THE first time I saw a Gibson Kente production was some time in the 1970s. Instead of dispatching my siblings and me to grandmother for their night out, my parents decided to take us along to the theatre. The play was called I Believe. I recall the name of the play; of the plot I recall nothing.
The playwright’s name, however, was to stay with me for most of my youth, like the nagging strains of a song that lingers in the mind. The tune of this music was somehow different. It depended on who was singing it.
It was the music of admiration from the lips of white university literature lecturers dubbing him “the father of township theatre”. In return, they could christen themselves radical. It was the music of derision from black drama students dismissing him as unskilled in subtlety, in return acquiring a halo of higher education. It was the music of adulation from the lips of township folk who called him “Bra Gib” and packed his houses to the rafters – quite literally at times.
This is the man surrounded by a group of eager youngsters hanging on to his every word as he talks about “the artistic eye”. This is the man who asks the cast of his latest play, Mfowethu, “Are we together folks?”. This is the man to whom they respond in unison, “Together!” You need to have seen a Kente production to appreciate that this is a Kenteism.
This is also the man who sighs: “Sometimes actors can let you down, you know.”
And this is the man who, in 1959 as a social worker and a wannabe composer, sought a collaboration with a playwright to produce a play. His music was to drive the words of the partner. “I looked to no avail and decided that I should write the play myself.”
Manana, the Jazz Prophet was born, and this first child gave birth to the father of black theatre. “Manana was based on the influences of religious entertainment,” he says of the play. “It was about this guy who felt that he could draw kids away from the streets into the church by giving services that would entertain them.” At the time this was an issue that was important to people, he says, adding: “Most of my stories are based on what people are interested in.”
He drops a clanger by dismissing an interest in presentations of political content: “I am not much of person of politics.” Rather surprising in view of the fact that in the dark days of apartheid, Kente was detained for what he was writing. And equally surprising in view of the fact that he provoked the ire of the United Democratic Front’s cultural desk in the 1980s by staging an anti-sanctions play, Bad Times Mzala. Counting them on his fingers, he concludes that of the 25-odd plays he has written and produced only “about six or seven of them have an overtly political content”.
So what about his new work? Has he, in retrospect, changed his tune? “One of the things that I pride myself in is that I will not bend to either side of the political spectrum. I wrote what I felt.” Which means he still feels that the sanctions he was railing against in the 1980s continue to do damage in our post- apartheid society. “I actually feel stronger about them now than I did then because the present government cannot deliver,” he says, explaining that “it all started with sanctions”.
Kente will no doubt leave an indellible mark on the face of local theatre. After all, the likes of the world-famous Mbongeni Ngema have learnt their craft at his hands.
For the sake of posterity, I want to know, are there any records of his plays? “You know, when you ask me that question you hurt me,” he says. All of his plays and recordings were destroyed by a fire in 1989. Needless to say, this has presented a few problems – not the least of which being the fact that director Jerry Mofokeng, in an attempt to restage one of Kente’s early classics, Lifa, has had to rewrite the play from the memories of the original cast.
Ironically, with the new dispensation in place the father of township theatre has not had much luck in the way of hits. Mama’s Love, his foray into televion, was not the success it was meant to be. The touches of Kente were still there but the presentation was too big for television. It seemed as if the transition from stage to television was proving to be too much. It seemed that the magic was gone.
He acknowledges that it was slightly over the top and that “I could have spent more time with the actors, with the product, toning it down to the degree it needed to be in.” He says that even when the series was on, he and his actors watched it religiously. “We watched it with our eyes and our pens.”
While his last attempt at television had its hiccups, he has not abandoned the medium. “I love television, those subtleties, those nuances.” With that love he has accepted an SABC commission to adapt his play, What a Shame, for television. It is to be renamed Lahliwe.
“This time it’s going to be better,” he says. One can only hope so, even if it is out of sentiment.
Lifa will be performed by the original cast from April 8 at the Civic Theatre, Johannesburg; Lahliwe, currently being reworked, will be screened on SABC1