Synopsis of The Stone Chronicles (thus far)
Set in the heart of Johannesburg, South Africa, in 2024, The Stone Chronicles unfolds within the hallowed halls of a museum like no other. At first glance, it’s an ordinary exhibit—rows of statues standing in silent tribute to the past. But as the audience settles in, the stone figures begin to stir, shattering the stillness with the weight of untold stories.
One by one, these statues spring to life, their cold, stony exteriors melting away to reveal the raw, human emotions beneath. Each figure carries the burden of a personal encounter with racism—a story etched into their very being. From the deep pain of a Black woman who was dehumanized and called a gorilla, to the alienation felt by an Indian girl, unjustly told to return to a country she’s never known, these stories span generations, yet they resonate with the immediacy of the present.
The museum becomes a stage, where history and the present collide in a powerful narrative that challenges the audience to confront uncomfortable truths. Through their stories, these living statues give voice to the pain, resilience, and unyielding spirit of those who have endured the whip of racism.
As the final spotlight fades, the echoes of their tales linger, a poignant reminder that these chronicles, though forged in stone, are far from ancient history—they are the living, breathing realities of today.
Whispers of the Sculpted Synopsis
Whispers of the Sculpted is a dynamic, thought-provoking theater production that delves into themes of identity, legacy, and racism within an exhibition space. The statues on stage come to life to share personal stories that reflect struggles with prejudice and the resilience inherited from their cultural and historical backgrounds. Through evocative monologues and symbolic lighting, the performance immerses the audience in each statue’s emotional journey by confronting the painful realities of discrimination. Whispers of the Sculpted invites audiences to reflect on the biases that still shape society today, encouraging meaningful dialogue on racism and identity.
Halima's Monologue
This sweater—my home—was not just any garment; it was a legacy, passed down through the hands of my forefathers who came to South Africa seeking a better life. Generation after generation, it was passed down, each one adding their own threads to this unique design. My great-grandparents carefully stitched their dreams into it, my grandparents wove in their resilience, and my parents infused it with love. Now, it is mine, cradling me in its warmth and connecting me to a past that has shaped who I am.
Over the years, this sweater has changed, reformed, and adapted, but it has always held onto its essence. It’s not just fabric; it’s the story of my people, the warmth of community, the laughter that echoed through the streets where I played as a child. Every thread tells a story, a memory woven into the very fabric of our lives. It’s a symbol, an heirloom that connects me to ME.
But as much as this sweater held me close, there was a fear that tugged at the edges—a fear of the unfamiliar. I had always known the soft wool against my skin. But outside the world was different, an uncharted territory I had never encountered.
The thought of leaving this familiar warmth, of stepping into something new, filled me with a deep, unsettling anxiety. What if the new threads didn’t accept mine? What if the patterns didn’t align, leaving me out of place, an odd stitch in a foreign fabric? I was afraid of what I might lose.
But change is inevitable and so there I was. This new fabric felt starkly different. The new stitch was rigid. This new stitch did not blend seamlessly with my colours. Each interaction, each encounter felt like an uneven pull against my thread. I was estranged and alienated. My vibrant hues struggled to stand out against the muted backdrop of this unfamiliar design.
And then I met her. Her sweater was like mine. Our friendship was a shared experience of savouring beloved flavours, a warm embrace amidst the chill. We blended seamlessly, our colours and stories intertwining like spices in a well-loved recipe, creating a new, vibrant pattern.
Soon, another thread joined us. Together, we became a trio of radiant threads, a new, evolving stitch. We found strength in each other creating our own little pattern. But just as we began our flow, you came along.
You—you were a thread from a sweater that was knitted with precision. Your stitch a mark of cold perfection. Yours wasn’t like mine. Your sweater was brand-name, designer-labelled, and pristine, but it lacked the soul.
You stood there, smug, looked me in the eyes and when you finally spoke, it felt like you were tearing through the delicate fabric I had been working so hard to create.
It was a painful reminder that despite my vibrant efforts, the colour of my thread would always set me apart. Being marked as different cut deep, a reminder that some threads would always be seen as outsiders, frayed at the edges, no matter how beautifully they were woven.
But no matter what my sweater has endured, it bears the weight of my family, the sacrifices they made for the future I now live. This sweater stands as a testament, a legacy of those who came before me - a legacy I now wear with honour and pride.
Robin's Monologue
What is a sell out?
When someone throws you under the bus. Double agent. Snitch. Sell out. Piemp.
Back in the day any person of colour who had somewhat a decent job or worked for the white man. I worked for the municipality and the white man was smart enough to make me kick people out of their house if they didn’t settle their bills. Making me do his dirty work lessened the heat on him. The heat all came back to me, I was left behind and seen as a traitor.
It was the year 89 and my mother was in high school. She was a free-spirited woman and fought back against apartheid, rioting for Mandela’s release. Shit hit the fan, my mother and her brother made a run for it. He took her hand and pulled her as she was running slow. She fell and he said "Elke man vir homself. She got caught and her mouth got the best of her. "Maar jou bleksem."
She left the protest with a bruised arm from a beating she got from the white man. Back then kids and adults died from protesting or even went missing. Her parents found out and gave her a hiding of her life saying that they loved her and didn’t want to lose her. All they did was empower the white man by creating fear and silencing her voice.
Luyanda's Monologue
I remember the first night like it was yesterday. I’d just fallen asleep. Tired from the classes, tired from...trying to fit in. but it never mattered how much I tried to make myself invisible, they always saw me. Always
Three of them, white girls from down the hall. Pretty, perfect hair, perfect smiles, perfect hate. They thought it was funny. Me, the one with the wrong skin, the wrong hair, the wrong everything. I thought about telling someone. I really did. But then I thought what was the point? It was their world, not mine. They had the power- their families, their money. I was just a girl who didn’t belong. But now…now I’m out of that place and every day. I remind myself that I do belong. They don’t get to decide that. Not anymore. They didn’t break me. I’m still here.
Phumzile's Monologue
Yes, I am a victim of racism. Exactly 2 years and 4 months ago, kodwa yin leyo? 4 months or 5 minutes,kuyafana nje, ungtshela ukuthi kukudala then why is it still happening in my head?Everytime I close my eyes , everytime I see a white man behind me and I don't who it is. How is it that I get this almost lurring urge to attack anyone who happens to talk to me in a provoking way ? Tell me, how do I forgive let alone forget something that keeps on happening in my head over and over and over, how do I do that? I just want to sleep, yeah a coma or amnesia would be nice, or anything to make me forget this ordeal. Did he really say am a Gorilla, I thought those words only pierced my heart but I think they did something to my brain too. You see when I tried talking to people about this they told me everything I shouldn't have done, ukuthi i 44 Stanley ngeyabe lungu, ukuthi abelungu abadla e44 Stanley bahlala endaweni ezingelabantu abamnyama,omunye wathi ubuvele udingani esambuzini wena ulande izthombe kuphela kodwa ke ngyakuzwa konke abakukhulumayo, if only I hadn't existed then, then none of this would have happened. Why didn't I think of that. My therapist said, it's not my fault,that being black is not a crime but as easy as that may sound I hadn't caused it, no one invites a racist attack, no one causes a racism attack but the racist. I just want to live, I want my life back, I want to be a confident black girl again.