Expectations, Inkumbulo and the Unexpected

memories

Blue nile to the galaxy around olodumare, opens in the dark. It’s not just the absence of light – it’s an invitation to explore what lies beneath, to dive into the depths of memory and meaning. The first ten minutes unfold in pitch-black silence, the air thick with anticipation. Ambient sounds – a piano rumble, ancient strings – saturate the space, teasing a story that’s both familiar and unknown.

For the audience, the darkness is a mirror. As the play progresses, the weight of this absence brings memories flooding back: a childhood under the shadow of load-shedding, where darkness was a recurring guest. I sit, reminded of the small corners of my own home – blankets stitched from rags, the promise of light, and the anticipation of what would return when the electricity did. A simple wish to know what would come next.

The performance builds on this tension. “Expectations” hints at what’s to come: Naturally I expected bold, synchronized Pantsula dancers, the unmistakable sound of fast-paced beats, colourful matching outfits, bottle crates, brooms, and stories of township life told through dance, laughter, and rhythm and movement. And yet, as the music swells, this image slips away, replaced by something unexpected. The music, evocative and atmospheric, pulls us into new territory – one where Pantsula is not just defined by its usual beats, but shaped by a more complex narrative.

As the horizon on stage brightens, I’m taken back to a recurring childhood dream – a vast, unending stretch of light. I would run toward it, only for it to always recede. It’s a visual metaphor: the past – always there, but forever just out of reach.

Suddenly, the music stops. Silence.
Then – a single clap. A rhythm. Footsteps. And BANG – Jazz! Alice Coltrane

In a bold turn, the dancer delivers his movements to a rhythmic fusion of Pantsula and jazz. This is not a clash but a seamless blending of worlds. The quick, mechanical rhythms of Pantsula meet the fluid, improvisational energy of jazz. It’s a daring move, and I LOVED IT!. The result is a melancholic yet exhilarating narrative, one that transcends the street-level storytelling of traditional Pantsula and enters a more introspective, universal realm.

It was unexpected, yet it worked. A fusion of stories told not through predictable beats, but through an emotional, even melancholic soundscape. It felt like my childhood was being rewritten in real-time. Reimagined.

The dancers – each with their own story – move as if in conversation with the music. Slow stomps and swift slides give way to moments of improvisation, punctuated by spontaneous solos. Alice Coltrane’s ethereal music pulses through the space, elevating the dancers’ technical precision and emotional depth.

A shift comes with a monologue by Scelo,

"You know; the future – it's a much better guide to the present than the past. You have to know the past for you to understand the present.
If we are to reimagine our presence, imagine our future, we should start by reimagining our past.
Thinking historically in the present is the only way to then move forward."

urging a reimagining of the past to understand the present, and thus, the future. This philosophical pause adds texture to the piece, grounding the abstract in a tangible call for reflection. The dancers respond, their movements now a dialogue with the words, reinforcing the concept that our stories are not fixed – they are always evolving.

The final moments pull everything together to the music of Bheki Mselu – precise movements, chants, and whistling, all punctuated by the powerful call of “Asambe!” ("Let’s go!"). The pace quickens, the energy surges, and the dancers take their final bow, leaving the audience roaring with applause.

What stands out most is its ability to challenge expectations. The fusion of genres and the exploration of memory and identity create a performance that is as intellectually stimulating as it is visually striking. The absence of smiles throughout the piece – the dancers’ faces are serious, even solemn – adds a layer of tension, reinforcing the idea that this isn’t about joy or spectacle. It’s about something deeper.

As I ask Jeremy Nedd, the choreographer, about the decision not to smile during the performance, his response is simple, yet profound: “A smile comes when it comes.” It’s a reminder that in this space – this performance – everything has its time. And in that, it becomes something greater.

Not just a dance play, but a journey through memory, expectation, identity and possibility. It taught me that tradition can shift and still hold meaning. That the past and present can speak to one another in new languages – and that sometimes, the lights don’t need to come on for you to truly see.