by Kuli Roberts
Busi was prepared to risk anything to bring this woman and her extraordinary story to the screen. Her lawyer husband Dan had always been supportive of her efforts, even when she insisted on putting her career before babies, even when she walked away from a promising career as a commercials director to concentrate on her feature-film dream. He’d helped to finance the development process, making sure everything continued to move forward, and assisted in getting the finance together for the miniscule budget, earning himself an executive-producer credit. She would love him forever.
Now, after so many false starts, they were ready to shoot. Except for one thing.
They still did not have a leading lady, and without a leading lady Babalwa could not begin to exist. Busi was panicking.
She had it down to two actresses, but couldn’t choose between them. Kopano had the character down, but she was too young. Moshidi seemed right age-wise, but there were question marks about her acting. It was almost as if they cancelled each other out.
That was an over-simplification and she knew it. Maybe neither of them was right, maybe she needed to keep looking, but there was no more time; she knew she had to decide.
Her phone was ringing, an unknown number. As if she had time for unknown numbers. Didn’t they know she had decisions to make? She would let it ring … but there was her finger hovering over the answer button. Before she knew it, she’d pressed it. ‘Hello.’
A strangely familiar voice – American? ‘Is this Busi Busani-Wood?’
‘Who am I speaking to?’
‘Brenda Archer. Are you still casting your movie?’
If Brenda Archer was talking, she was listening. ‘The casting process is just about over. In fact, some of your clients are –’
‘I understand all that, but I was just wondering – have you decided who will play the title role?
‘That is just about concluded.’
‘Concluded or just about concluded? There’s a difference.’
Busi hesitated, then decided to come clean. ‘It’s all down to the last two.’
‘Well then, maybe you’ll do me a little favour. Would you see one of my clients? You never know, she might just be what you’re looking for.’
‘It wouldn’t make much difference at this stage. Things are just about set.’
‘Well, there we go again. “Just about set” can be a long way from being set. Please, see my client. What can it possibly hurt?’
‘I really don’t know –’
‘I would consider it a personal favour.’
A moment’s hesitation, and then, ‘Alright. Maybe some time tomorrow –’
‘She’s on her way to you now.’ A pause. ‘I kinda figured I’d be able to talk you into it.’
When Siren walked into the reception area thirty minutes later, nobody was more surprised than Busi Busani-Wood. ‘You are the one Brenda Archer wants me to see? Sorry, but you’ve wasted your time.’
‘Give me a shot. Neither of us has anything to lose.’
‘Look, you’re not right for the part. Simple as that.’
‘If you’re so sure I’m not right, let’s prove it here and now. Brenda Archer seems to think I can do it.’
‘Let’s be honest. Neither of us knows what Brenda Archer thinks.’
This gave Siren a moment’s pause. ‘What?’
Busi smirked. ‘Look, I don’t know who that was on the phone, but it sure as shit wasn’t Brenda Archer.’
Siren laughed. ‘And here was me thinking I was good at accents.’
‘It was you?’
Siren raised her hands in surrender. ‘Guilty as charged. Look, I knew you wouldn’t see me otherwise, so I had to get creative.’
Despite herself, Busi smiled. ‘Actually, the accent wasn’t bad.’
‘Thank you.’
‘It was only when you turned up I knew it couldn’t have been Brenda. She despises you.’
Siren shrugged. ‘You might just be right there. But it’s called acting. It’s what I do.’
‘I never thought you were a bad actress,’ Busi said.
‘Just a bad person.’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘But that’s what you were thinking.’ Siren drew in a deep breath. ‘Look, I know I’ve done a lot of bad shit, stuff I’m not particularly proud of, but all those things, they’re all a part of me in some crazy way. And all of those things, strange as it may seem, make me a better actress than I ever was before.’
‘You’re still not right for the part.’
‘OK. Tell me why.’
‘Well, let’s go for the obvious. Your skin tone, for one.’
An exasperated Siren couldn’t wait to get the words out. ‘So her skin is a little lighter than others’. So what? Babalwa is still Babalwa, she still has what it takes to lead.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, really. And one of the actresses you’re considering, her skin may be a little darker than mine, but not by much.’
‘How do you know who I’m considering?’ Busi asked, and Siren offered an enigmatic smile.
‘It’s a small industry. People talk.’ She took a step closer to Busi. ‘Look, if you don’t want me, fine, I’ll accept that, but at least reject me for the right reasons. Give me the chance to fail. That’s all I ask.’
Busi took a long hard look at Siren before turning away, towards the relative safety of her office. But when she turned back, Siren was still standing there.
‘You have five minutes.’
Chapter 33
OK, SIREN, YOU’VE talked the talk, she told herself. Now it’s time to walk the walk.
They were on location in North-West Province, preparing for the first scene, where Babalwa confronts the women of the village and tries to convince them to join her in a protest march to the offices of the mining company. An integral moment in the film, the scene came almost halfway through the screenplay, but that was filmmaking: everything shot out of sequence. Busi Busani-Wood was on set, waiting to see if she’d made the right casting choice.
So much was riding on Siren pulling it off, proving she was a real actress and not some fly-by-night wannabe. Her trailer was small and poky, but at least she had a trailer, and it offered her moments of quiet reflection away from the hustle and bustle that was at the heart of any movie set.
I am Babalwa, I am Babalwa, I am Babalwa ... She’d been telling herself the same thing over and over again, even before the part was hers. It had always been hers, but now she really had to step up and own it.
It would be good to have a drink. Or maybe a quick line, just to take the edge off ...
A firm knock on the door jolted her back to a different reality. ‘Siren needed on set,’ the assistant director said.
She took a deep breath, then let the air out slowly. This is it, she told herself. No more time to waste.
The warm air assaulted her as she opened the door, and then she was on the ground, walking towards the set. They were all there, the grips, the technicians, the lighting guys, the camera guys, all waiting on her, eager to see what she would do.
And there was Busi Busani-Wood, walking towards her. In the past weeks, they’d become close collaborators, friends even, but all of that would amount to nothing if Siren couldn’t deliver. All their hard work would be on the scrap heap.
Busi had prepped her for the scene, talking to her about it but not too much, instructing without lecturing, helping her find her performance. How refreshing it was to work with a woman director who saw the character as vividly as she did.
Babalwa had a budget, but not a huge one, so the shanty town they were using as a location was real, the residents more than adequately compensated. The camera was set up. Busi was talking to the director of photography about the shot. For a moment Siren felt abandoned, but this was a collaborative process, with everybody playing their part, and as the director Busi had to make sure it was all working the way it was supposed to. She could hold Siren’s hand, but only so far.
As she positioned herself inside the makeshift building made from iron sheets and the remnants of wooden boxes, she couldn’t help thinking about a story her mother had told her, about a time soon after Siren was born. How Mabel had found herself homeless, and had been forced to build a shelter not all that different from this one. Such a long way they had come ...
The assistant director was speaking. ‘Quiet on set!’
Now there was only her and nothing else. I am Babalwa, I am Babalwa, I am Babalwa ...
‘Roll camera.’
‘Camera rolling.’
‘Action!’
Shooting brought its own stresses. Not a day passed without her craving a drink or the briefest sniff of coke, something to lift her, take the edge off, to make each day’s work a little easier to bear. And she knew the way film sets worked; there was always someone who’d be able to get this and get that, it wouldn’t be hard. The right word in the right ear and she would be flying.
What would Babalwa do? That was the question she kept on asking herself, and it became her daily mantra. In many ways, she became indivisible from the character she was playing. She had challenges, Babalwa had challenges, but she had to tackle them together, find a common solution. One step at a time, she told herself; just take it slowly and you will get there.
One scene at a time, one day at a time. The character she was playing pulled her along, guiding her every step of the way. The days were long, the work was intense, and there were times when she thought her cravings would overwhelm her, but at last it arrived: the final day of shooting. No more scenes to shoot, no more wondering whether she would come up short.
At the end of the day, what did they have? Siren had not dared to see the rushes. Busi told her everything was fine, that it was all up there on the screen, but what did she really know, a novice director shooting her first feature? Maybe they’d all just been pissing in the wind.
After the final shot was in the can, Busi gathered cast and crew together one last time. Her dreadlocks had more flecks of grey than before they started shooting, and she looked tired and drawn, but seemed content now that shooting was over. Her speech was full of thanks for all everyone had done to help her realise her vision. She left it close to the end to mention her leading actress.
‘Siren, I have to be honest by saying there was a time I could not see you playing this part, but that has all changed. Your talent and dedication, your commitment to the role have completely transformed this production. Now when I see Babalwa in my mind’s eye, there can only ever be you. Taking on this journey with anyone else would have been unthinkable, and I thank you from the bottom of my heart.’
Chapter 34
DAYS INTO MONTHS, months into years – three to be exact, three years since the accident, three years she’d been clean. Almost a year since they finished shooting. And then there was the day she got the call from Barney.
‘Congrats. You’re all clear with SARS. That final payment took you over the top. You’re all paid up.’
It was a bittersweet moment. There was a sense of satisfaction, but something else also, a kind of sadness. The struggle was over, and somehow it separated her from Sipho. He may have created the problem, but he was still a part of her, the one she loved in spite of his passing. The settling of his debt had pushed him further away.
Maybe she should go out and celebrate; but no. She decided to stay home, alone with her thoughts of Sipho and all that came with them. Not in the home they’d shared, that was gone along with everything else. Time for a clean slate, a new start.
She had dozed off, stretched out on the couch in front of the TV, when the intercom for the front gate buzzed.
‘Siren, let me in. It’s Busi.’
‘Busi! What are you doing here?’
‘Let me in and I’ll tell you.’
When she opened the door, there she was, looking cool but animated, holding a plastic bag that clinked with the sound of bottles. ‘It’s ginger ale,’ she said, answering Siren’s unspoken question. ‘Time to celebrate.’
‘Celebrate what?’ Did Busi somehow know about her paying her SARS debt, and if so, how?
‘Well, maybe not celebrate. We still have to see.’
‘See what? Busi, you’re not making a whole lot of sense.’
‘All will be revealed,’ Busi said. ‘You do still have a TV with access to decent channels, I take it?’
‘Last time I checked.’
‘Good. That’s all we need.’
A lot had happened since Babalwa had finished shooting. There had been a premiere and various showings of the film, most of which Siren was expected to attend. Seeing herself on the big screen was something of a mixed blessing. At first there was a sense of revelation, a calm assurance that she had nailed it. Only in subsequent viewings did she begin to see the flaws, the scenes where she could have eked out a little more emotion, or a little less; all that could have been improved if only she’d been more on top of things.
On the whole, the film was warmly received by critics, who praised the direction of Busani-Wood and Siren’s portrayal of an ordinary woman taking on the might of the mining companies. The box office was a slightly different story. Although in the first two weeks audience figures had been respectable, after that they tapered off badly. Busi took it all in her stride. ‘This film is going to be around for a long time. This is only the beginning. It’s far from over.’
The ginger ale was poured and they settled themselves on the couch in front of the TV. ‘OK,’ Siren said. ‘What are we supposed to be watching?’
Busi took a sip from her glass. ‘I wasn’t sure I was going to watch, but then I thought – well, I have to.’
‘Watch what?’
‘They’re announcing the Oscar nominations. Call me crazy, but I’m hoping Babalwa is up for Best Foreign Language Film.’
‘You’re kidding.’
‘It was put through as South Africa’s official entry. We have a real shot. And you know what? I knew that if I was going to watch with anyone, it had to be with you.’
They didn’t have to wait long. There on the screen were two American actors, a man and a woman, both of whom Siren vaguely recognised. They made a few lame jokes before getting on with what they were there for.
They started with things like Production Design, Makeup and Hair, Documentary Short Subject, Documentary Feature – all interesting in their own way, but not what they wanted to hear. Her excitement kept firmly in check, Busi reached for Siren’s arm. ‘This is it, this is it.’
Finally: Foreign Language Film. ‘These are the nominees,’ the presenter was saying. ‘The Staring Woman, Japan; Toast, Palestine; Couriers, Mexico; The Stairs, Germany; and ...
‘It’s now or never,’ Busi said, her nails digging into Siren’s flesh. ‘This is it, it just has to be.’
Chapter 35
IT WAS ONE thing to be on the red carpet, and quite another to be ignored as the press scrambled to interview virtually everybody else. TV cameras would turn to them, only to turn away when they were not recognised. Still, the important thing was that they were representing, they were nominated; they’d earned their place.
There was Busi, holding the hand of her businessman husband, and Sandile with his actress girlfriend. Siren was alone, because there had only been one more ticket and Busi wanted her to have it, but that was fine, that was the way she wanted it. At this stage in her life it seemed the right way to be seen, a solitary figure enjoying one of the biggest nights she would ever have.
Everywhere Siren looked, there were familiar faces, people she recognised from those flickering images on the big screen. There was one face in particular, and he saw her too, making his way to her through the crowds. ‘Look at you on the red carpet,’ he said. ‘Not that I’m really surprised.’
‘Good to see you too, Keenan. What brings you here?’
‘Guest presenter,’ he said, fiddling with his red bowtie. ‘It’s a good gig if you can get it. And
look at you, up for Best Foreign Film. Congrats.’
‘Thanks, but I think the Palestinian film is the favourite. It’s great just to be here.’
‘My first time too, would you believe. Saw your movie. Loved it.’
‘You did?’ Siren asked, surprised. ‘You saw it?’
‘Hey, give me a break. I’m not a complete philistine. Sure I saw it. Your performance was unbelievable. Those mining execs didn’t know what hit them.’
‘Thanks.’
He flashed one of those killer Keenan Thompson smiles. ‘Didn’t I tell you, Siren? I always knew you were going to shake things up.’
The auditorium was vast, and they were high up, way above the big names conveniently seated near the front so they didn’t have to walk too far if their name was called.
On television, the ceremony had a tendency to drag, but being there in person, Siren found it almost interminable. The sense of anticipation was strong, and as each category came up, she expected it to be theirs. Costumes, Sound Design, Production Design. Busi was sitting right next to her, but they spoke little to each other, embracing their own levels of stress.
And then there it was, Chris Rock walking onto the stage to present Best Foreign Language Film. A quick joke that was pure Chris, and then it was on to the nominees, beamed to the audience on large screens. Chris had the envelope in his hand, and he was cracking it open.
‘And the Oscar goes to ... Babalwa!’
Polite applause from the rest of the auditorium, wild screams of delight from the South African contingent. There was a camera in Busi’s face as she turned and kissed her husband. She hugged Sandile and then Siren, holding her tight. As Busi stood to walk down the steps, she gripped Siren’s hand and didn’t let go, so they went together. People were still applauding when they reached the bottom, then it was up a few more steps to the stage, and there was Chris Rock, congratulating and kissing both of them.
