ntandocl

Once walked, twice talked...

2010-11-13T04:54:00.000-08:00

Once walked, twice talked…

“When walking as opposed to running one of the feet is always in contact with the ground”.

As Ntando Cele I associate the ground with images of despair, desperation, grief and the potential for horizontal madness. I have the choice to walk over, along or in the ground. The performance;

Once walked, twice talked is an invitation to you the observer to take off your shoes and experience the ground, this is a story of two strangers; through sound and actions compete in the game of grief.

Thank you to Dasarts and Hetveem Theater September 2010

Mourner 1

Cat Smits

Mourner 2

Yinka Adesina

CYPHER SESSION VIDEO

2010-06-30T11:33:00.000-07:00

“If my body were to be a drawn like a map, with borders, rivers and deserts; then through self composed sound, song, movement and spoken word; a knowledgeable person can navigate across the land recognizing the impressions of the future, past, present.”
Ntando Cele

Cypher Session is inspired by Songlines of the Indigenous Australians and the need to create a space filled with memories that collide / interact creating dialogue. Through songs, sounds and movement the audience will interpret
different stories.

This was a presentation of a work in progress to get feedback from collegues and practitioners. DASARTS 09/06/10.

CYPHER SESSION

2010-06-29T09:36:00.000-07:00

SONG IN MY HEART

2009-11-19T09:19:00.000-08:00

Song in my Heart

(Inspired by More, more future. Choreography by Faustin Linyekula)

Playing in darkness,

Portraying dark spaces,

Places, hushed whispers.

The body imprints its footprints,

Speaking in murmur of hearsay.

Hands on heads, hands folded, hands on deck.

History portrays the instinct.

Survival of the fittest, run and don’t look back.

In search of new stories…no storytelling

In songs that heal your soul,

The dreamer is urged to cherish the moment.

Dance with drums, follow the moves and keep your eyes closed.

Full of contrast, contradictions

Congo, Africa paves the way forward.

In variations, marinating beautiful words of sound,

The body tells your story, our story, their story, black story …

They will say this is the wrong poem.

This history tells of violence I have come to accept as my own.

Violence against my body.

Violence against the body,

The violence in my body.

Crossroads

2009-10-01T10:30:00.000-07:00

Crossroads

I was at the crossroads, the centre of the beginning of the end.
Depending on which direction I take my destiny will alter and morph with each step I take, with each footprint I leave on the dusty road.

The uneven surface cause me to dwindle and wallop out of balance.
As the sharp stones poke my naked feet but I walk on.
Not knowing whether my feet bleed or no I trot imagination my feet to be made of hoof, hardened by steel of history and memory of a life lived in hardship.
I reach the tarmac unsure of which way to go. I spit on my left hand using two fingers from my right hand I hit hard the spit demanding a direction, guidance from the ones who have come before me, perhaps my sweat will attract their whispers. My attempt is futile as my spit just dissolves into the air, disappearing in the heat. I sigh wanting to scream in frustration. Wishing the path I am to take will show it self perhaps through a dream , a sigh, a bird will fall out the sky, a man will appear and with his fragile walking stick point me the right direction.

Nothing happens.

The tarmac seems to be melting under the scorching sun I am thirsty and dizzy from concentrating on the four roads, desperately waiting to pick up any movement or twitching of the earth that I will use as my excuse to head in that direction. In the midst of all that chaos my mind wants to slip back to my childhood remembering the days I played as a child following the roads to anywhere they led me. Magically I would always find the way home. Without doubt or fear of the voices on the road or the screams from the stones, groans from the tress I would sing my song kicking the smaller stones and blindly follow the road home. Since then the roads have changed,
With the change come new songs. The tarmac sings in strange language, a tone I do not recognize. It groans in serpent like whispers that sometimes send shivers down my spine. Spitting black mucus, that bubbles in the heat frying insects dead in seconds.

Instead of choosing the path today, I decide to lay down the centre of the crossing. My arms stretched out, my stomach burning from heat on the floor, my knees relax into the floor and my palms touch the ground.
At first the buzzing of the heat seems to stop taken back by what I have done. I can feel I have surprised even this all knowing intersection. I lay there and find peace in my indecision. Nothing happens the clouds stop on their lazy tracks, the wind holds it s breath, the heavens look at me puzzled.
Suddenly with great gusto the sky unleashes a great crack of lightening whipping the clouds and wind into a frenzy of chaos. The sky turns grey, thunder bellows, lighting whips the sky, sending the clouds to spill buckets, and buckets of rain drops the size of peas. The rain pelts my body, beating me to a pulp I lay still listening to the clashing then small drops of ice crash on the road like small treasures they run quickly, quickly before they melt into the earth. Still I lay with my eyes closed listening to the rebellion. In the midst of this my ear to the ground I hear a familiar song coming from deep within the earth it’s the song of the dirt, the song of the dust and mud that guides my soul keeping me grounded. “Follow me “ it cries, “I know the way home”. I start to humming the tune and I slowly fall into a deep, deep sleep in the middle of the road.

RESIDENCY2009

2009-05-19T11:19:00.000-07:00

My first month in Switzerland, Zurich has been really interesting. Armed with a living allowance, through Pro-Helvetia(http://www.prohelvetia.ch/) I am hosted by the Rote Fabrik (http://www.rotefabik.ch/), who have provided a flat, studio and a platform for interaction with other artists in Switzerland.
Before I arrived I was put into contact with Marisa Godoy of Oona Project a choreographer and dancer working and living in Switzerland. We exchanged ideas on creating and what we have in common and I discovered she originates from Brazil so our issues on funding and creating work on a shoe string budget are the norm. After a few emails she invited me to come sooner to Zurich to watch her rehearsal process for a show called "please" opening in May at Theathre Gesneralle, so with much enthusiasm my residency started on a good note. Having a structure to attend rehearsals that start at 10 am till 5 pm I found it made the first month easy.
It was a flexible agreement that allowed me the luxury to sleep in on days when I could not wake up early.
Having watched her process a lot of questions still remain in my head that I doubt will be answered anytime soon.
Being allowed to watch rehearsals meant that I was constantly in a creative environment. Asking different questions in my head, about the role of performing or the performer and what I beleive to be.
I also watched theatre shows outside of Zurich and at the Rote Fabrik as it is a working cultural house with theatre, concerts and all sorts of other cultural events.

Through this resdency I have been introduced to thinking differently about the creation process and gaining more confidence as an artist.
I have learned the importance of having a "try out". Where a panel is invited to see the show before the real audience sees it. Here there will be a discussion and questions about decisions that make or break the work. This allows for open critism and advise on how the work could perhaps be made better.
I have also learned the value of having resources. My original application for the residency included the opportunity to create without pressure or lack of funding and to be able to discuss my problems with other practitioners .
I am slowly discovering my own process and hope more of my questions will organically answer themselves as I engage in my own rehearsal.

FUGEREE

2008-07-28T07:05:00.000-07:00

This show is performed as public intervention or sight specific work.

"Fugeree" was created in Amsterdam, it was a response to the Xenophobic violence that took place in South Africa.

Long weekend

2008-06-03T06:06:00.000-07:00

Cabin Fever…

Drinking tea waits for no one;

Quickly, crinkle your skirt and bargain for a cup of tea.

Crunch your way toward the syrup taste of donughts

and chocolate chip cookies.

Fold your serviette in half and wait for a jam drooling toasted sandwich;

that looks like its dreaming about caramel peanut butter.

Indulge yourself in pepper, sprayed, pesto and cheese roll exploding with chicken pieces;

mocking you from the one side of the bread….

Smother your tongue and let your teeth gnaw at a green fresh piece of lettuce;

that cries “help” as you chew her friend; the cucumber slice she partied with the night before.

Crush some ice and strawberries and machine yourself a smoothie filled with wholesome goodness…

and a teaspoon of fresh cream on top.

Still not satisfied huh?

Well then step right in and sizzle your self a tender steak,

bleeding rawness and perfection; that when you start to chew;

it oozes barbeque in sweet and sour garlic.

Throw your head in cream, butter, cheesyfied mashed potatoes dully waiting to be consumed.

I will say no more…

Love vs Loneliness

2008-05-31T08:48:00.000-07:00

Untitled

Writing love songs is like flamingos spilling into flight at sunrise.

Painting the sky, peach and orange.

Love songs are the twist of the tongue

Wanting to roll out, something smooth.

It’s the throat burning to sing a song;

to soften the palate.

Love songs are the purging of a coy mistress;

Fantasising about her estranged lover.

It’s the sad hum of an unsuspecting girlfriend;

Sighing at the thought of her man lost in a big world.

Love songs are for crush crazed school girls;

Who create scenarios about love making and the art of relating.

It’s the hushed conversations about how

He ejaculated onto her thighs.

Loneliness is the sick feeling in the stomach while the intestines play hide and seek,

Threatening anorexia.

It’s the unexpected nausea brought on by binging on chocolates and ice cream.

Loneliness is hearing a knock at the door and there’s nobody there.

It’s the door bell that never rings, communicating unknown call me backs to the cell phone.

Love songs are strange words written in a foreign language;

by a caffeine fiend / poet lost in translation.

He scribbles reminiscing of summer days and rainfall at the park.

Love songs are for fat ladies sitting under the shade of a tree,

The compare stories of their first night.

Revealing secrets of stained sheets and the rejection of an un bleeding new bride.

Loneliness is an empty sigh after really good sex. It’s a feeling unsatisfied with life’s love

Whether they are precious moments or dull days in the sun.

Loneliness is the sound of a siren alerting the paranoia and numbing the taste buds.

The mind creating shadows that randomly appear.

Love songs are for good boys and clever lads decking their cards.

They pile their experiences to their wit and cunning.

It’s the drunken masters’ last story before he passes out.

Love songs are the dance of spirit as it sweats out passion.

Creating an air of angered petals, that breathes sweat and heavy panting.

It’s the charm at the beginning of a love affair tightening the air with tension.

Loneliness is the grey clouds constantly covering a girl’s sun.

Making her walk in the shade and be the only person with jersey on a spring day.

Loneliness is a sad blow of the wind; howling strange tunes.

The leaves dancing out of rhythm,

Crackling the branches that break off in disappointment.

Loneliness is the pounding of the drums.

Droning into oblivion with no beat in particular.

Inviting depression and unknown sorrow of past pain.

Loneliness is the regret and shame of love lost, love broken.

It’s the harsh whisper of self hatred and harsh self judgement.

Love songs are the pull and twist of a violin, crying out wanting to be heard,

Strings popping of place.

It’s the tight pull and blues of a lonely guitar in an empty flat;

Missing the grey shade of a piano.

May 2008 Amsterdam

Short Story for Durban in a Word. A collection by Diane Steward, Published by Penguin.

2008-05-29T07:13:00.000-07:00

URBAN LEGEND by Ntando Cele

Beats that drum to the beat of the nation.

Vibes that soar to tear up the tar, cracking the center

blurring the line.

Beat….beat …Godzilla approaching beat…

Cars. People, beat…concrete. Beat hear the call.

Vibes, earlobes exploding, hold your hairpiece

strike a pose the city is vibin’.

Climax hits the sky, ecstasy high lifting me to flight.

Leaving the ground to exhale in the clouds.

Feet leaving the ground, smoke left behind.

Body spiral, play her your flute.

Elongated, hot weary of latitude she slides into the abyss to never return.

I tell of our meeting...

She sits on the edge of a canvas as if about to leap into a sea of rage, purging emotions, spilling the beans. Wrapped in a blanket of hope for love and humankind, she twirls in the canvas, splashing it Red, as if to spill into the sun. Green that overflows freshness rooting into the unknown. Blue as wide as the sky, deepening into space.

“Shosholoza” they sing, praising her as she bounces from coast to coast. The children have heard stories of how one day, she will magically drop from the sky, transforming the poor to drooping idiots with gold teeth the size of Puff Daddy's hand. The sad and bereaved to possessed worshipers, leaping to be saved.

The legend goes that everyone in the city will line up to touch her cloth. Some believe she will start on Point Road, while others say she will be received on Musgrave Road. She will then take her rightful place as the mother of the nation, the daughter to Chatsworth, worthy of Wentworth, princess of Umlazi, goddess of Newlands.

Blues sway the city, blues at Smith, coloured by holiday makers. I lay awake, pupils dare not close, insomnia phenomena. It's the usual, outside my window, the Berea is kind to the vendors. They cover it like a plague. Night time provides for some cleansing. “Who heard of one so dirty?” I think to myself, wanting to strip away the dirty layers of my skin. My thoughts swing to empty happiness, holding my sadness firm while the darkness slowly pulls me in.

Outside the air is tight with uncertainty. Only the dogs see the fire flies, that announce her arrival. They howl like any other day, not altering their pitch makes them sound monotone.

Paper wrapped, dripping with the stench of urban lights,she lands in Durban. Her dress blows in the wind. Buzzing with the fresh thoughts that travel till eternity, she smiles, her feet nearly touching the ground.

Peace raiding Westville, west of Field Street. Morningside robots point toward the broad blankness of empty streets. Nobody knew she would be arriving tonight or just like

the second coming, the women would have layered the streets with their attire,covering the tar. The children would sing alongside the streets,choirs competing to lament her arrival. The men would slaughter a cow in preparation for the feast, to rock till sunrise. The streets would be filled with celebrity wannabe's wanting to be filmed in her presence. She chooses to look towards my window, maybe she heard the demons that bark inside my head.

Suddenly I smell the light, wet, weak but hot with comfort, canceling the despair. She sings at my window. Tuning in to her laughter my insides melt, as her words wrangle their way into my soul. I am lifted high, high above the sky nearly touching the stars. I know immediately that it is she. The legend also talks of how she reaches deep within and releases your light, warmth that shines forever. Burning all sins beyond recognition.

As she whispers to me, my soul touches hers. I catch a glimpse of lands she has seen, people she has touched,and the horror to come. I'm destined to tell her truth, I give in to absolute pleasure, open my arms to receive my gift. Eyes closed, mouth open... She disappears... I breath.

Ear crackling, shackles locking , wet with erosion

I’m back, energized vibrating deep in my center.

Sensual red purity, hot zest steaming at the top of my head.

Burning with lust. Stroke of pop, streak of funk,

Shaking my wild hair to vibe..vibe.. beat… beat.

Vibes that soar gushing to pour out my senses.

Jive..jive… to the street.

I yearn for more. I follow her. Try to make out where she is. I’ve lost her in the crowd. I catch a glimpse of her yellow dress, I follow the smell of breyani. Her hair flows like a mythical being I have seen on television.(Yet she is not blonde) Calling me in ancient voice I float towards her. Pen and paper in hand, clear visions of ecstasy, free of my own shackles, my soul floats. We fly high.

At this height they say you shouldn’t look down, I spot matchbox houses filed neatly behind malls, hidden from the passing eyes on the freeways. Squalor buzzes with blues for a better future, holidays on the beach, sunsets that leave you breathless.

I take a deep breath as white air fills my lungs, clean air, fresh air. I dream of traveling out of this city. I dream of lush green pastures that roll out on the rocks and valleys of a thousand hills, pretending they never end. I want to follow her where ever she goes...

I spit at the deep blue sea calm with unrest of the unknown. I pretend I don’t know what it holds; I pretend I can’t smell the future, grey with colonial memoirs.

Finally we sit on the rocks on the edge of the sea, she tells me her lungs spit out a nation of the damned, not damned because they’re unlucky, they’re unlucky for they grope in the dark trying to find themselves. She has mercy on them,touched by their misery. Like Father Christmas she blesses them while they sleep, magically anointing their foreheads. She promises better days, days of wealth and happiness in the land of the free.

I know it is everyman for himself,you find your agenda and stick to it. Nameless dumbfounded they will always need her. Her story is the bread that feeds the empty souls roaming the streets, searching for their identity. It is the blanket that warms the streets on cold winter nights, lighting the fires till daybreak. Some even paint the streets in her honour,as did the San in their caves. I fear if she stays too long she will bargain with her soul without a thought. Then all hope will be empty. All of this I don’t say. Pen to paper I tell her story.

Pounding hearts , Afros, wild cool with rhythm.

Visions of happy clubbing, sipping cape velvet, silk sarong wrapped from my ankles.

Cool air damp with cool raindrops, wild side, drum side,

Run with the wind, wet ‘n wild. Beat.. beat..

Running with the pulse” Who are these people?” African dream

”Where do they come from?” look bright see white paint the town black

The city is vibin’ …beat… beat…beat.. beat.

I write, I write of a legend I once heard speak...

2008-05-23T06:45:00.000-07:00

NTANDOYENKOSINTOKOZOCELE

2008-05-23T06:39:00.000-07:00

iNtandoyenkosi I ran away from, till iNtokozo was hard to find.

The will is inevitable in the search for happiness.

I thank you my God, intando yakho mayenziwe;

through my happiness.

20/04/08 Belguim

TATOOS

2008-05-23T06:27:00.000-07:00

Mobilizing the rising need to shave the back of my head.

Mobilizing the arousal to open the back of my skull.

Mobilizing the forces that call for some kind of action.

My thoughts are covered in blue ink.

Hair to the north/

body to the west/ I marvel at those that paint their war colors/ shouting their song for all to hear/ take notice as you look away, you hear/ their song slowly whispered through your senses/ Its not a song of freedom or a cry or plea/ but victory over the demons of soul.

OBSESSION

2008-05-15T03:27:00.000-07:00

SWEET HEAVEN

Look up… Look up… gaped mouth, tonsils facing upwards.

The message is delivered.

Look up, look up, palms facing up, the sky opens up.

The clouds shift aside opening a gaping hole. Heaven’s insides exposed, the message will be delivered today.

Light shines warming the air, melting man’s sins.

A chorus can be heard coming from far.

Light rays pierce the air, reflecting colours of the rainbow that melt into gold dust, of cherubs.

I’m looking up waiting to receive.

The clouds form bubbles of cotton wool that roll like candy floss, not like the cheap kind at a Boswell Wilkie circus but like the one you imagine to be growing in the streets of heaven that are paved with crystals and diamonds. Pearly gates, sweets of heaven.

The clouds bubble and flow waiting to announce the coming.

Glory be to… she is here, she is here.

The centre cracks shattering all logic sense that separate the right from wrong.

Sense of being black being white.

I want to see her face but my eyes close. Fearing the burning light has flowed through my pupils causing them to dilate, sending messages to my brain that awaken my lust for life, sensual spirit and absolute desire.

The singing is closer now.

My eyes won’t look in attempt to stay at the cross I raise my hand, reaching out. I want to be there when she arrives.

A thin finger manicured French perfection slowly reaches toward me, gravity pulls our fingers together, all else is silent. The world crumbles around us in blind silence whispers an electric surge charges through my body.

Crashing all boundaries of self hatred.

I travel in time and catch a glimpse of all who came before me. The message is clear…

We allow our darkness to envelop us; we need to let the wisdom of our soul to lead us to the pastures.

January 2008

LOVE SONG

2008-05-15T03:24:00.000-07:00

Missing you…missing me…

Missing you, missing me is like;

an empty summers rain drowning the heat on the sewers of the city.

It’s like the hollow echo of the drops; as they land on roof tops

then tumble slowly toward the drain.

Missing you, missing me is the term I’m labelling this,

my fear of loneliness as everything seems to whisper our name,

as if I’ve forgotten that you’re not here.

Its the sour taste in my mouth before I fall asleep groping my pillow for comfort.

Missing you missing me sings the chorus of my life;

as I wallow in my misery finally finding me, finding you.

The struggle to stay true to the new me, that found the old me se to the corner like a little naughty girl.

Missing you, finding me is a warped concept about the state of being.

It’s a naked truth I find once I’m staring deep into

my reflection, letting go to find inner peace.

Missing you finding me is a little game. I like to play, like hide and seek. Counting the minutes the seconds

imagining the days I will spend with you;

chained to my side and outlining the contours of your body.

It’s the puzzle I pretend I cannot complete.

Pull the wool over my eyes, I find myself saying as the winter nears by loneliness has never seem so dark.

I long for your return.

The thought of finding you and holding till eternity doesn’t seem so bad.

But then again that seems like insanity.

So I’ll just carry on wishing you were here get to know my newly found friend. Myself, me, and hope they will be a place for you on your return.

November 2007

The word

2008-05-15T03:20:00.000-07:00

The Brick

Many have written of the fist.

Closed armed with rage of the people; spitting the rage for freedom.

The fist that called all together to put the in words where the action is.

I’m talking about the brick…

Before the fist was the brick; the brick that you undermine lying on the tar; half baked and mangled in red sand.

This brick is the arrow that whooshed through the air; pushed by the lightning of the enslaved pit bulls; drooling with anger of the oppressed and the damned.

Well today, this brick gets a chance; this brick gets a face lift.

Not because it’s a face brick but because it is unleashed through pure muscle of frustration.

It once held together a shack for a cosy family in poverty stricken Dabeka, Kwamashu, Dengezi.

It once held the foundation for gatherings of praise and thanks to the ancestors.

Through the years this brick has seen the birthing of children, held tight family secrets and hid forbidden lust.

So you ask why I speak of the brick; because before the fist was the brick; used to destroy and maim the enemy when guns were seen to be barbaric.

I have visions of the passionate youth, their feet stamping the ground, dust playing at their songs of freedom.

Their hunger for the release of their manhood so strong, that their sweat burnt the sand.

The throwing of the brick is the last action, the climax after a long struggle, holding back the beast, taming the senses, bowing to the master with shame, without identity.

When finally all hell breaks loose, the chains are yanked and the beast within calls;

the same beast that growled inside Shaka, the same beast that yelled when Biko picked up the pen, choking Ewok to write what he likes.

The same beast roars in me now as I trace the roots of the fist, brick, stone that was used to fight battles now not heard of.

Used to silence those who were different, used to release the pressure after a long bake in prison cells.

Used as a division of race, used to draw games in the street as we played “Ma ngilambile, ngifun’ ukudla”.

I salute the brick, the stones, that pave the way towards success and the future transforming “Kodwa abantu, bazothini” to double stories of pride for the nation.

Skyscrapers of dreams and hope for humanity; that rocket past the clouds and just about reach the heavens. Where the angels watch in envy as the human race hold hands and sing Peace.

Drawing their destiny in blood ink, securing their freedom for generations to come.

Hold your breath, the world just got better.

January 2008...

ARTIST PROFILE

2008-05-15T03:06:00.001-07:00

Artist History

Ntando Cele is a performer, poet and educator. She has a National Diploma in Drama Studies, a certificate in Arts Management and extensive experience as a writer and performer.

She has always been searching for ways to push boundaries and heighten performance.

She started by creating shows for Redeye Art a platform for multi disciplinary creations; that were sight specific. Starting with the creation of a larger than life character; that will move in the space performed for about three hours at a time. These performances involved a routine of some kind and audience participation, negotiating space with the character or interacting.

The next phase was developing voices for the characters, text encoded with how the character responded to their environment or insight to their world. Her searches led her into dance projects, as this platform allowed for experimental work and explored movement. The combination of theatrical elements, her text and movement has created a unique performance style. Through collaborations and workshops with a choreographer she creates text, movement and an installation creating a new experience for the audience at large.

She has been involved in acting, choreography and poetry composition for a range of diverse projects, such as creating Sakubona for Jomba Dance Quickies, Black Auction for Red Eye Art, Unveiling as part of Republic directed by Jay Pather, collaborating on choreography with Mlu Zondi creating Silhouette which was invited to participate in Le Cargo, a dance festival in Paris, the show also toured to the Johannesburg Art Gallery, Cape Africa and featured at the Grahamstown Arts Festival as part of Fresh.

She was invited by Poetry Africa to perform as a slam poet, and won third place in a competition. She has also toured nationally with Silhouette and Incognito and performed in Tin Bucket Drum, a one woman show, at the National Arts Festival, Hilton Arts Festival and The State Theatre. Recently she created Frigid Foreplay which premiered at Musho Festival.

Artistic achievements

2008

Participated in Cascoland 2008
Created and performed Frigid Foreplay at Musho festival

2007

Performed Silhouette, Incognito at Dance Umbrella, Cape 07
Performed Tin Bucket Drum at Grahamstown Arts Festival, The State Theatre

2006

Invited to perform Silhouette at Dance Umbrella,

Johannesburg Art Gallery, Grahamstown Arts Festival, Jomba Dance Festival, Cape Africa Platform

Performed Tin Bucket Drum a one woman show at the Grahamstown Arts Festival, Hilton Arts Festival
Created and Performed X-eyed at Red eye Art

2005

Acted in Bravo an opera extravaganza at the Playhouse
Invited to perform Silhouette in a dance Festival in Paris called Le Cargo which took place at the Centre of National dance. Collaboration with Mlu Zondi

Invited to be a slam poet in Poetry Africa 2005

Performed in King Lear, a short schools programme at the Playhouse
Toured schools with Faces of Africa a children’s show
Performed in a pantomime Snow white and the seven dwarfs
Performed at Redeye Durban art gallery

2004

Performed for Arepp theatre touring schools in South Africa
Created and performed Republic at the Jomba Dance festival
Performed in Freddie the frog a children’s show at Durban Botanic Gardens
Created and performed Black Auction at Redeye art Durban art gallery

Created Works

2003 Sakubona
2004 Black Auction, Unveiling
2005 Silhouette I & Silhouette II (collaboration)
2006 X-eyed (collaboration)
2007 Incognito(collaboration)
2008 Frigid Foreplay

Education

National Diploma in Drama Studies
NQF5 Certificate in Arts Management

Awards

Musho Audience award for Tin Bucket Drum 2007
Best Actress in a Solo Performance, Durban Theatre Awards 2007

Other experience

2002 Worked as a Bookings Manager at Barnyard Theatre
2002 Toured to the U.S.A as a performer and workshop facilitator on African Dance
2005 Taught Second Year Acting at Durban University of Technology
2005 Invited as a Slam Poet, facilitator for Poetry workshops
2007 Invited to host workshops at Grahamstown Arts Schools Festival, Invited to contribute writing for Durban in a Word published 2008
2005 - 08 Taught 3^rd Language, Drama at Foundation & Intermediate Phase

Contact Details

24 Voycey Street,Morningside ,

Durban 4001, South Africa

Email; ntandocl@yahoo.com Cell phone; +2784 720 1834