Your work lives on, Uncle Ronnie

“OKAY. Let’s do it!”

In about six or seven weeks, Ronnie Govender’s one-man show, At the Edge, was headed for opening night in a town not yet agreed, in a venue not yet secured, on a date not yet confirmed, with no technical staff and no budget in hand.

At his memorial service in Cape Town on Monday, President Cyril Ramaphosa wrote that Dr Ronnie Govender “provided a vibrant and textured addition to the rich tapestry of our national identity” and that he “gave a voice to the oppressed and the marginalised”.

Hundreds of thousands of people encountered Govender’s work across South Africa, in the UK, Canada, India, etc. But how did he manage to reach so many, in small towns, in his people’s theatre campaign? One day, in 1996, I got a glimpse of how he did it.

A lesser-known aspect of his cultural activism in the ’60s, ’70s and ’80s is that Govender had to mobilise meagre resources to reach the people. And he was not the only one. Almost every activist in that time had the same challenge.

At the time, there was no state support for black artists, especially black artists who challenged the system. Those in power knew that anti-apartheid playwrights could write, but without money, they couldn’t produce.

Ronnie and I had just finished a show in Durban.

As he drove me to the house he said: “It went well tonight, audience enjoyed it – but something didn’t click. Don’t you think?”

“Ja,” I said, “I felt that too?” We both pondered that question for a few minutes, in silence, as the street lights flicked by. Neither had an explanation.

I was mid-chew on my kebab roti when he said: “Patmananthan, we’ve got to reach the people in Johannesburg and Pretoria. Not the Civic Theatre. I’m talking outskirts; community halls. Whadya say?” “When?” I asked.

“How ‘bout next month?” “That’s a bit tight, I said. “Any shows lined up?”

“No, not yet. But one of my contacts in Lenasia called me today and asked me when we’ll be there. You busy with anything next month?”

“Erm ... nothing I can’t re-negotiate, I suppose.”

“Okay. Let’s do it!”

The next day was another Durban scorcher, and Ronnie had his shirt sleeves rolled up.

As I put my bag down, he was on the telephone, making his way down a list of activists and comrades of his.

Soon a date was agreed and he scribbled: Friday 26 April. 8pm.

TAS & Lenasia South Hindu Cultural Organisation. Patidar Hall. Lenasia.

FREEDOM DAY WEEKEND!

By the end of the day, he’d booked two shows in Johannesburg and two in Pretoria.

Then, with uncanny focus, he wrote the press release. Once done, we faxed copies to the media houses. There was no money for advertising.

The next day, he called journalists on the arts beat, mentioning the press release. He needed a story. Next, we went off to Alba Printers in Brickfield Road, Overport: 20 000 flyers, 2 000 posters and 400 programmes. As we left the raucous print shop, he’d shake the owner’s hand and it was understood between them that the invoice would be settled after the shows.

A few days later, shrink-wrapped bundles of printed material were sent off to Johannesburg and Pretoria, to the activists who were promoting the shows locally.

They sold tickets for R20 and R30. That’s what people could afford, and by default, that was also the budget – and it pretty much just took care of expenses.

Six weeks later, in Lenasia, I asked: “Uncle Ronnie, did you ever work out what it was?”

“What what was?”

“That something didn’t click at the Durban show,” I said.

After a dramatic pause, he said quite emphatically.

“It was the pretty girl sitting in the front row. You were distracted Thambi! But don’t worry, I’ve taken care of that. For tonight’s show, all pretty girls will be seated at the back! Pensioners have front row seats.”

I laughed from the belly, and then said: “You still don’t know what it was, do you?”

“No idea at all,” he said, “but whatever the hell it was, don’t do it tonight!”

That evening, a smartly suited Ronnie Govender stepped onto the Patidar Hall stage. The packed house applauded, acknowledging their playwright and author.

“Ladies and gentlemen, Vanakkam. It’s a privilege to present At the Edge to you this weekend. In many ways, I have been writing this script my entire life, as you too have written your script with your life. These are our stories. We must never forget the cost of our freedom. Freedom Day is a reminder that democracy is fragile. It only works if citizens are vigilant; actively involved in building our united South Africa. Thank you and enjoy the show.”

As he spoke, I stood in the wings ready to perform the show. As the crowd settled down in anticipation, almost no one seated in that hall knew what it took to deliver theatre to the people. And Ronnie would not spoil the evening with that trifling detail.

As the lights sank slowly to black, he gave me the signal to begin…

I will miss you, Uncle Ronnie. Romba nandri. Thank you.

Rest in peace. Your work lives on…