#william harding

[creativespark]

William Harding (New Zealand, 1826-1899), Two Unidentified Men, 1888

[beforeafterrobots]

Risk and Reward at the core of Cenotaph of Dan wa Moriri (review)

By Mfuneko Toyana

 “That game of Risk lasted four days,” says Tony with a sigh.

“I don’t remember anything about those four days except that I won,” William says, rubbing his beard in satisfaction with gloves cut off at the fingers.

 The two, Tony Miyambo and William Harding, co-creators of the sombre Cenotaph of Dan wa Moriri, about a son who loses his father, drift lightly between anecdotes of risk and reward – those found in life in general and specifically those indigenous to the universe of their craft. An unconscious counter-climax perhaps? Coping mechanism, wrapped in humour and warped in whimsy, to offset the intense emotions explored under faint lights of the sepulchral Wits Theatre’s Amphitheatre?

 The tragicomic mélange of loss and grief is macabre, gratitutous in its honesty; a delicately primordial rendering of timesless condition of grief. Bare introspection that gently culminates in relief and bits of understanding, ending with Miyambo holing a saucer of tears in his eyes. A smile hovering on his lips like a ghost, he savours the reward of risking emotional exposure.

 “It’s a personal story,” Miyambo says after the one man show. “You know how it is, we as black people hardly ever explore personal loss.”  

 The play saunters and swings, like a Chinese box in a speeding taxi on bumpy road, for just under an hour, through Thabo’s memory of suddenly losing his hairdresser father Dan (hence Dan wa Moriri). The young boy, marooned in the empty family home stuffed full with traces of his dead parent, wrestles a tangle of memories and pain and a bald patch caused by one-too-many S-curl treatments, is forced to connect the dots of what his father meant to him and what life without him might look like.

 These are secrets Miyambo as Thabo offers the audience.

He admits that this is tricky terrain, via another anecdote, a path that in turns demands great risk and offers surprising reward.

 Some weeks back in Grahamstown, at the annual National Arts Festival, Miyambo performed the play to an audience of one. Dismayed by the empty seats in the auditorium, backstage staff suggested he abandon the performance but Miyambo refused. It gets better the more I perform it, Miyambo says, nevermind the emotional toll.

 Miyambo got a standing ovation that night. That sole member of the audience turned out to be convener of audiences at the festival, and Cenotaph of Dan Moriri was awarded a prize for excellence. Risk was rewarded.

 The small sum of prize money also helped Miyambo make it half the 969 kilometers after Bloemfontein back to Joburg, to once again risk baring it all on stage.

[brophyblam]

"Streets of New York" by William Harding

​I must write. It seems the only way that I can get her out of my head. Her beauty. Her majestic figure inspiring nothing but hope and the strive for success. But yet it is a curse. Thinking constantly of how perfect she is and how I will never compare. I will write. Then I may relive this moment through my writing. This torture of seeing her beauty has killed me enough. But where should I start. Possibly when we first met! No, no, no, to late. I guess the proper beginning should happen in the city, when I began to walk down the streets of New York. ​It was a commotion of white noise, bright light, and frantic people. Women wearing red were darting in and out of the crowd. Men in suits with their ties loose on their necks from a long day at work paced themselves to get home by a descent hour. The streets were covered in gum. The roads were cracked. Smog clung low to the sewers of the city. Only streaks of light from the distance could peer through the dense smog, only to intrigue you to keep walking. ​My dad was walking with me. He was giving the tour of the city, or what he remember of it from thirty years ago. He once lived here when all the commotion was less. We walked for hours. My feet were beginning to drag on the dirty floor. My shoulders hunched, tired and fatigued, but I continued to follow my old man through his city. In and out of stores, up and down elevators to the top floors of skyscrapers so he could looking down. He had a sense of awe in him when looking down upon the frustrated yellow beetles, honking their horns. He giggled, frowned, turned away, then looked up with a smile and nudged his head to continue the tour. ​We were on our way to dinner. My dad had something different in his stride. He carried his smile high as he walked. He needed to make a stop first before dinner. Somewhere "special." I loved to see him smile, it seemed he was always caught up in work, but when he did, all his cheeks wrinkled up and his beep blue eyes pierced out past all the frustration and fatigue from work. I had not one clue on where we were going or what we would see, but I knew it would be different. The sun was setting as I walked on the sidewalk near the coast. Trees were everywhere, waving their branches and fluttering their leaves with the wind. My father picked up his pace and interested like a little duck, I waddled behind. There was a break in the trees and there she was. She stood high and proud like every American. Her torch piercing the sky and book in hand. She looked out to the sea as a beacon to intrigue those lost come to her. He robe filled with passion and movement made her walk along with you as you pace the coast. ​The sun was setting behind her, an array of oranges, reds, yellows, and purples were painted in the sky. All you could see was her immaculate silhouette. Her beauty shining even now as it did years ago welcoming the many new immigrants to our wonderful country. My dad came from behind me with his loving, strong hand on my shoulder as we both stared out into the distance in silence. He then broke it and said only one short sentence that would make this moment live forever in my heart. “I remember my first time,” in a sort of whisper as we stared in total silence with only the sound of the waves brushing themselves on the rocks. We stayed there for what felt like so little, but by the time we left, the sun had set and New York was full of its colors of the night. You could still see her standing on the water as proud as ever, with more lights reflected on the almost placid water from the ruckus on the Streets of New York.