From the archive: Answering an unknown phone number on weekends can have interesting consequences, writes Lloyd Zandberg.
The other day my phone rang. I lie. It was already in May. That month when winter begins to stretch its feelers and summer stands with a boarding pass in hand.
Usually, I answer unknown phone numbers during the week, but on weekends, I ignore them. That particular Saturday morning, I was at home: I had my fourth cup of coffee and was writing my next collection of short stories.
If I'm not attending a weekend wedding or coming-of-age party somewhere, the book will be in the publisher's inbox on time. I always overdo everything at weddings and coming-of-age parties. Then I'm hungover for two months, and nothing gets done.
Then my phone rang. An unknown number. Might as well answer, I thought. You never know. I believe in divine timing. That moment when something happens at the right time and with the right intention.
It's a shrill female voice. It sounds as if someone constantly steps on her little toe. She asks who she's speaking to.
"Who do you want to talk to?" I answer while pouring milk into coffee number five.
"Mr. Zandberg," Toontjie (the voice) answers.
"Go ahead, you're speaking to him."
Her voice climbs another octave. She's now at Celine Dion. I'm tense. "I got your number from one of our moms. She says you know the stage?"
I say, "You'll have to give more information; I'm now as confused as Scrabble tiles in an old bank bag."
Toontjie explains she's a teacher at a private school in Windhoek and they need someone to come help with the teen play. And by help, she means write a script and direct it. My palms start sweating.
"What makes you think I'm the best choice for this job in a country with a population of 2.5 million? I haven't been involved in theatre for years," I ask, slightly irritated after burning my tongue with coffee.
Toontjie says she didn't expect all my questions, but will I have the script ready and come do auditions in two weeks?
"May I swear during rehearsals?" I want to know before signing on the dotted line. "It's not harsh swear words; just what the kids already use during breaks."
"See you in two weeks," says Toontjie.
Two weeks later I show up at the auditions with a suitcase full of enthusiasm. The script I wrote is about a TV game show where engaged couples compete to win a honeymoon trip to Madagascar (worth the British queen's pajamas...).
A sort of nostalgia descends over me. I see myself again as Romeo on the stage in a small school hall in my hometown, Melkbosstrand. Today, nearly a decade later, I'm under the stage trying to explain to teenagers the difference between "projection" and "yelling".
It's a tedious process, but before we can properly wipe the dust from our eyes (and vocal cords), it's time for opening night. The school hall is full - almost 200 people! More than I ever expected. Three months of blood, sweat, and tears now reach a climax - under a spotlight.
Although I'm no longer acting myself, I'm sometimes still on stage with my storytelling, busy ruining my name.
I know what it takes. I feel the anxiety and pressure along with the kids. Against all expectations, we get the audience on their feet and some parents even in tears.
After the performance, I come home, open a bottle of wine, and review my notes. There's no such thing as bad criticism. We have two more performances before participating in the AKTV regional round.
But I only glance over, because the feeling of satisfaction I experience is better than any prize. Even though I wasn't on stage myself.
No one stands on a stage because they have to. Being an actor has something to do with the will. The will to say something when people are listening to you.
That's the kind of people who think they can change the world. And it's usually those who do. And divine timing makes it all happen.
This article originally appeared in October 2019. Facts could have changed since then - feel free to let us know at digitaal@weg.co.za if you notice anything.
