bottom and took the top by force. Force, it displaces objects and moves matter. You have to be powerful to be on top. You work hard, you’re a good soldier but someone dictates whether you rise up in rank. You can be a soldier all your life if an opportunity is not given for you to rise up. That’s why you have to take it, show your strength, assume your destiny, live your truth. Take it, use brute force, there’s a vacuum at the top, that’s a given, it needs a leader, if you can handle the heat and roll with the punches, take it, it’s yours. Tony Montana understood the game, if you can back it up then the whole world is yours. If they won’t give it to you, just take it. Humility is a waste of time, it signals to the world that you are toothless. Street cred can win you the war before it escalates, guard your reputation, your name is your name. Gangster, gangster, I love burning things to the ground, watch them discrete like powder puffing out in the air, watch the madness crisp to black, then ash into obscurity. Why wait for the opportunity when you can just take it? If I can’t have it then I’ll spoil it for everyone, burn it to the ground, ensure it doesn’t stick around, just because I can, because I want to, because I am a gangster.
Take off your ring, anything goes, welcome to gangster’s paradise. Here you get everything, you get to fuck bitches, you get drugs, all the alcohol you can consume and the right to cross any line with impunity. You get the free reign to mess with anybody just as long as they are not a member, you are protected, the collective outranks Jesus, it is godly, all seeing, ever present and immortal. You have proved yourself with your cunning intelligence, cold demeanor, ruthless disposition and the ability to make money in all seasons. Prohibition maximizes the profit margin and the bottomline is jolly fat man. All year long, it’s Christmas, a testament to your earning prowess. Gangster, you created the life of your dreams, Vito Corleone, Thomas Shelby, Marlow, Tony Montana, Gustavo Fring, everyone is in your pocket and your enemies sing. Cause if they get out of pocket then they better be ready to swing, not that it will make a difference cause a deadman can’t swim. When you come at the king, best not miss. A wasted hit will result in the extinction of your whole family line. Just business, nobody whines, to be in the game is to play it. If you don’t take the opportunity to ascend, you’re dead, your chance was given and you missed. You don’t get to be king with a stray attempt, accident murders are flukes. The game is deliberate and concise. Welcome to gangster’s paradise, you made the best of what was given and took the reigns when it was time. Now you’re in paradise, all is fair, money doesn’t have owners, just spenders, you are in charge, you are now God.
Have blood on your hands to see clearly, a good man is a dangerous man who knows his capability. The hero has to be a monster to instill its traits, he must descend into darkness and make it out alive. Gangster, gangster, gangster take it all, they can’t stop you. If they stand on your way bury them. If they want to meet their ancestors so bad, send them through a tunnel. Darkness is what they want? Show them a real gangster. Take it all, the world is yours! X10 the profits, move into other territories, expand, put more soldiers on the ground, build emperors, connect with presidents, influence more, inspire more, gangster, gangster, gangster, keep moving forward, they can’t touch you, take it all. Gambling, bookmaking, extortion, drugs, human trafficking, sex, murder, take it, but beware, people are watching, you are not exempt from the rules of the game, everybody dies and life goes on. Gangster, understand the rules, don’t inspire hate and contempt, best to avoid the spotlight, lurk in the shadow, appear like a bad dream, Kruger, drive-by leaving bloody bodies tumbling to the floor from a hail of bullets.
Bully: Reverence for Ye, or The Art of Loving a Villain
There is no clean way to love Kanye West anymore.
There is no neutral position, no safe distance, no polite cultural posture that allows you to consume the music without also inheriting the chaos that trails behind it like smoke from a burning cathedral. To press play on Bully is to knowingly enter a contradiction — to nod your head to brilliance while your conscience shifts uncomfortably in the background.
And yet… the music plays.
And it is undeniable.
I. The Return of the Architect
Bully does not feel like a reinvention. It feels like a convergence. Kanye is not searching here — he is assembling. This is not the frantic futurism of Yeezus, nor the maximalist confession of My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy. This is synthesis. A man pulling from every era of himself — the soul-sampling disciple, the Auto-Tuned romantic, the industrial provocateur, the gospel convert, the digital warlord — and compressing them into a single, volatile body of work.
It is Kanye as archive.
And more importantly, Kanye as refusal.
Refusal to be contained. Refusal to be corrected. Refusal to be forgiven on anyone else’s terms.
II. Preacher Man — The Gospel That Survived
“Preacher Man” stands as the album’s spiritual spine. The fact that it survived the revisions, the deletions, the re-uploads — that it endured — feels symbolic. It is the one moment where Kanye sounds less like a provocateur and more like a vessel.
The production breathes. Organs swell like confession. The drums don’t knock — they testify.
He sounds weary, but certain. Like a man arguing with God in real time:
“I was talkin’ to the mirror, but the mirror talked back / Said you built your own cross, now you carry that”
There is something almost cruel about how beautiful it is.
Because it reminds you: this man can choose grace.
He just doesn’t always.
And maybe that’s the tension that makes the song feel sacred — not purity, but proximity to it.
Track Breakdown I — Opening Run
1. King The coronation — or self-coronation. Kanye opens Bully not asking for the throne but declaring ownership.
“They tried to exile me, I built a kingdom in the fire”
The production is triumphant but uneasy. Victory with smoke still in the air.
2. This a Must Urgent. Declarative. This feels like survival music.
“This a must, I don’t move unless it’s God-touched”
Minimal drums, sharp cadence — Ye rapping like he has something to prove again.
3. Father (feat. Travis Scott) Dark, cinematic, generational. Travis floats like a ghost in Ye’s lineage.
“Generations in my bloodline, I don’t die, I multiply”
The production feels ancestral — drums like ritual, synths like memory. The video elevates it into mythology.
4. All the Love Deceptively warm. Soulful textures.
“All the love I gave came back fractured”
A meditation on reciprocity — and how love mutates under fame.
III. Heil Hitler — The Sound of Transgression
Let’s not pretend.
“Heil Hitler” is the moment everyone will point to — the line that gets quoted, the clip that circulates, the justification for outrage. And they will not be wrong.
But musically? It is a monster.
The beat lurches forward like a war machine. The bassline feels militarized. His delivery is cold, detached, almost theatrical — like a man fully aware that he is stepping into villainy and choosing to lean in.
“Say the name they fear, now I own the fear / Turn the hate to power, make the whole world stare”
It is uncomfortable to admit that it sounds this good.
But that discomfort is the point.
Kanye has always understood that transgression sells louder than confession. Here, he weaponizes that understanding. He dares you to enjoy it. He forces you to confront the possibility that you do.
And in doing so, he implicates the listener.
Track Breakdown II — Descent into Villainy
5. Punch Drunk Disoriented, hazy. The drums stagger.
“Too many hits, I don’t feel straight”
Fame as concussion. Success as disorientation.
6. Whatever Works Cold pragmatism.
“Morals bend when survival talks”
This is Ye justifying methods — messy, effective, unapologetic.
7. Mama’s Favorite A return to soul. Warm samples, almost nostalgic.
“Mama said I’m special, the world said I’m a problem”
The duality begins here — loved at home, hated outside.
8. Bully (Title Track) The thesis. Heavy drums, minimalistic but aggressive.
“I don’t need your crown, I designed the throne”
He positions himself not as participant in culture — but architect of it.
IV. The Chaos Outside the Music
You cannot talk about Bully without talking about everything surrounding it — because Kanye refuses to separate the art from the spectacle.
The anti-Semitic remarks.
The alignment with figures like P. Diddy.
The vile, unnecessary comments about Jay-Z and Beyoncé’s children.
The spiraling public unraveling.
The black KKK-style outfit in that DJ Akademiks interview — a visual that felt less like rebellion and more like provocation for its own sake.
The confession — bizarre, uncomfortable — about his cousin.
The loss of billionaire status.
And then, almost paradoxically, the public apology — a paid ad extended to the Jewish community, an attempt at repair that felt both sincere and insufficient.
This is not just controversy.
This is contradiction as identity.
Kanye West does not oscillate between extremes — he lives in them.
V. Family, Fracture, and Control
There is a quieter violence that threads through Bully, and it lives in the subtext of family.
His fractured relationship with Kim Kardashian.
The public battle over access to his children.
The sense — whether perceived or real — of being shut out, controlled, managed.
You can hear it in the music.
Not always in direct lyrics, but in tone. In aggression. In defensiveness.
In the need to assert sovereignty at all costs.
“No one controls Ye.” That has become both mantra and prison.
VI. The “Father” Visual — Resurrection as Spectacle
The “Father” video — featuring Travis Scott and directed by Bianca Censori — is not just a music video. It is a statement of aesthetic dominance.
It is excessive. Stylized. Almost mythological in its presentation.
“Generations in my bloodline, I don’t die, I multiply”
And then there is the audacity — the digital resurrection, the evocation of Michael Jackson.
Not imitation.
Not homage.
Resurrection.
Kanye does not reference icons — he absorbs them, repurposes them, reanimates them into his own mythology.
It is blasphemous.
It is brilliant.
Interlude — Spectacle as Language
Even outside the music, Kanye continues the performance.
The Grammys appearance — Kanye West and Bianca Censori stepping onto that stage of global scrutiny, with Bianca in a sheer, near-invisible dress — was not fashion.
It was confrontation.
A living headline.
A statement about control, gaze, autonomy, provocation.
The world reacted exactly as expected: outrage, fascination, discourse, obsession.
Kanye understands something fundamental — attention is currency, and controversy is leverage.
The same instinct that fuels “Heil Hitler” sonically fuels moments like this visually.
He doesn’t just make music.
He orchestrates reaction.
VII. Bully V1 vs The Revision — Fear and Faith
When Bully V1 disappeared from YouTube, it felt like sabotage.
Not from the outside — from Kanye himself.
Because Kanye has a history of overworking, of revising, of stripping and rebuilding until something loses its original soul.
There was real fear that he would ruin it.
That he would tinker the life out of it.
But the revision doesn’t diminish the album — it sharpens it.
The edges are cleaner. The sequencing feels more intentional. The chaos is still there, but it is directed.
And most importantly — the heart remains intact.
VIII. Reverence for Ye — A Love Letter with Teeth
There is something deeply personal about loving Kanye West as an artist in 2026.
It feels like defending a friend who keeps embarrassing you in public.
Like standing by someone who refuses to make it easy.
The words come out conflicted:
The anti-Semitic comments are too much.
The symbolism is too much.
The behavior is too much.
And yet —
The music is still undeniable.
There is a line that lingers:
“I think I am in a toxic relationship.”
Maybe that is the most honest way to describe it.
Because Kanye makes it difficult to hate him.
Not because he is innocent.
But because he is excellent.
Track Breakdown III — Emotional Core
9. Highs and Lows Emotional oscillation.
“One day I’m a god, next day I’m a ghost”
The production mirrors the instability — rising synths, falling drums.
10. I Can’t Wait Impatient, restless energy.
“Future calling me, I can’t sit still”
Feels like ambition refusing to age.
11. White Lines Ambiguous — could be excess, could be highways, could be both.
“Dancing on the edge, don’t blur the lines”
There’s danger here. Controlled chaos.
12. Circles Repetition as curse.
“Same mistakes, new melody”
A haunting admission that growth is not linear.
IX. The Philosophy of the Bully
Why call it Bully?
Because Kanye understands power.
He understands dominance — cultural, sonic, psychological.
A bully does not ask for permission.
A bully asserts.
A bully disrupts.
A bully forces the room to react.
And Kanye has spent his entire career doing exactly that.
Sometimes that disruption produces genius.
Sometimes it produces harm.
Often, it produces both simultaneously.
X. The Art vs The Man
This is the question that refuses to go away:
Can you separate the art from the artist?
Kanye’s answer is clear:
No.
He refuses separation.
He collapses the distance between creation and creator until they are indistinguishable.
Which means that engaging with Bully is not passive consumption — it is active participation in a moral paradox.
And everyone has to decide where they stand.
XI. The Sound of Falling in Love Again
There is a line that cuts through everything else:
“I haven’t felt like this about music since Late Registration.”
That is not nostalgia.
That is reawakening.
Because for all the chaos, for all the controversy, for all the damage — Bully does something rare.
It reminds you why you fell in love with music in the first place.
The textures.
The samples.
The layering of voice and feeling.
The sense that someone is not just making songs — they are building worlds.
“No ads in my sound, just the purity / stream my soul, that’s the real currency”
And Kanye, at his best, does not make albums.
He makes experiences.
Track Breakdown IV — Closing Run
13. Preacher Man Still the spiritual core. Survived every version for a reason.
14. Beauty and the Beast Duality embodied.
“They love the beauty, but they fear the beast”
Kanye splitting himself in real time — public vs private, art vs man.
15. Damn Short, sharp, almost like an exhale.
“Everything I built, they tried to bury”
Feels like frustration condensed.
16. Last Breath Heavy. Reflective.
“If this my last breath, let it echo forever”
Mortality enters the room.
17. This One Here A closer that feels open-ended.
“This one here for the ones that stayed”
Gratitude, defiance, legacy — all unresolved.
XII. Final Verdict — Album of the Year?
Is Bully the album of the year?
If you judge purely on music — it has a case.
If you factor in everything else — it becomes complicated.
But maybe that is the wrong framework.
Because Kanye West has never been interested in clean victories.
He is interested in impact.
In conversation.
In disruption.
And by that metric?
Bully is already undeniable.
XIII. After the Noise
When the headlines fade.
When the outrage cycles move on.
When the interviews and controversies dissolve into cultural memory.
The music will remain.
That has always been Kanye’s final argument.
That the art outlives the moment.
That the work endures.
And maybe that is the most unsettling part of all.
Because it means we will still be listening.
Still debating.
Still conflicted.
Still moved.
Reverence for Ye.
Not because he is perfect.
But because he is impossible to ignore.
And somehow — against all logic — still impossible to quit.
Just as I feared, Fyodor Dostoevsky has ruined Literature for me. I read other books and authors and it’s not the same. They are too surface level, no depth, no risk, lazy, PG, predictable. I don’t finish reading the books because they bore me. Everything is mediocre after Dostoevsky. Maybe I will never get somebody as great as Dostoevsky. His characters are multilayered, they have fears, flaws and motivations. Fyodor Dostoevsky illuminates the darkside of human nature. Siberia made him a genius. He was scheduled to be at executed but at the very last minute, the order was changed to life imprisonment instead. Those final minutes, those last seconds when he thought he was going to die made him the writer he ultimately became. In those last moments, the colors of plants and nature were fuller, the sun was shinning just for him, for the last time, he gained clarity, he negotiated with God, begging him for another chance. He would become a new man, he now saw life as gift, something he should embrace and be grateful for. If God gave him another chance, he would do good in the world, he wouldn’t take anything for granted. Thank God, he saved Fyodor Dostoevsky. “Notes from Underground” was my first Dostoevsky book, short read, about 100 pages, I had never read anything like that in my life. It is psychological, reflective, honest, self-aware and conscious. “Notes from Underground” is brilliant! The Underground man is pitiful, weak, spiteful and pathetic. He wants to avenge himself against a man who wronged him but he is too cowardly. Dostoevsky doesn’t sugarcoat the human condition, life is suffering and difficult and we are all going to die. The storyworld and tone is dark and filled with insecurities. We get into the head of the underground man and he is pathetic, weak and flawed. I initially thought “Crime and Punishment” was the greatest book in the history of humanity. I couldn’t put it down, I loved it, it thoroughly satisfied me. “Wow” was the last thing I said after I finished the book. Then I read “The Brothers Karamazov” – I don’t think there’s a book in existence or in human history that’s better or on par with “The Brothers Karamazov”. It explores religion, atheism, love, patricide and murder. There’s also the fact that Dostoevsky is a master storyteller and unbelievable writer. I strongly believe “The Brothers Karamazov” is the greatest book of all time. His other books “The Idiot” and “Demons” are great, they all get full stars. In fact if you made a case about one of them being better, no one would argue, it’s perspective, besides all his books are masterpieces. The original psychologist, philosopher, a master of human nature and just a literary genius! He set the bar too high, his work is too great, he helped me see life differently, has inspired me so much and ruined literature for me. But I am hopeful, there has to be someone who can rival Dostoevsky.
Sometimes a Mufasa will come out of nowhere to steal your throne, you kill him, they blame you when he was the one that triggered you. I am gonna kill me a king, I am kingslayer. Heroes get set up to take the fall. Making them easy targets, the ones to save the demsel in distress, crocodile tears flooding the ocean, drowning to save a lost course.
Sometimes a Mufasa will steal your girl when you already called dibs on her, you betray him, they blame you when he was the one who did it first. You gotta hand out receipts, sometimes the disrespect gets rampant, shaking reality that they don’t see who they are next to, a little taste of their medicine levels out the playing field.
Sometimes a Mufasa will come out of nowhere to disturb the peace, you start smear campaigns and plot against him, they blame you. When you were next in line. How you gonna let an insignificant creature come out of nowhere to beat you in rank? Convincing everyone of his legibility and taking all the stanks. Running through everything like he got a full tank.
Sometimes a Mufasa will actually win the battle, you can’t blame him, it was his moment. Let him have the glory, the war is long. He will get complacent, it’s inevitable, it’s that kings disease. You let him get comfortable and busk in his false victory, wait for him to show all his weaknesses and you strike when he least expects it to regain the Throne. It’s the game, to be in it is to play it.
Mufasa, Mufasa, why do you stand in my way? Mufasa, Mufasa, what do I have to do to make you go away?
Got a lot of hate in my heart, a lot of impure, grimy thoughts so I’ll transfer it to Mufasa. He wants to be the maryr, typical Mufasa.
Dear Lord help me control my rage, I know everyone I meet is only a version of me, he makes me see the dirt in me, the scumbag in me, give me peace, prolong my reaction speed, help me see the broader picture, give me patience, to weather this storm, flood me with love so it can dilute this hate. Mufasa is my brother, help me see him as such. He is my mirror, may he be reflected as such. I don’t want to feel resentment, set me free, of the pain, entitlement, ego and the urge to control. I put everything in your hands, I am nothing, a mere sinner, crippled by thoughts that will never make me a winner. Purify my thoughts so I don’t have to be a sinner. Mufasa is my brother, help me see him as such. He is my mirror, my he be reflected as such.
I used to love this album. It had a purity about it, it was innocent, it came from a source that was not tainted by anything, it was all love songs and as a poet, I loved all the poetry about girls and love. I understood and connected with Justin all the way. He was born in 94 and I was born in 95, a big selling point. I remember I had a friend, Nkosana Thusi, who loved his music. He had the “Somebody to love” remix with Usher on his phone as an mp3 when it came out – no one had that, that was the video version, everyone had the original version, the remix was highly sought after. The gents back then weren’t open to consuming some Justin Bieber content, everyone was closeted but he had no problem blasting “Baby” featuring Ludacris for all to hear. I would never listen to Justin Bieber out in the open like that! Wouldn’t want the girls in school to think I was “soft” and “sensitive”. Oh hell no, street cred and reputation is everything! Kanye West “POWER” was my jam and just hip-hop in general. Nkosana was comfortable with himself, he enjoyed Bieber’s music, he would play it every time, in the open, didn’t care who was watching or what his peers would think of him. No one had a problem really, it was all in my head, I learned not to project weakness. Singing soprano or just straining your voice as a gent is definitely weakness – put some bass in it! The girls in class loved Justin Bieber and they all gravited towards him. Him listening to Justin Bieber was genius! I always think of Nkosana Thusi when I hear a song off the album, we called him “Big Show”, the gentle giant who loved “One time”, “Somebody to Love”, “Baby” and “U Smile”. RIP Nkosana “Big Show” Thusi.
Big Show got me into Justin Bieber, I liked that Bieber confidence and swag but I still didn’t show it publicly. Publicly was always Kanye West “POWER” but I got all the Bieber singles from him. I ended up purchasing the album and I fell in love with it – double disk, unskippable, just press play. I loved “Favorite girl”, “Up”, “That should be me”, “Overboard” and “Eenie Meenie” with Sean Kingston – Sean Kingston was Dope! I downloaded the album again last week because all my CDs are lost in Limpopo; what can I say, I was chasing dreams, I am rueful, I lost a lot of my CDs, my collection of music that I was accumulating over the years. That Justin Bieber My Worlds album still gives me the same feelings, same emotions, it’s still great, still pure, still a classic, I understand why I loved it so much. This is the only Justin Bieber album I’ve ever listened to, that I bought, that I can endorse, before the tattoos, before the press, before the fame, before the smokescreens and facades. It’s like a time capsule, time sure flys. I am happy Nkosana was in my life.
Happy birthday to you. Thank you for voicing out your concerns, feedback from the world always helps. I have to be honest, I am also concerned and worried about you. Despite what you may say, you are not an old man, in fact you are operating at the peak of your powers. One might say “in your prime”. You need to get better, you can’t carry on living like that. Dignity – empower yourself, you need to start making your own money. Stop feeling sorry for yourself, life goes on, trapped in the same loop since 2009. All my friends have guidance and help to get through life and I have had nothing from you – just birthday texts, nothing that will help me progress in the real world. I am confused. Why are you worried? You never helped. Why do you have a voice? You never gave me any choice. Where’s your job? How did it turn out for you? What gives you the right to be critical? Oh, I get it, the annual “Happy birthday to you”. Passive aggressive tendencies, deeply concerned and worried and yet sitting on the sidelines, definition of theatrics, crocodile tears. Happy birthday to you, Imposing your viewpoint on me, using hypotheticals to get at me, comparing me to people to get under my skin. Happy birthday to you, it’s not enough, send something tangible, give me power, give me money, enable me with your metric of success to garner more of it. Tight fisted but you want to get it from me. I have had to start from scratch on all fronts because I’ve had no support. I am also worried, you have been stuck on the same level for years. I haven’t been able to rely on you for years. The thing about pointing fingers is that you have three pointing back. Happy birthday to you, thank you for initiating dialogue, I also have a couple of things to get off my chest. I hope we will be able to talk about these things more freely and openly. High expectations with no input, claim you want to help but won’t empower or meet me halfway. “Happy birthday to you” never bought any house. I have been lenient, too understanding, an enabler, made you feel like Superman when you struggling to just be man. Happy birthday to you, you have the gift that keeps on giving – the great man antakalipa, just press play. Made me the target because I’ve been silent, well congratulations, the target is out of it’s hole with a bang! Take your shot! The advice was to be humble but pride took over and now I have to reflect it back. Happy birthday to you, here are the receipts to go with it. Concerned, worried, definition of theatrics, crocodile tears. Worried but you never call, concerned yet you always drop the ball. Cognitive dissonance, saying one thing and doing another. Thank you for voicing out your concerns, I’ll do the same. I’ll live my life the way I see fit. Never asked for your advice, it’s counterfeit. “Happy birthday to you” once a year and you think you are fit.
There is something quietly thrilling about seeing performers outside the frame that first introduced them to you. It disrupts familiarity. It redraws the boundaries of expectation. Sitting inside the theatre for the final dress rehearsal of An Ode to Motown, that disruption came early — and it came powerfully.
Lerato Mvelase was the first revelation. Known to many through the language of television — where her craft is contained within the borders of a camera lens — she arrived on stage as something altogether different. A vocalist. A narrator. A commanding presence. Her performance didn’t merely interpret the material; it carried it. She threaded the history of Motown through her voice with conviction and personality, revealing vocal depth and range that transformed surprise into admiration. On stage she expanded — larger, freer, and more electric — embodying the kind of theatrical vitality that only live performance can hold.
Opposite her stood Liesl Penniken, whose presence was striking before a single note landed. Beauty alone rarely sustains attention, but presence does — and hers commanded it. Watching her live felt immersive, as though the distance between performer and audience dissolved. Yet what defined the stage was not a singular spotlight but collective radiance: Tamara Dey, Hlengiwe Pearl, Anele Precious Mthethwa — artists whose elegance, charisma, and technical command recreated Motown’s romantic canon with confidence and swagger.
Their selections leaned into the emotional architecture that built the label’s legacy — love songs, yearning songs, songs of devotion and desire. Classics associated with Marvin Gaye and the Jackson 5 floated through the auditorium with warmth and familiarity. When “Lovin’ You” appeared — its softness and melodic intimacy filling the space — it reminded everyone present that the emotional centre of Motown has always been affection: romantic, communal, and nostalgic. These are songs designed to reconnect people with memory, and the audience responded instinctively, singing along without hesitation.
Seeing Tamara Dey return to the stage carried its own resonance — a reminder of artistic longevity and reinvention. Meanwhile, Hlengiwe Pearl and Anele Precious Mthethwa radiated vitality, balancing vocal strength with visual poise, demonstrating the precision and confidence that anchor ensemble work of this nature.
If the first act glowed with elegance and romance, the second shifted its gravitational centre. The entrance of the male performers altered the energy immediately — grounding the sound with bass, momentum, and physical dynamism. Familiar faces, possibly members of iComplete, stepped forward in tailored black attire that signalled cohesion and intent. Their presence sharpened the show’s rhythm, adding contrast and propulsion that elevated the production into full theatrical stride. It was here that the performance felt as though it truly lifted off — voices interlocking, choreography tightening, the atmosphere thickening with collective electricity.
Beyond the performers themselves, the production design deserves equal recognition. Sequined costumes, sculpted wigs, and textured styling evoked the visual mythology of Motown without slipping into imitation. The aesthetic achieved suggestion rather than replication — conjuring an aura rather than recreating a museum piece. It allowed nostalgia to exist not as reenactment, but as living memory.
That nostalgia became the emotional undercurrent of the evening. The theatre transformed into a communal archive of sound, where audience members sang freely, recollected openly, and shared in musical remembrance. Motown’s catalogue transcends generational boundaries; it is social glue disguised as melody. The rehearsal space, even in its unfinished state, vibrated with this shared participation.
One of the production’s most intriguing gestures arrived through its intellectual layering — weaving philosophical and historical fragments into the musical journey. References touching on Nietzsche and the inclusion of Martin Luther King Jr.’s voice expanded the narrative scope beyond entertainment, situating Motown within broader conversations about identity, struggle, joy, and human aspiration. These insertions reminded viewers that the music emerged from a particular historical consciousness — one shaped by resistance, imagination, and collective hope.
Anchoring the entire production was the live band — exceptional in both sensitivity and precision. Their musicianship ensured that the show never drifted into pastiche. They did not merely accompany; they animated, guided, and textured every transition. Live instrumentation granted the music immediacy, breathing elasticity and emotional responsiveness into songs that have lived decades beyond their origins.
What ultimately lingers after witnessing An Ode to Motown is not a singular performance moment but a composite feeling. The show operates as tribute, celebration, and emotional time capsule simultaneously. It honours the past while energising the present. It invites memory while delivering immediacy. And above all, it affirms that Motown’s spirit — its romance, its confidence, its communal joy — remains timeless.
This production does not simply revisit the music. It reminds audiences why it never left them.
Choreography: Lulu Mlangeni
Musical direction: Margaret Motsage
Live band
Mpho Kodisang – Piano
Earl Joseph Baartman – Bass
Urbano Bay Nobela – Guitar
Tshepa Diale
Congratulations James Ngcobo and the whole team for a great show and a deserved standing ovation.
antakalipa 