No, I’m not talking about Banksy’s famous Flower Thrower (aka Flower Bomber, or Love is in the Air), a powerfully poignant portrait of a masked protestor on the verge of hurling a bouquet of brightly coloured blossoms.

The figure (or figurine) that I have in mind, a votive statue of the Phoenician god Melqart, prefigures by some 14 centuries the fully flexed physique of Banksy’s pseudo-self-portrait, which appeared in 2003 in a Palestinian town near Bethlehem, a stone’s throw from the wall that separates Israel from the West Bank territories of Palestine.

According to myths current in the ancient civilization to the north of Palestine, Melqart, founder of the city-state of Tyre, was charged both with ruling the underworld and with protecting the Universe – holding dominion over both the living and the dead.

To convey Melqart’s hybrid nature, he was typically depicted brandishing both a battle axe and a lotus flower, an ancient symbol of hope and rebirth. Look closely at the pocked and tarnished bronze statue of the god that stands forever poised to strike in the collection of Seville’s Archaeological Museum and all you see that time has roughly frisked him, confiscating his symbolic props, leaving him a little out of sorts – more flailing than fearsome – cutting shapes in the stale gallery air.

With Melqart rendered empty-handed, we’re left to speculate about which fist gripped the axe and which the flowers. It seems logical, of course, that the arm raised above his head, steadying for thrust, was likely the one that wielded the sharpened weapon.

But I can’t help hoping, imagining in my mind’s eye, that it’s the other way around –that Melqart is waving across millennia with his right hand a big, beautiful lotus blossom to his distant descendant, the Flower Thrower. All I can say for sure is this: I’d rather be hit in the face with a bouquet of painted flowers hurled by a masked silhouette than watch with bleeding eyes the horrors of war unfold before us.

How Banksy Saved Art History is published by Thames and Hudson, distributed by Jonathan Ball Publishers

The Journey to Jazz (J2J) festival is back for its third edition, transforming the charming town of Prince Albert into a jazz lover’s paradise from 1 to 4 May.  

The festival promises sonic exploration, storytelling and cultural discovery, with highlights including performances by Hilton Schilder, Kujenga, Ernie Smith, Siya Makuzeni, Paolo Damiani Last Land Band and the  Outeniqua High School Jazz Band. Early bird tickets, starting at R250 per performance, are available on Quicket for a limited time. 

J2J also offers guided mountain walks, artist-led master classes and exhibitions. Hosted by the Prince Albert Community Trust, the festival supports sustainable development, empowering local youth while showcasing the unique allure of the Great Karoo. 

Podcast tracks the history of South African music

Take a behind-the-scenes journey into South Africa’s vibrant music history with From the Hip with Benjy Mudie. This podcast, hosted by industry veteran Mudie, dives into nearly five decades of South African music. Featuring interviews with artists like Sipho Mabuse and Mango Groove, it offers an unfiltered, often irreverent, view of the concerts, culture and politics that shaped the scene. The latest episode, which has just been released, features Shifty Records’ fascinating story, where Lloyd Ross and the Kalahari Surfers’ Warrick Sony recall the 1980s Voëlvry Tour and battles against the apartheid-era establishment. With 20 episodes to date, and a special 40th Anniversary Concert in the Park edition on the way, From the Hip is a must-listen. Stream it now on all major platforms

After years of creating animated short films that struggled to find an audience, the 28-year-old Qwabe sought a sustainable way to fund his creativity, leading to the birth of Kind Kid. 

Representation is a cornerstone of his work, though he resists using it as a marketing tool. 

“If I was making toys of white kids, no one would ask why I’m doing it,” he points out.

The name Kind Kid stems from a desire for self-improvement: “I wanted to be a kinder person.” 

This sentiment resonates through his art, which he describes as a manifestation of kindness and nostalgia. 

With a background in information design at the University of Pretoria School of the Arts, Qwabe says he channels his “creativity and technical skills in crafting toys that are not merely playthings but vessels of memory, emotion and storytelling”.

For Qwabe, Kind Kid is more than just a toy brand — it is a manifestation of a lifetime of experiences, emotions and aspirations. 

“This is something I wanted to be really proud of — to leave a legacy,” he says. 

His journey began as a filmmaker creating animated shorts inspired by his life and culture. His films were often inspired by shows like The Proud Family, which depicted the everyday lives of black people without leaning into stereotypes of struggle. 

However, financial challenges forced him to search for a different creative outlet. 

“I needed to find a way for the creativity to sort of fund itself, which led me to the toys,” Qwabe explains. 

Toys that invite people to reconnect with their inner child. He realised that the characters he brought to life in animation could also exist as physical pieces of art. 

With toys, he found a way to make his work accessible and relatable, 

enabling people to bring a piece of his creativity into their homes. 

At the heart of Kind Kid lies nostalgia. Qwabe draws heavily on his own childhood and the those around him. 

One of his earliest toys was inspired by a childhood memory of his sister perched on his shoulders, draped in their father’s oversized sweater. 

“The pieces I make take you back to that younger self,” he says. “I think it’s cool to know that the little girl or boy is still somewhere in your heart.” 

Each toy is designed to evoke these emotions, from its colours to its form, using a meticulous process that begins with a feeling and ends with a hand-painted masterpiece. 

Qwabe is deliberate about the values Kind Kid represents. The brand reflects his personal ethos, which includes a commitment to authenticity and integrity. He has turned down lucrative collaborations with alcohol and vape brands to protect the image and message of his creations.

I realise the above is ludicrous. First, there are no more rock stars. All we have left is the Gallagher brothers of Oasis calling each other names on social media. 

And second, if any active creatives deserve the “rock star” label, it’s all the edgy, cool-attitude celebrity chefs who have crawled out of the woodwork in the last 15 years or so.

But here’s why I make this leap. Yes, it is great when a new artist comes onto the scene or when an established god-tier artist comes out with something new. 

But, every now and then, you just want to hear the old hits — taking you back to a time and place — which are hits for a reason.

And with this in mind, usually, the esteemed staff at the Mail & Guardian reserve this space for fresh, new books but today let’s look at an older one that many more people should read.

Quick autobiographical note — in 1996, I was a first-year student at what was then known as the University of the Orange Free State. Coming from what was then the semi-rural Western Transvaal, even the relatively modest size and appearance of Bloemfontein and the UOFS blew my mind.

But, mostly, UOFS had the Sasol Library. Seven storeys of books? All available to me? Well, I do declare, this might be the best thing to happen to me since alternative rock reshaped my world.

I won’t lie and say I read every book in that library, top to bottom, but I certainly tried. 

I had no car or girlfriend for the entirety of 1996, so free time was dripping out of my pores. And lack of funds meant I had to lean on what the world gave me for free. It’s in situations like this that you find novels like Blood Music by Greg Bear.

Now, anyone who knows the slightest thing about sci-fi literature will immediately associate Bear with his ground-breaking book Eon. And rightly so.

Published in 1985, Eon brought Bear to the public consciousness. 

I’m trying hard not to spoil a 40-year-old book here but it deals with themes of parallel universes, manipulation of space-time and the concept of, “How infinite is infinity, actually?”

It does so with grace and candour, preserving the essential warmth and humanity of the central characters. This is no mean feat in a hard sci-fi book and it’s something Bear managed with most of his novels.

Eon is let down massively by its lukewarm sequel Eternity but let’s not concern ourselves with that. Let’s turn our attention to another book also published by Bear in 1985, Blood Music.

In this novel, we are introduced to brilliant renegade biotechnologist Vergil Ulam. He has figured out a way to convert white blood cells into very simple proto computers. In short, he has imbued single-cell organisms with the intelligence of rhesus monkeys. 

Ulam dubs these new cells noocytes and is excited by the implications of their existence.

His employers less so. Intimidated by the concept of what are essentially the world’s first nano computers, they order Ulam to destroy his work. 

Ulam, on the verge of doing so, looks down at a petri dish containing his creations and sees that they’ve organised themselves into a striated, hierarchical system.

It dawns on him that, if he were to hold that petri dish over a flame, it would be the action of a wrathful god destroying an entire civilisation of his own creation. 

Unable to continue his work at his place of employment, but desperate to continue it elsewhere, and not commit what is, to his mind, genocide of a species, Ulam injects himself with a sample of the noocytes.

Over the next few weeks, Ulam experiences something unexpected. The noocytes are evolving. In large numbers, their intelligence is formidable and they have decided to reshape their environment.

It’s in subtle ways, at first. Ulam’s shortsightedness and back problems disappear, as his noocytes reshape his body from the inside. He begins to feel more energetic, more productive, stronger, faster. Even his sexual performance improves.

His new cells have noted the deficiencies in their host and begun to correct them.

But then, as will all intelligent civilisations, the noocytes begin to modify their environment to make things easier for themselves.

As an example, they set up a rapid-transit system, which takes the form of a series of channels under his skin, giving it an odd, veiny appearance. And soon, one vessel is not enough. 

During his evening bath, Ulam notices that the water is turning pink, as the noocytes are sending envoys out of his body to seek other “worlds” to colonise.

The second half of the book deals with what happens when our intelligent macroscopic civilisation encounters the intelligent microscopic civilisation of the noocytes. 

It is akin to the Gaia Hypothesis, if humans were planet Earth.

Bear successfully explores the concepts of the subjectivity of reality and consciousness and gives us a conclusion in which the nooctyes display a stronger grasp of the anthropic principle than humankind does.

In summary, if you’ve never read this book, and you like sci-fi, I urge you to give it a go. If you have read it, dust it off again and remind yourself of how good it is. 

Toranzo Jaeger went to the German School in Mexico City, and studied art in Germany, where she was based in Berlin for almost nine years. She returned to Mexico during Covid and since then has divided her time between the two countries.

Last month, Toranzo Jaeger, whose Palestine-related work featured prominently at the Venice Biennale this year, was approached to do an exhibition at the Leopold-Hoesch-Museum in the German city of Düren. 

In addition, she was awarded a $19 000 (R350 00) stipend by the private Günther Peill Foundation —enough to take care of the following two years. Toranzo Jaeger was also bestowed $10 500 to produce a catalogue for the exhibition, which was scheduled for 2026.

But things soon started to unravel.

Two weeks ago, the foundation and the museum pulled the plug on the funding and the show. 

Toranzo Jaeger says it was because of her “like” of a fellow Venice Biennale artist’s pro-Palestine Instagram post in July. There was also her signing a petition of the Strike Germany movement which urged artists not to associate with institutions that “police the politics of their artists”.

A statement, quoted by ARTNews, said: “Since cooperation would imply that the museum and the foundation meet the conditions set out in Strike Germany and support the demands, they will not enter into this,” and therefore the three parties “mutually decided to refrain from the intended cooperation on the scholarship and exhibition”.

But, in fact, it was an email to the foundation and museum from  freelance journalist Kito Nedo that caused the wheels to come off.

He pointed out that Toranzo Jaeger had signed the petition and asked, “What character will this exhibition have?” — an exhibition two years down the line.

In further emails — which by now involved the local ministry of culture — he provided screenshots of pro-Palestine posts that she had liked.

“So, the foundation and the museum arranged a call with me,” Toranzo Jaeger tells me in an interview. “I didn’t really know what the call was about.

“And first what they did is they tried to bully me … so that I cancel myself. Which is just insane, right?”

Nedo’s persistent emails, which were shared with me, clearly worked.

“So, they literally bullied me into signing this statement,” says Toranzo Jaeger. “And I told them, ‘Okay, I’m going to agree now to do the statement. But after that I’m going to speak my truth because I don’t care.’”

The journalist never contacted the artist. I approached him for comment via email but he had not responded by the time of publication.

ARTNews managed to get hold of Nedo, who said that the emails were not for publication and declined to comment further. 

The Düren spokesperson confirmed to the publication that “an unnamed journalist” had alerted them to Toranzo Jaeger’s support of Strike Germany.

Toranzo Jaeger tells me she declined another project because of the promised assignment. Fortunately, she is “good for next year … then you have to figure something out”.

About the principle of losing the work she says: “Now I get why Nazi Germany happened — because everybody’s so complacent and silent … and everybody’s afraid to lose their job and to lose funding.”

But what happened to Toranzo Jaeger is far from an isolated incident. In fact, this has become a disturbing trend in Germany.

Right-wing journalists are serving as snitches, police and arbiters of “Staatsräson” — the authoritarian turn in German memory culture that has accompanied debates about the Holocaust, anti-Semitism and Israel-Palestine.

Staatsräson, according to the online journal Sada, is “a cornerstone of German foreign policy, which sees Israel’s security as intrinsically linked to Germany’s national interest — and which many German decision-makers see as a logical consequence of Germany’s responsibility for the Holocaust”.

It also has led to Germany unconditionally supporting Israel’s genocide in Gaza.

Scouring mostly the social media activity of artists, curators, academics and film directors, these journalists download posts and make screen grabs of what someone “likes”. 

They send this “evidence” of their “anti-Semitism” to the cultural institution, university or funding body with which the artists are associated, as well as to officials in government departments such as the ministries of culture and of education.

The reporters concurrently publish an article in the press. It is important to note they conflate anti-Zionism and criticism of Israel with anti-Semitism.

Berlin-based artist and former head of the city’s visual artists’ union Zoë Miller describes it as online surveillance defamation.

“And I think it’s a particularly egregious mix and dangerous mix of roles to be both the detective, prosecutor and the journalist, you know, kind of like the executioner and the judge at the same time.”

It is effectively blacklisting where you can’t prove that you’re on a blacklist, for it is not an actual written blacklist, Miller explains.

“Most people, artists especially, can’t afford to go to a lawyer to see if they have rights that are being infringed on when they’re being cancelled,” she says. 

“You have no chance at all of proving that your political opinions have anything to do with your career being destroyed.”

So far, more than 200 people have been cancelled, censored, fired or criminalised because of this, according to Archive of Silence, a crowdsourced archive documenting silenced voices in Germany.

In a recent speech at Berlin’s Neue Nationalgalerie, American photographer and activist Nan Goldin pointed out that a quarter of those “silenced” are Jews.

Author Naomi Klein, suggested: “At this rate, Germany is going to run out of Jewish intellectuals to ban.” 

This was after the awarding of the Hannah Arendt Award to intellectual Masha Gessen was initially cancelled, or “postponed”, to use the favourite euphemism in Germany.

The respected South African-born Jewish artist, public intellectual and academic Candice Breitz, who is based in Berlin, had an exhibition cancelled in the German city of Saarbrücken in April.

“Welcome to the Bad Jew Club, dear Masha Gessen,” Breitz posted on Instagram, “as defined by a nation that has deep experience in sorting and pillorying Jews. 

“As painful, stressful and anger-inducing as it may be to contend with German self-righteousness around Jewishness, German censure is fast translating into a badge of pride for progressive Jews.”

Berlin-based artist, educator and activist Adam Broomberg is one of them. Like Breitz, the 54-year-old was born in Johannesburg and grew up in South Africa at the height of apartheid. With an older left-wing brother, he became politically involved as a teenager.

Broomberg is a prominent pro-Palestinian activist. On 20 May last year he attended a joint rally of Palestinians and Jews in Berlin. Organised by Jüdische Stimme (Jewish Voice), it was convened to commemorate the Nakba (the Palestinian catastrophe) 75 years ago.

“It was a very wholesome event, there were kids, there were elderly people, on a lovely spring afternoon,” Broomberg tells me.

Suddenly the riot police arrived and Broomberg found himself confronted by a line of them.

“I tried to engage them in conversation and said to the one policeman, ‘I have a right to be here, you know, I’m Jewish. I also go to the commemoration of Kristallnacht every November. Unlike my grandmother, who didn’t have the right to be here.’

“I said to the policeman, ‘Can I ask, where was your grandmother during the war?’

“He ignored me and when the conversation was over I turned around and walked away.”

At this point three of these “giant riot police pounced upon me from behind, really violently arrested and handcuffed me”.

Broomberg was charged with resisting arrest and grievous bodily harm, even though an ambulance was called for him.

He is due to appear in court on 13 January.

Broomberg is also no stranger to being cancelled.

“It’s important to note that this predates 7 October, the strategy of targeting specific voices that show solidarity for the Palestinian struggle or criticise the state of Israel in any way,” he says. 

“And almost using a tweezer, removing them from any position of cultural influence.”

Recently, one of his works that deals with death and grief in memory of his late mother, which was meant to be shown at a museum in Kassel, was pulled.

Broomberg was a short-tenure professor in the media arts department at the Karlsruhe University of Arts and Design (HfG), from 16 October last year to 16 February.

“At my first meeting with the rectorate, the governing body, I was sat down and told in no uncertain terms they knew exactly who I was, what my politics were and what my skills were, and that they were fully supportive of me and my work,” he says.

But then, early this year, a common denominator entered the scene — a journalist called Boris Pofalla, who does most of his writing for the pro-Israel, right-wing newspaper Die Welt. Pofalla, who appears fixated with Israel, in reply to questions I sent him said he had visited the country numerous times and had lived there.

Broomberg says Pofalla allegedly approached the university and the ministry with some of his “social media posts … that was ‘evidence’ of my ‘anti-Semitism’”.

Pofalla also wrote a piece for Die Welt titled The Obsession of Adam Broomberg, which described the academic as being obsessed with criticising Israel and accused him of anti-Semitism.

“Using the word ‘obsession’ is interesting because it kind of pathologises me,” says Broomberg, “someone who has, since the age of 15, been active in various struggles, including apartheid, and spending months galvanising the international art community to support Ukrainian artists fleeing the country after the Russian invasion.”

Broomberg says his contract came to an early end as a result of this.

“I have it in writing that I was to no longer enter the building, have access to students or any privileges … And that started before the end of the contract.”

I asked the university’s rectorate if Pofalla had contacted them regarding allegations about Broomberg being an anti-Semite and other accusations. Thomas Frohlich answered: “The university was contacted regarding certain Instagram posts by a visiting professor.”

Broomberg says the university hired a law firm to assess him.

Frohlich responded: “We have commissioned a law firm to support us in communicating with the media and to provide a legal assessment of the posts.”

He conceded that Broomberg wasn’t informed of this investigation.

Internationally renowned Palestinian artist Jumana Manna, who has been based in Germany for over a decade, was on the receiving end of Pofalla’s sharp pen for social media posts on 7 October last year, when Hamas attacked Israelis at a concert.

Manna gave context on the art forum Hyperallergic on 1 November: “On hearing early news that Hamas militants breached the barrier surrounding the Gaza Strip, I shared a few stories on my Instagram page. 

“One of the stories was a photo reel showing the scene of a rave celebrating ‘peace and love’ a mere three miles from the highly militarised concrete walls imprisoning Gaza. More than two million people, mostly refugees, sequestered inside these walls and under siege since at least 2007, are forced to live in an open-air prison that subjects them to conditions that violate international law. 

“Seeing these borders momentarily torn down and flown over, many Palestinians were moved by the stubborn and creative will to break free from captivity. Images of the parachute gliders appeared in our feeds alongside a tractor destroying the apartheid wall.

“We hoped this moment of fugitivity might restore the potential for life, liberation and dignity for all in this wretched land, for this nightmarish fantasy of one-sided normalcy to end. These feelings were necessarily short-lived. We continue to watch in horror, along with the rest of the world. 

“At the time I shared my stories on Instagram, the extent of the violence had not become apparent. What was an angry comment on the cynicism underlying the reality of this party: ‘normalcy’ for some and imprisonment for others, was misused to accuse me of taking pleasure in the massacre, which I fully reject. What I regret is not being more precise in the formulation of my politics. 

“My Instagram content was taken out of context and mis-framed by the German newspaper Die Welt, notorious for its bad-faith journalism. 

“A smear campaign ensued, magnified by vindictive trolling that exaggerated and distorted my comments. 

“International institutions that have worked with me in the past or present are being harassed and pressured.”

Manna tells me there was clearly an organised effort to check what people from the cultural scene posted from 7 October onwards.

“Basically, taking screen grabs out of context and exaggerating and manipulating the meaning or adding a cynical interpretation to them.”

Manna believes there is an audience in Germany that is ripe for these kinds of misinterpretation.

“And what flies in Germany doesn’t fly in other countries,” she adds.

Manna says Pofalla wrote the first article after her social media posts, “which was enough because it got the defamation campaign started and now there’s a network of trolls, right-wing groups and journalists that continue to parasitically feed off it”.

It is being used to put pressure on the institutions where pro-Palestine artists worked to demand they don’t employ “anti-Semites”.

“And the institutions have consistently caved into the pressure,” Manna says. 

“As a result of that article, there was a domino effect of cancellations of my commitments — shows, film screenings and teaching — in Germany.”

Fortunately, she is a globally established artist, and her career and economy do not depend on Germany. 

But people who do depend on jobs in Germany for their income have had their livelihood taken away.

“What’s taken away from me is any possibility to participate in the cultural and public life of Germany,” she says, “a country I’ve lived in, am a permanent resident of, and paid taxes in for 12 years now.”

Like Manna, the Die Welt man also roasted Lebanese-born Berlin curator Edwin Nasr on his pages. 

Pofalla also did not give Nasr an opportunity to respond, which is something taken very seriously by the German press. 

Pofalla did not reply to my specific question about whether he gave them a “fair opportunity to respond”.

Nasr posted disappearing stories on Instagram on 7 October, including one captioned “poetic justice”.

“A day after my stories got posted, we came to know more details about what had happened at the Nova festival and I probably would have been much more careful in explaining my actual position so as to block out these types of false and malicious recuperations,” Nasr tells me.

Pofalla not only pounced on it for Die Welt but also filed a criminal complaint against Nasr. 

Last month, a German court convicted Nasr and ordered them to pay a fine of €1 000 (R20 000). The court proceedings lasted only 30 minutes. 

Nasr, who grew up in Lebanon when the south of the country was still occupied by Israel, tells me it was a bizarre experience. 

“It felt like I had to overly perform atonement in a sense, a year into Israel’s ongoing genocide against Palestinians in Gaza as well as its savage attacks against civilians in my own country,” they said. 

“Who was I even being asked to apologise to? It was all quite a surreal thing to do within a German court, of all places, and in a country responsible for orchestrating the systematic murder of more than six million European Jews.

“It’s funny how, in these moments, your entire subjecthood and the history of your people and their struggle gets completely washed away, if not erased, in the name of German perpetrator narcissism.”

I ask Nasr about the German response to pro-Palestine artists since 7 October.

“To relentlessly go after people for their positions on Palestine has become a celebrated pastime activity within the cultural sector here … and it creates these cyclical sets of responses and counter-responses, dramas that I feel this provincial microcosm somehow lives for.”

Pofalla was in the court when the judge fined Nasr. In response to my emailed question about how he felt, the journalist said: “It is sad that people in the cultural sphere are driven to these levels of hate, but as adults, they have to live with the consequences of their actions. 

“Edwin Nasr has had a fair trial. There are no winners in this.”

However, shortly after Nasr’s sentencing, a friend posted an Instagram pic (I saw a screengrab) of the journalist holding a trophy like a cup-winning football captain with the caption: “Boris Pofalla after suing anti-Semites.”

A week or so ago, I was invited to an early lunch at such an upmarket establishment — the spacious, month-old Italian restaurant called Sinn in Sandton. Black, grey and red colour scheme, golden lights low, plush black leather and dark wood furniture, with a panoramic vista over Sandton’s my-brash-capitalist-glass-cathedral-is-bigger-than-yours landscape but a better view is towards the luxurious open-plan kitchen.

From that kitchen, I have just been served freshly baked sourdough bread and homemade butter by the wonderfully attentive waiter who, like all the staff, is dressed in black with fancy black-and-red sneakers.

In the centre of the kitchen is the maestro chef Enrico Persegani, not performative like Gordon “Fucking” Ramsey, but more a low-key conductor making sure his relatively new orchestra in the kitchen, on the floor and behind the two bars don’t play a sour note to the fast filling restaurant.

There are several big tables of giggling people who will for a change make their bosses pay, big time. And hope the expensive booze doesn’t mean Monday morning is spent with HR issues about vaguely remembered misdemeanours with Clive from IT.

I am not a big fan of food fusions — I remember a place in Pretoria where they served boerewors pizza. I bet it is still going strong but that moer-on-top style is not for me, dankie.

Sinn is doing a bit of the fusion thing too — but promises it is in a subtle, playful way, sticking firmly to classic Italian tradition. Put differently, it is finding harmony between Italian tradition and innovation. And luckily not too much of the Boetie-goes-to-Rome thing on the menu.

So, despite my fusion scepticism I decided, ‘Why not go for the biltong arancino?’ — Italian rice balls stuffed with mozzarella  and creamy dry wors, coated with pangrattato (crispy breadcrumbs), served with smoked tomato sauce.

Beautifully presented, it was scrumptious. As I resisted licking the plate, the charming Persegani joined me for a quick chat before the 1pm proper stampede started — because then, as he says with a smile, “This place is going to explode.”

Originally from the Italian city of Cremona, he first visited South Africa last year, as part of his job opening restaurants all over the world. After experiencing the richness of our food culture, Persegani officially relocated in May to start Sinn. 

The dishes are inspired by childhood memories of meals prepared by his 93-year-old grandmother.

I confess that his type of fusion — well, based on my starter — works very well.

He explains his approach: “You know, why not take, for example, my grandmother’s recipes, twist them, redesign them, make them a little bit more modern and test them on the market?” he says. 

“Then, obviously, in Italy we have salami, right? Before coming here I didn’t know about biltong.”

I gather that he includes dry wors under the biltong umbrella.

“So, I see everyone with this biltong going around, everyone crazy with biltong — it’s basically a mini dry salami. And I couldn’t find amazing quality salami here like in Italy. 

“I was, like, at this point, I would rather swap it with something more local that people love and twist it inside my recipe.”

In addition to the fusion elements, Persegani designed his menu by looking at the map of Italy: “Five recipes from the north, five from the middle, Rome area and five from the south.

“And then I work on that. Then I thought, ‘People here are crazy for meat, okay — braai and all this kind of tradition.”

He pauses and chuckles.

“But now that the restaurant is open I realise that they look more for seafood because you guys don’t have sea nearby so everyone goes crazy for seafood. Now I’m already preparing the next menu with instead of more meat, more seafood.”

On the menu is a pasta dish based on a family recipe: Nonna’s butternut and ginger ravioli. It was inspired by his grandmother’s cooking. I ask him what she thinks about her grandson’s latest venture.

“Oh, she’s very proud. I grew up staying with her so obviously we were cooking together and, in Italy, usually the grandmother stays at home and cooks for all the other family members.

“We have a big 14-seater table and we all sit there and my grandmother prepares dinner and lunch. That’s how the passion started and that’s how I learned from a very young age.”

At one of the bars, someone drops a glass. Persegani flinches slightly.

“Do you ever think, ‘What the fuck am I doing?’” I ask.

“Oh my God, every day. I already knew it was hard,” he says.

“Obviously, a new country, new way of managing the business. Different people, different approaches. Obviously, I had more to learn and in a very fast way.”

He is philosophical.

“You will never be successful if you don’t suffer first. And the restaurant business is something where you need to sacrifice everything. Your life, your free time, your private life, everything. There’s no life. I’m here all day. Every day.”

Meanwhile the Sinn machine purrs on smoothly. But I realise the conductor has to get back to his kitchen.

“What should I order as a main?,” I ask before he goes.

“Osso buco hotpot,” he says without hesitation.

This braised beef dish is slow-cooked overnight, Persegani says, so it is “super soft”. 

“There’s still the bone and the marrow inside. Then everything gets assembled and then reheated in the wood fire oven.”

It is served on a Parmesan risotto.

Not too long after my waiter opens the hotpot with a dramatic flourish. 

The dish was perfect, melt-in-the-mouth deliciousness. My mouth is watering again, just typing this.

“The journey was bringing Hollywood films and series to international audiences through new ways of distribution,” Netflix’s Larry Tanz tells me during our interview at a swanky hotel in Sandton. 

“By looking at what else audiences wanted, local storytelling and audiences seeing themselves on screen became our mission. That was the leap of faith we took when we decided to commission our own films and series globally.”

Tanz — coincidentally wearing similar casual grey pants to mine — is Netflix’s vice-president of content for Europe, Middle East and Africa. Seated next to him is a tall man in blue jeans and formal shirt — Ben Amadasun, director of content for Middle East and Africa.

After firm handshakes and introductions, the room is immediately filled with laughter and reflections on Netflix’s journey in Africa. 

The two executives are here to engage with stakeholders, including talent, producers and media.

As they entered the conference room, it started raining, with a cooling breeze to end the persistent heatwave. It hasn’t been all sunshine and rainbows for this pair, though. 

As rain represents blessings in most African cultures, I ask them about the successes — and challenges — of the African market since Netflix’s expansion to our shores in 2016.

Regarding the South African market particularly, Netflix’s strategy was to bring a blend of local and global entertainment. 

“We know South Africans love their own stories and that, along with a really robust offering of films and series from all over the world … brings this incredible value, variety and quality that our members can stream in a taxi in Johannesburg or watch on their beautiful big-screen TV in their living room,” Tanz says.

The decades of management experience and passion between the two is evident in how they complement each other’s responses during the interview. 

I ask them how they got the formula correct with record-breaking original shows such as Blood & Water and the How to Ruin Christmas franchise, among others.

“That’s the killer question!” Tanz says, chuckling. 

Internal management from the African regions, historical data and having great local productions has proved to be a winning strategy for African markets, they say.

However, Tanz argues that data alone is not enough. 

“The data is great for looking backwards but it doesn’t help in a creative business to clearly inform what stories we should make moving forward,” he says. 

“In a creative business, if you try to repeat what you did before, you are probably not going to be successful, so it’s a constant reinvention.”

Amadasun echoes Tanz’s point that Netflix is a learning organisation. Organisational learning — a concept found in many business textbooks — contends that companies should be open to acquiring new skills to modify their internal processes to deliver innovative products and services.

By applying this approach, and adapting to changing markets, Netflix is constantly positioning itself as a flexible corporation, they say. Since expansion to the mother continent, it has had to learn about the different languages, cultures and aspirations of its audiences, though.

Amadasun weighs in to state that understanding local culture is an important strategic consideration. 

“We are always trying to understand the landscape, languages, traditions and the real culture of people,” he says. 

“That is why we have internal executives from the African continent who want to see themselves on screen. We have also been working with the local creative storytellers in the country to really get the stories that people love.”

Like other countries on the continent, South Africa has many different languages that need to be considered to offer a broad representation of stories. 

“We have been intentional to make sure that productions are happening all over the country,” says Amadasun and cites the likes of Johannesburg-based Burnt Onion and Cape Town’s Gambit, along with Durban-based African Lotus and Stained Glass, as producer partners who have given that all-important authenticity to South African storytelling.

“We learn as we go along. As we learn, we try to serve our members even more,” he says. 

“Why we are a unique company is how well we focus on that local market in the way the stories appeal to our members in that country. Not many companies are able to do that, not only in Africa, but across the whole world.”

Netflix’s appetite to learn is indeed miles ahead of global streamers Amazon Prime, who recently pulled out of African markets. This will hopefully give Netflix — and competitor MultiChoice’s Showmax — more opportunity to invest heavily in local talent and stories.

It is such growing competition and market understanding that has seen Netflix lose subscribers globally in recent years. 

However, through innovation and more pointed local content, the global streamer has maintained its competitive advantage. 

What impact, socially  and economically, does Netflix have on African markets like South Africa though?

Between 2021 and this year, Netflix has invested about R4 billion in content and local creative ecosystems in South Africa, Nigeria and Kenya combined. It has supported the creation of more than 12 000 jobs, generated R5 billion towards GDP and funded economic activity that has generated over R786 million in tax revenue since 2016.

As the pair shares these notable numbers, there is light thunder in the background.

Tanz and Amadasun argue that such investment ripples out to have a broader impact than just on filmmakers but takes in other service providers such as production-equipment suppliers, drivers and stylists. 

Tanz adds they have noticed the government’s economic, reconstruction and recovery plan identifies tourism as a huge economic driver.

“Millions of people who had never seen a South African story five years ago, now have seen a few,” Tanz says. 

“We have also demonstrated with some research that people who watch a South African film or series are significantly more interested in the food, culture and travelling — thus inspired to visit South Africa.”

Tanz also spoke about the impact of the Wits Digital Equity Grant. He shared about one film student who, during her graduation ceremony, said she was helped by Netflix’s funding initiative at a time when she struggled to pay for her tuition. 

“It’s a real story that she told. She gave me goosebumps. The most gratifying thing for us is hearing these graduates coming through and working on Netflix projects. 

“Ultimately, it is about making a living in the industry.”

Besides the growth in countries such as Nigeria and Kenya, the two executives affirm that South Africa is their focus at the moment. 

“We are going broader and deeper. We are broadening our offerings of non-fiction, unscripted format and doccie-soapies because we know our audiences love watching those,” Tanz holds. 

“So, it is not a radical shift, it’s about getting better and broader. We are meeting our audience where they are, with a better understanding of their preferences.”

In an African environment, with a high level of digital inequality, high data costs and cultural differences, many global companies have failed.

Netflix’s localisation strategy has, however, proved to be a winning recipe for continuing its mission to entertain the world. 

Its efforts stretch beyond entertainment for subscribers and work opportunities for local filmmakers  to a much-needed social and economic impact.

From scholarship opportunities to master classes, internship opportunities and partnerships with local industry stakeholders, Netflix is committed to finding opportunities to grow the talent in the local production ecosystem.

Like a child learning how to talk, act and interpret their surroundings, in its eighth year in the African market, Netflix is still fervently learning, taking creative risks and aiming to impact one household at a time.

She has a special folder with pictures of Sa-Ra Qamata who made her appearance in February — as her parents started post-production on A Scam Called Love, a romantic comedy they co-wrote and directed over 10 months across last year. Making movies is anything but romantic.

“We shot in November, December and I gave birth in February,” says Fonseca. “Yeah, it was very, very tough. We had an actor from the UK who was only here for a certain period because he was flying to America two days after our final day …

“So, we had some days, only four hours sleep … six-day weeks, for five weeks. It was a little bit mad.”

Two months later, their baby was born.

“You give birth and then some people will take three months’ maternity leave,” Fonseca says about this — literal — labour of love. 

“Whereas, sure, I wasn’t going to an office, but I was working. You know, in a hospital bed with my laptop … we’ll never do it again. I’ll never be pregnant and make a film at the same time.”

She giggles. “Lesson learned.”

It is no surprise that little Sa-Ra is gorgeous, with — in every sense of the word — attractive and talented parents like hers.

Mom is a multi-disciplinary artist — director, writer, actress and musician — and Dad is better known under his musical nom de plume, Spoek Mathambo, globally recognised for his genre-fluid and innovative township tech, as well as his animation and documentary films.

“Oh, she’s a sweet little baby,” coos Fonseca as she flicks to a specific pic on her cellphone to show me. “There’s a smile …”

Mokgata’s smile is even wider as he looks on.

A Scam Called Love will make history as the first MGM Amazon rom-com to emerge from South Africa. Made in collaboration with Wolflight, a Los Angeles production company, it is the Joburg couple’s first commercial production.

Set to premiere in the first quarter of next year, the film will have a national release across Ster-Kinekor and Nu Metro in March, followed by a global launch on Amazon Prime.

The film tells the story of Zola, a determined South African chef whose US visa is about to expire. 

In a desperate gamble, she enters into a fake marriage with her carefree American co-worker Julian. 

Together, they navigate a hilarious and heartwarming journey to convince both US immigration, and Zola’s conservative South African family, of their love.

With a cast including Thando Thabethe, Motlatsi Mafatshe, Brenda Ngxoli, Didintle Khunou, Fezile Mpela and UK-based actor Tobi Bamtefa, A Scam Called Love captures the complexity of modern relationships while celebrating the cultural vibrancy of South Africa.

Wolflight — two South African producers, Roelof Storm and Hannes Otto, and their American partner Will Seefried — invited Fonseca and Mokgata to pitch this romantic comedy, with the skeleton of the story already there.

The couple is the embodiment of that old cliché of how people who are exactly on the same wavelength finish each other’s sentences — in fact, they’re like a well-timed comedy duo, not interrupting, but rather complementing, each other.

So, what was it like doing a romantic comedy, I ask them. Is it something you normally watch?

“No, it’s definitely not my genre of choice,” says Fonseca. “I’m more of a thriller girl — thriller drama.

“At first, it was quite daunting, but then, really exciting. I enjoyed the comedic side. I enjoyed writing comedy. I discovered that there’s a lot of thrill in writing comedy.”

Mokgata adds: “I thought you would never write comedy. Carla’s political work is very serious.

“I mean, her other film projects are very serious, weighted work. And the flippant, the silly, the frivolous …” He shakes his head.

“So, it was a challenge, but I actually really enjoyed it,” she picks up. 

“But we definitely needed to find some twist in it … to satisfy that side of me. And so, we added some thriller elements to the rom-com.”

Him: “I mean, beyond adding layers, my interest was to make it cinematic. And to make it a credible work of cinema.

“For it to be entrenched in South African pop culture, but also to work on different levels of form and subversion. And, yeah, just different ideas that we wanted to tease out and to play with the form.”

Not something we see on local screens, they believe.

“South African rom-com is in a shit place,” says Mokgata firmly.

“It’s in a very, very bad place …” adds his partner.

“And it doesn’t have to be,” continues Mokgata.

Fonseca: “It’s really like just one script is being passed around.”

“So, I think it was within parameters to see how to break that mould,” Mokgata adds.

Fans of his Spoek Mathambo persona will be familiar with his quirkiness, so no surprises when he confirms: “I really looooove comedy. But it has to be dark. I don’t like silly. I like smart.”

No thanks then to The Wayans Bros. and The Naked Gun.

“If you ask me what’s my favourite South African TV show, I say the sitcom Emzini Wezinsizwa.” It is where his stage name Spoek Mathambo comes from.

For Mokgata, South African comedy should be ridiculous, because it’s part of the culture.

“What can we express from the culture? What can we subvert? What can we make fun of?” are his guiding principles.

Fonseca explains that casting was difficult. “Because we needed to find people who are naturally funny,” she says. “The script needs to be funny … but we can’t be solely dependent on the text.”

“Everyone needs to understand funny,” adds Mokgata. “Even the straight man needs to know what funny is.”

Fonseca: “Oh yeah, and they need to … improvise. Sometimes we wouldn’t call cut just to see how far they can go. How far they can take it. And a lot of the time they would …”

In A Scam Called Love comedian Trevor Gumbi is “excellent at that. But also, wild. He’ll say the wildest things,” says Mokgata. “There’s some things that aren’t PC …”

“And Thando Thabethe as well … I don’t know if she’s had an opportunity [before] to show how funny she is,” wonders Fonseca. “She’s really funny and … Brenda Ngxoli as well.”

When it came to division of labour in making the film, Fonseca and Mokgata played to each other’s strengths.

“There’s a level of expertise and skill in particular areas,” he says. “Like Carla from her stage directing. As far as how to go there: subtext, depth of emotion, subtlety.

“Like, I would default to her level of expertise.”

“Yeah, the way we split it was that I would communicate,” she adds, “with the actors and really do the blocking. You know that character moves from here to here. This is how we’re going to design it.”

Mokgata: “Then there is this other stuff. Cultural stuff. Comedy stuff, hip-hop stuff, cultural stuff that Carla won’t …”

“Yeah, I prefer not to touch. That’s his department.”

They strike me as refreshingly ego-free as Mokgata explains their scriptwriting: “We would take … re-writing scene, re-writing scene, re-writing scene, just go back and then swap them around.”

“And then I’d edit his and he’d edit mine,” she says. 

“Yeah, the writing process was very smooth, very exciting.

“I look forward to writing more scripts together. And the directing process as well — as long as we split those. And it worked seamlessly.”

Film has always been a medium that both have appreciated and wanted to do, with Mokgata having worked in documentaries and Fonseca studying drama at UCT. 

But the pair learned about the cinema the hard way.

In 2017, Fonseca and Mokgata made their first film together, an arthouse movie called Burkinabè — a person who is from Burkina Faso. 

“Written, directed, produced, edited, by us,” she says with a smile. “Too many hats — I acted in it as well.”

They launched the film in 2019 at Fespaco (the Pan-African Film and Television Festival of Ouagadougou) in Burkina Faso.

“They have more cinemas than they have churches,” says Fonseca. “It’s just incredible. You walk around the corner and there’s a cinema.

“You walk around where there’s a football field and a whole lot of people, kids on bikes, watching a big screen that’s just been put up there.”

It all went well with the screening of Burkinabé until the Q&As afterwards — after all, Burkina Faso is regarded as the cinema capital of the African continent, with a highly educated cinema public, and on top of that, a cinema intelligentsia.

First there were the deeply technical questions. But then it got tougher, as Fonseca recalls. “Some people would ask, ‘You’ve never studied film. What audacity do you have to make a film? How dare you?’

“But really, I mean, some of the greats never went to film school.

“And, if you start from writing down the first word through to editing, those two years of working, that’s university. There’s nothing more ‘school’ than actually doing it, needing to finish this thing.”

“And shooting this project, part in French, part in Mooré [a local language in Burkina Faso] …” Mokgata adds with a smile.

“Communicating with people who don’t understand English,” she says.

“Us being the only South Africans on the crew,” he adds.

Her: “Yes, it was very weird.”

Him: “Yes, so when you ask why you do it, part of it is the challenge. We have these dreams.”

She chuckles: “We have audacity!”

Fonseca and Mokgata met in 2010 through mutual friends in Cape Town. She had just completed her studies and he was already the talk of the underground electronic scene.

“I was also a huge Spoek Mathambo fan,” she smiles. “So, I probably stood there and just greeted.”

Three years later they met again in Mozambique.

“And then, shortly after that, Ntatho asked me to come to the studio. I thought I was just going to watch him play music. But then I was given a mic.”

Mokgata explains: “I had seen a play that she did in Maboneng. It was kind of really crazy,” he chuckles. “No stage. It’s experiential. You have to walk around and move through this whole building. Different scenes, different characters.

“It was really good. And no … no singing. Obviously, a lot of vocal projection, storytelling, different accents, different scripts.

“And I thought, ‘Whoa, this would be really great.’”

And so, their Afro-house group, Batuk, was born — their first releases came out in 2016. They toured across Africa and gained many fans throughout Europe with their club-friendly beats and politically conscious lyrics.

The group’s pan-African electronic music, using different languages, from across different cultures and with different rhythm concepts, was linking people and breaking down xenophobia.

“And then there’s the feminist side,” Fonseca says, “We have some songs that speak about the woman’s body and that it’s not a property. I mean, girls would go crazy.”

I ask what it was like being in Batuk. Fonseca corrects me with a smile.

“What is it like? Because we’re still working together. We released something last week.”

Batuk have been releasing music digitally on streaming platforms. Some people, especially Japanese fans, kept buying their CDs. 

“They kept us alive during Covid, when things were like, bad-bad, but we’re always getting physical CD orders,” says Mokgata.

I ask them to describe the new Batuk music to me.

“Electronic, less housey,” reckons Fonseca.

“We’re not playing in the club,” adds Mokgata. 

“So, we can kind of do what we want and experiment in some ways. We’re making music that we also want to listen to. As opposed to … before when we were building songs specifically for the club, for big sound systems.”

So, in between the new film, new music and new baby, Mokgata found the time to write a novel titled Ghost in the Drum, which has just been published.

How, I ask him, but Fonseca replies.

“He was staying up to make sure the milk bottles were warm [for the baby]. You know, Nthato would be working crazy hours of the night, and making sure the bottle is ready at certain times at night.

“And I think that’s where he goes into that world and is working constantly.”

Mokgata picks up the thread.

“I’ve been writing scripts for the last five years. I’m very diligent in writing these scripts.

“The only difference is with the script someone can tell you, ‘No, we don’t want to make that. That’s not in our slate. That’s not in our budget.’

“Whereas, here, I thought, ‘What the hell? I’m doing the work. I’ve got these stories. Why not put it into the form that I love independently that I can do?’”

In Ghost in the Drum, Mokgata pulls back the curtain on the raw, unfiltered reality of fame, addiction and self-destruction in South Africa’s dynamic township music scene.

The novel is a satirical yet very realistic, kasi-based story that dives into the price of ambition and the fragility of genius. 

Tisela, Pretoria’s rising star, is the voice of a generation caught between rebellion and redemption.

“The truth is I’ve been trying to write a novel for a very long time,” says Mokgata. 

“Since high school … from then on, the challenge of writing the novel just kept kicking my ass.”

He tried to co-write it with a friend but that did not work out.

“And I quit … something that I wanted to do for so long. But it was more difficult than making music.

“It was more difficult than making a film. It was more difficult than animation. It was just more difficult here, because it’s just you focus on your mind, and you battle against your mind.”

It is probably working on the film that got Mokgata focused to write Ghost in the Drum.

“On the film, there’s a lot of external investor influence. It’s creation by committee. Whereas with this book I could get back to what started all my creativity.”

We go back to A Scam Called Love, to where the film started in the beginning of last year.

“I was saying that we started this process before I fell pregnant,” Fonseca recounts a discussion with the producers. “And when our film comes out, our child will be one.

“Our producers keep saying, ‘What do you mean?’

“I said, ‘Yeah, this is how long it’s been.’”

I ask Fonseca and Mokgata if they are not tired of the film, having worked on it for so long.

“I’m tired of holding onto it — I really just wanted to share it.”

“It’s like giving birth?” I ask.

“It’s time to pop. Jeepers, man.”

Mokgata adds: “And a lot of films never come out. There’s a lot of stillbirth films.

“So, the big anxiety is really for us to package it at the best level that we can and share it at the best level that we can.”

Fonseca: “But the great thing is that it’s done. It’s done.”

“No, it’s not about it being done, it’s about it being out,” he says. 

“Like I said, so many people have films that are done. I have friends who have films from 20 years ago that have never come out.”

Fonseca has the last word: “This one’s definitely coming out. Yes, it’s coming out.”

Yet, women’s struggles and their strength to overcome such, is a daily occurrence with the film industry. 

Be it behind or in front of the camera, and even in management positions, women in the film industry are constantly having to challenge the patriarchal barriers.

Historically, women have been significantly underrepresented in key roles such as directors, producers and writers. 

In her work as project manager at the Gauteng Film Commission, Nthabeleng Phora advocates for female and youth empowerment in the industry. 

In an interview with the Mail & Guardian, Phora said significant strides have been made in recent years, the film industry is still a challenging environment for women.  

Phora says she overcomes the hurdles in this male-dominated setting by being intentional and resilient to achieve gender equality and transformation. 

“This passion comes from appreciating that I am given an opportunity through my employment to serve the industry,” she says. 

“By implementing programmes that address the challenges we can generate solutions and present opportunities.”

Multi-award-winning film director Sihle Hlophe manages to overcome the challenges in a number of ways. 

“Failure and rejection do not define me — they’re part of life — so I’ve been working hard to be kinder to myself when I go through those difficult experiences,” she tells me.

Hlophe argues that consistency and hard work are very important, in spite of the inimical working environment. She adds that an entrepreneurial mindset has allowed her to create opportunities for herself when it seemed there were none.

Establishing networks in the industry is also important. Hlophe mentions fellow film writer Busisiwe Ntintili, who often creates opportunities for young writers. “She did that for me when I was an up-and-coming writer many years ago.”

Noluthando Rotwane, the founder of the She Fest, also aims to create platforms for women in a thorny film industry. 

“To tell the truth, I don’t think I have been able to overcome any part of the male domination in our industry yet,” she concedes.

However, through the festival, Rotwane is well on her way to creating a sustainable economy for women in the creative industry. 

“Maybe in a year or two I’ll be able to say I have overcome the challenges I have constantly faced with being in a male-dominated industry.”

In its second year, She Fest —which took place earlier this year at Constitution Hill in Johannesburg — is an event celebrating the talents of women in the creative film industry. 

“The festival was inspired by the need for an intervention in the creative industry,” says Rotwane. 

“There was a lack of job creation and opportunities available for women in the industry.”

Besides challenging societal and cultural norms, women in film face numerous other challenges, according to the National Film and Video Foundation of South Africa. 

In its 2018 report Gender Matters in the South African Film Industry, the foundation highlighted obstacles such as gendered financial barriers, male-dominated industry networks, stereotypes limiting creative expressions and sexual harassment.

Lack of trust and undermining of women’s abilities behind the scenes was also an issue. 

Since then, slow and small strides have been made to raise awareness.

Although advocacy groups such as Women of the Sun and Women in Film and TV South Africa no longer exist, Sisters Working in Film and Television (Swift) has taken up the baton. 

A non-profit organisation, Swift is committed to championing empowerment and access to equal opportunities for women in the film industry.

In studies conducted by Swift, respondents noted that sexual advances by male colleagues were normal in the workplace, despite the disinterest of the women concerned. 

Other respondents said they had been non-consensually touched and were the victims of inappropriate hugging, butt slapping and “accidental” contact. 

A safety contact officer programme to counter sexual harassment is one of the strategies Swift uses to address the safety of female filmmakers in the work environment.

It is sadly such misogyny that limits the creative contribution of women to the local film industry. 

Hlophe advises female filmmakers going through such mistreatment to not be afraid to stand up for their rights and to contact organisations such as Swift.

“Don’t let anyone tell you that you can’t do something — there’s nothing you can’t achieve if you set your mind to it,” says Hlophe. 

“We all need to work together to make sure this industry is a safe space, free from sexual exploitation, harassment, and all the negative aspects that come with patriarchy.”

Phora concurs that women should know they are not alone and they should speak out. 

She not only encourages female filmmakers to constantly craft their unique storytelling voices but also stay updated with the latest trends and policies in filmmaking. 

Since its birth more than 100 years ago, the South African film industry has been male dominated with women underrepresented. 

However, the contribution of female filmmakers is growing. Empowerment of women in the industry is key for economic growth and social impact. Therefore, voices that reject the ill-treatment of women in the film industry should always be amplified.

She will be bringing this approach to her upcoming comedy special Fuck, Marry, Kill, with — as the name says — edgy, risqué tales.

Viskat, who is also a film actor, playwright and theatre director, is the founder of the Cape Town comedy club Evil Comedy.

The Mail & Guardian spoke to her earlier this week.

Charles Leonard: Let’s start with Fuck, Marry, Kill …  Where did the idea come from?

Alice Viskat: The idea of doing a one-person show had always been in the back of my mind, but I never in a million years thought I’d be ready for it at this stage of my life. 

Then, out of the blue, I was contacted by the wonderful Sebastian Daniels from Ground Culture, who offered me a night to do a solo show. 

It was a golden opportunity I couldn’t turn down — even though I was absolutely skrikking my boeglam! [Scared out of my wits.]

I’m endlessly grateful to Bash for believing in me and giving me this chance because, truth be told, I doubt I would have had the guts to initiate it myself.

As for the name, that was a bit of a fluke. My graphic designer Studio Underside asked me for a placeholder title so he could start working on the poster. 

I threw out a name on the spot, and, to my surprise, he loved it! 

I trust his artistic instincts like a sniffer dog trusts its nose, so I took his word for it — and we ran with it.

That title …  Who should not come to watch it?

My content is quite raunchy and explicit, so if you’re of a more conservative persuasion, perhaps this show isn’t for you — although I think the name should give that away …

Is it autobiographical?

I’ve been fortunate to live a colourful life filled with bizarre and unexpected adventures. So, when I started doing comedy, I figured — why not just share some of them? 

Fuck, Marry, Kill is a celebration of life’s weird and wonderful moments — some relatable, some downright unbelievable — all woven together with plenty of giggles and guffaws.

Were you always funny?

My mom always thought I was hilarious — I can’t speak for anyone else. 

Growing up, I used humour as a way to cope with life’s challenges but I never really saw myself as a “funny person”.

I’m not sure if the people who knew me before I moved to Cape Town would have thought of me that way either. 

Back then, I didn’t have much self-confidence, so I probably kept a lot of myself tucked away.

Moving to Cape Town felt like a chance to start fresh. With no preconceived expectations hanging over me, I could finally be the person I wanted to be, not the person I thought I should be. It was freeing.

Everyone I met was a potential new friend, and I was so eager to connect. I quickly realised that one of the best ways to do that was to make ’em laugh. Don’t you know every­one wants to laugh?

When did you realise, “I can be a comedian”?

Honestly, I still don’t even know if I can be a comedian — I sort of stumbled into it. In 2022, I started a stand-up event called Evil Comedy on a dare. 

I didn’t have any industry contacts and was struggling to fill the line-up, so I decided to give it a go myself. To my surprise, it went pretty well!

So, I figured … Why stop now?

Tell us about your first ever show. 

My stage debut happened when I was three years old, when I played the cameo roles of a pig, a fairy and a clam in a local pantomime. 

I’m not sure how well it truly went, but again, my mom thought it was fantastic.

Where do you find your jokes?

There’s a quote by [American author and queer activist] Glennon Doyle that resonates deeply: “I explain that now, when someone asks me why I cry so often, I say, ‘For the same reason I laugh so often because I’m paying attention.’”

Life can be really, really funny if you just watch and listen closely. 

I just plagiarise the happenings of the world around me.

Is there anything you won’t joke about?

I tend to steer clear of political content because I recognise that many of these topics, while they might have comedic potential, are also deeply personal and often painful for those most directly affected. 

I believe it’s more appropriate for those with lived experience of these issues to find their own space for humour and healing, rather than for me to profit from or trivialise their experiences.

How do you prepare for a show?

I talk to myself in my room, holding a can of dry shampoo as a microphone, like a crazy person. 

Then I write out my material in bullet point form that, if read out of context, would also make me look like a crazy person. Then I get on stage and act like a crazy person.

What are your pre-show rituals?

I prefer to stay sober before and during my gigs. Other comedians have different tactics that work for them, but I’ve found with my predominantly theatre background, this works best for me.

Who or what has been your most intimidating audience?

I did a gig last year in Cape Town and the audience consisted of a handful of underage teenage boys who had clearly snuck in. Trying to seem older, they wore their best “too cool to care” faces and refused to laugh.

Being the only woman on the line-up, I was met with an extra layer of frostiness. I realised I’d lost them the second I got on stage, and I spent the rest of the set trying to win them back but it was like getting chewing gum out of a jersey. 

It was the first time I’d ever, ever bombed and it was … liberating!

I’d performed the set the previous week and it had brought the house down and this experience really taught me that people’s opinions aren’t tangible things that can hurt or change you and fighting them is like punching air — pointless. 

It was a genuine “Eureka!” moment for me.

Is it more difficult for a female than a male comedian in South Africa?

Comedy is inherently subjective, so it’s hard for me to definitively say whether females or males get more gigs. It’s a widely discussed topic, but my perspective is also limited by being a relatively new comedian.

Naturally, there are male comedians who get booked for more gigs than I do simply because they have more experience and are, quite frankly, funnier than me. 

That said, there is definitely a lingering — and frankly backward — rhetoric that females are inherently less funny than males.

Thankfully, this notion is being actively challenged by younger, more open-minded generations, as well as by an ever-growing wave of undeniably hilarious female comics who continue to prove just how misguided that belief is. Still, I’ve found traces of this outdated mindset persist in certain spaces.

And starting a comedy club?

Running a business like Evil Comedy has given me a more objective view of the industry and I’ve observed just how difficult it can be to be taken seriously as a female in this field. 

I’ve also noticed shifts in the way I’m treated based on my appearance.

For example, when I had long, blonde hair, I was often taken less seriously, especially by males.

After dyeing my hair back to its natural dark colour and cutting it all off, I noticed a distinct change in the level of respect I received. 

Draw your own conclusions from that but it’s something that’s been hard to ignore.

Fuck, Marry, Kill will be on at The Outlore, 80 Hout Street, Cape Town on 19 December.