“Still they came for me with whispers sharper than broken glass”: Napo Masheane on leaving Pacofs’s top Artistic Director’s position

By Napo Masheane

Today (May 30, 2025) marks my finally as the Artistic Director at PACOFS (Performance Arts Council of Free State), after nearly three transformative years. It wasn’t an easy journey—often marked by resistance, hostility, and uphill battles—but I stand proud of what I (we) achieved. It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t always smooth. But we showed up. We pushed through. We held the line.

Navigating the complex intersections of creative leadership, institutional governance, and cultural advocacy has never been easy. The terrain is uneven, where the heart of artistic expression clashes with bureaucratic mechanics, where visionary ideals wrestle with administrative realities. The business of arts and culture rarely aligns with its soul.

And yet, we persisted. We learned, sometimes through grace, sometimes through fire. We served steadily, even when unseen, even when the system resisted us. We showed up fully and fiercely, rooted in integrity, guided by purpose. In spaces demanding compromise, we chose courage. In moments of silence, we became the voice. In the shadows of institutions, we lit small fires of transformation.

This was ‘For Colored Girls Who Have Considered Suicide / When The Rainbow Is Enuf.’ Because for some of us, art is not just performance—it is protest, prayer, and possibility.

Jeeeeer! Some days were unbearably hard. I was asked, “Who do you think you are?” Called “uncontrollable”—as if integrity were some wild beast to be tamed. A gatekeeper, apparently, because I dared to ask for standards. Heaven forbid someone actually guard the gate instead of leaving it wide open for mediocrity to stroll through in designer shoes.

I was scorned. Yes, scorned by those I once called co-artists. Not for lack of vision, but because I didn’t hand out roles like party favours or confuse flattery with collaboration. See, I led with principles, not perks. And in some circles, that’s considered criminal behaviour. Who knew self-respect—not favour—would get me excommunicated from the cult of convenient creativity?

One day just one glorious day, this so-called “creative industry” needs to step into a boxing ring of King Kong. One-on-one. Gloves off. Ego in the corner. Truth as referee. Not Likes. Not Retweets. Not whispers from the grant committee. Just truth, wearing a whistle and judge’s robe, calling out every performative punch.

Darling, let’s get one thing straight: criticism? Yes, we adore it when constructive, like a well-directed monologue. But must it always arrive like a rusty shiv in a prison-yard production of Macbeth? Honestly, context is key, otherwise we’re stabbing in the dark, and not in the Shakespearean sense.

Not every rehearsal note needs to turn into a full-blown backstage brawl in the group chat. Remember, we’re here to grow, not audition for Mean Girls: The Revival. And here’s your plot twist: the learning is in the doing, not doom-scrolling. Curtain up, not thumbs down.

But maybe, just maybe—most of us already know how shady the backstage can be. That sacred, dusty realm where props vanish, tempers flare, and yes, lies travel faster than lighting cues. “… but Brutus says he (Caesar) was ambitious. And Brutus was an honourable man.”

One minute you’re pitching ideas with vision and vocabulary in the boardroom, the next your name headlines the WhatsApp soap opera of the season. Boardroom truths get chewed, twisted, and spat out as digital gossip. All pixelated. All poisonous. All very off-script.

But hey—break a leg, right? Jeeeeer! But through it all, I held my tongue. I resisted public rebuttal. Not out of fear, but respect for the role. Oho! Perhaps the subtext during text analysis behind closed doors is…

Oh, trust me, I understood. The streets? Ha! The streets are cold, cobbled, cracked with history and betrayal. And work? Work is a theatre of performative professionalism where masks are mandatory and daggers come gift-wrapped in urgent emails. I knew the game. I played the part. I said the lines. But let me tell you. My exquisite, painstakingly measured silence did not save me.

I bit my tongue through rage like a drunk aunt dodging bail with a purse full of prayer beads and two shots of gin & tonic preaching street-corner wisdom like gospel. I held my breath so long I grew tequila gills—understudying witches in a tragedy nobody bought tickets for.

And still! Still they came, whispers sharper than broken glass in ballet flats, grins polished like prop guillotines waiting in the wings.

No, silence wasn’t my shield, it was my cue line. Next curtain call, darlings…

What followed? A masterclass in cruelty. Precision-choreographed, triple-threat viciousness, served with jazz hands and a smirk. Honestly? Deserved a standing ovation if the audience weren’t already bleeding from the applause.

There was stalking. Obsession. Sabotage. Insults. Bullying masked as critique. Online shadows circling my name. Targeting friends, colleagues, the work. That was a gift channelled in me by the underground gang. Batho, watching every move like vultures waiting.

Each word I breathed, twisted. Each alliance I built, questioned. My very being dragged by those I once lifted, mentored, broke bread with.

It cuts deep. The pain, a silent scream behind the screen. The sadness, heavy and unspoken. A mouthful of ache I never asked to taste.

But still I stand as The Island. Darling, a phoenix burns to become. And that is the drama of transformation.I breathed—deep, aching breaths. I summoned my ancestors: “Dikwena le ho kae? Bahlakoana le tholetse eng?!” Tjoooooo! I wept. I unravelled. Anxiety clutched my chest as I questioned all I knew. I stood in the eye of a storm of culture and creation not in foreign lands, but here… at home, ‘Hae-Lapeng.’ Bana Beso. A revolt rose within me, a protest of identity, belonging, and the relentless need to prove my roots run deep beneath Qwaqwa soil—Thaba Dimahlwa Thaba Dimohudi.

But as every artist knows: kneeling is merely the blackout before the next scene. A breath held in the wings. A hush before the house lights dim. And we rise again and again because no proscenium is wide enough to cage your spirit. No storm cue can upstage your truth. No sweat can drench the script etched in your bones.

Remember, as in As you like It. “All the world’s a stage.” Your entrance, your purpose, your divine casting in this production called life—you rise.

To uplift like a spotlight hitting centre stage. To challenge like a monologue that won’t let the audience breathe. To serve, inspire, provoke.

Mentor understudies, co-direct revolutions, improvise when lines get blurry. And yes, keep on. Keeping on. Because the show is still running and must go on. Take your mark. Lights. Sound. Projection! Ooooo! Flip! Action!

Artistic Legacy

During my tenure, we birthed new works. Reopened forgotten spaces. Unearthed voices and celebrated those who paved the way. Made PACOFS a home for bold, brave, and vibrant creativity once more.

There was so much life, so much vibrato roaming the corridors, you’d swear the building breathed. Voices thin-turned-fat, deep-turned-playful, echoing like mischievous ghosts with impeccable stage presence, ‘Hallelujah!’

Ah, theatre, that delightful diva always injecting jolts of existence into one’s soul, whether asked for or not.

I’d leap out of bed at midnight (yes, the one that deserved more loyalty), possessed by some divine muse to send a voice note to the core, and technical team and cast because who doesn’t love direction at ungodly hours?

I’d sleep-dream story arcs, entrances and exits, and don’t get me started on my absolute loathing of red-only or blue-only lighting. Honestly, what are we moody vampires?

I’d show up, sit in the dark, marvel not at empty seats, but at the blazing, goosebump-inducing talent on stage. Maaaaaan! It was good. Really soothing to the soul. It was fun. To see the final product. It was a magical parallel universe too potent for the faint-hearted.

And now? Now we take the gauze up and the truss down. Blackout. Curtains, darling.

Back Stage

These past months of transition reminded me of my roots, my airborne gifts, my gut instincts. Of what it took to get here. Of why my name stirs both strategic vision and lame gossip in rooms I’ve never entered.

Even through exhaustion sacrificing time with my tribe, children, other half all in service of a greater transformation dream.

Please note: One need no applaud… a crocodile (KWENA) can never be praised for swimming, just as we don’t throw a standing ovation every time an actor remembers their lines and steps onto the stage. It’s called doing your job. Excellence is admirable, sure, but let’s not hand out gold stars for the bare minimum. Reserve the applause for when the crocodile does synchronized ballet of ‘Swan Lake,’ in the river before an attack… or the actor who performs ‘Hamlet’ in reverse, blindfolded, on a unicycle. Until then, let’s manage our enthusiasm, and echo ‘Nothing ButThe Truth,’ shall we?

Jeeeeer! Maar… when passion is met with threats, plots, and malice—when creativity endangers your safety—you pause. Introspect. You breathe. You reflect. And you leave the stage… Because the follow-spot might be a bullet. Because the mic begins to echo like a courtroom stand. Because against all the barking… your dreams are still dreaming of you. Aha! Akere! Ntja e hobula e tsamayang, e be e rotela e emeng tsiiiiiiii! (A dog may bark at a moving car, but it will surely piss on a parked one.) so, we keep moving. Keep doing. Keep creating and growing.

My Inner Circle

To my ride-or-die queens Maneo, Dee, and Thembakazi. Your kindness? A full-blown spiritual safari. With sisterhood stitched in every smile. You rewove my wings—thread by thread, mile by mile. To the one who calls me and every older sister Ma’m… My Daya

Gurls! You didn’t just hold space. You summoned skies and cleared the place!

Made sure my tears rose, ash to flame. Like a Phoenix with swagger. Again and again, you lit my spark. Even when life tried to leave me in the dark. Ngiyabonga, kea leboha—blessings you bring. You three Ma’m?! The wind beneath my firebird wings, a reflection of ‘Girls In Their Sunday Dresses.’

To my industry brothers—Aubrey “Aubs” Sekhabi (SAST), Mpho “Ntwana ” Molepo (AAA), Oscar “Chomi” Motsikoe. I saw you waging the silent wars I could not fight. When I stumbled, you caught me. Not just with artistic strength, but with grace. You stood where the world could not see, and carried what I could not name. If the world knew what you did for me. They’d understand why I’m still standing. I’m here because you were there. And yes! I am stubborn and crazy and weird and opinionated, but ‘Have You Seen Zandile’. (It is what it is) I was on a sale rail of sibling-hood and of all the odd ones you chose ME

Pesa Pheko, you left too soon.

I’m still numb. Still in shock. But I (we) honoured you with the final memorial piece at PACOFS…Skeem, did you see it?

Did you know that when we came together to rehearse ‘Thaba Bosiu – The Musical,’ for your spirit Ngwaneso we cried and laughed and just sang. And as you know my vocal cords are wounded. Apparently my singing is on load shedding. Skeem, I think like you I am between oxtail and octave.

Mamela Ntja! did you hear? We got four (4) Naledi Theatre Awards nominations! Historic. Right?! You felt that, neh?

You knew what ‘Thaba Bosiu – The Musical’ meant for the Free State theatre landscape meh! Nxa! You always said: “Skeem you are made of a different fabric.” You just never told me that, that comes with so much.

Anyway we know you’d have pulled up to that Naledi red carpet. Loud, proud, short and stylish as ever. Like that oxtail musical mix tone we both didn’t like. Well it’s the same bold octave that now echoes with your footprints and my exit.

Ntja mamela… Drama – Studio 2 now at PACOFS carries your name. Skeem… Ntse re le bohloko. It is really ‘After Tears.’

The Artistic Bank

Mshudulu—that post: “When we have time…” was deeper than we understood. Sometimes we only grasp the full depth of certain words when we’re in a place to feel them, not just read.

Bra Don Mattera once echoed that “Many are called, few are chosen”—yes. It speaks to purpose, to sacred responsibility, to walking a path that not everyone understands or can carry. Not because they’re less, but because what you’re carrying is yours to bring into the world. Camagu Thokoza! Lesedi! Khanya!

To Phedolo (Paul Modjadji). Even from across the ocean in New York, your words echoed home: “ Tsala, you are a currency.” Thank you for the reminder and the fire. Love you lots.

To my two predecessors, Ntate Jerry Mofokeng and Bra Jerry Pooe—who too walked away without fanfare, yet left footprints in quiet strength. Thank you for the whispers of wisdom, the grounding truths, and the unwavering hands that held me steady through the storm.

To Nike, Erwin , Alexander , Khaya , Urilka & Katta , Nina & Samuel , Erik – thank you for standing in my corner with open hearts and fierce grace. I leave not empty, but overflowing with the wealth of kindred spirits and the promise of ‘Tebello,’ an infinite awaiting of global collaborations across continents.

Clive and Lebo (Mathibe-Toko) — thank you. Tjooooooo! Your sacrifices, your presence, your belief in Jumaima~immeasurable. Even now, some still choose to misread your support, instead of what it truly was: a generous pouring into an infinite well of national (not just provincial) artistic migration, movement, and meaning.

‘How Long?’ Facts remain. And no one can erase the doors you have and are opening for the Free State talent you met at PACOFS… darlings we are GOR!!! and ‘My Vagina Is Still Not Buried With Him (Them).’ it’s packed and ready for the world.

To My Spadoo-licious – Budaaa – My Sister, My Tribe. You were right. Not just a friend—but blood braided through laughter, through tears and tight months with no petrol.

When disbelief shadowed me, you arrived—again and again— singing childhood songs that turned sorrow into a stage and silence into sound. You’d throw your head back, say: “Fuck it—nkgono Makalane a wela ka pitseng, a kgangwa ke tapole!” and suddenly, the world felt light again. What magic lives in your defiance.

Ntate Khotso Nkhatho—kea leboha, ngwanabo. I value you hle. Ntate Jerry Phele—your five-hour journeys to just watch plays at PACOFS lit up my spirit… like house lights before curtain call. Legends coming through to sip art with you at no cost or expectation. Both your love? A full plate. Your presence? A drumbeat… May we continue to be, ‘King/s Of Broken Things.’

Faniswa Yisa (Baxter Theatre) ‘Text Me When You Arrive’ please choma. Greg Homann and the late Zodwa Shongwe (The Market Theatre), it was truly a ‘Coal Yard.’ Thandekile Mqadi (Durban Playhouse)… Ismail Mahomed (Poetry Africa), Rucera Seethal (NAF)—you are fierce, and brilliant humans.

Eish! Just when we were on the brink of ‘Umoja’ exporting magic straight from home soil to the world. Someone screamed, ‘Cry The Beloved Country.’ But hey, once an artist, always a tribe—borderless, timeless, and fireproof.

Community and Creative Kinship

To my mentors and creative collaborators—especially in ‘Thaba Bosiu – The Musical’ and ‘Hae-Lapeng Concerts’—thank you for listening, even when I sounded like an alien from the future. E ne e le ntwa ea dibono.

There’s a specific collective of amazing artistic voices I had the pleasure to meet, know and work with. But I won’t name names — wouldn’t want them to get blacklisted or suffer the dreaded “guilty by association” curse, Eish! Because it will be ‘Marikana – We Shall Kill Each Other Today,’ or ‘Khwezi~ Say Her (My) Name.’ As if they weren’t dope ass and credible.

You know who you are. You know mother-is-mother and She-is-SHE. And let’s be honest, the FS off-ramp is way too short for drama or actually the off-ramp is way too short for unnecessary detours. “A dream is not a dream until it is dreamed by the whole community.” Ke leboha ho menahane. You heeded the call of collective vision. You shared crumbs while we baked the bread together. May our paths continue to cross. And trust me they will. No brown envelopes. No back pays. Just a 5 minutes curtail call-stand by-GOoooooo! ‘Hallow and Goodbye.’

To my Co-Executives—the CEO and CFO—Hai!

Bra T and Gabi, thank you for seeing the value in me, even through the frustration and sadness. It may have taken time. We definitely didn’t always speak the same language. But there was trust. There was listening. There was learning. And above all, we always showed up and spoke up with so much respect.

Thank you for working so hard over the past months to keep me at PACOFS—despite the character assassination, my rebellion and the noise. We all knew the industry was shifting. That funds unfortunately were and are limited. Yet! anger engulfed in ‘Asinamali’ is still brewing.

But we did what we did… with what we had: to transform and decentralise. Through the late-night calls, the long hours, and the strategic battles—we endured. I hold you both close to my heart for the role you played in my administrative growth. Bra T ~ Governance is one of my strong gold-mine now. Aaaah! You stood firm. And you danced through the storm with me. I can still hear your voice “AD, don’t pay attention to what you can not control.”

To both you and Gabi Askies, neh?! For the moment that this Soweto-born Qwaqwa raised gangster-Mosotho-girl entered—like ‘Boom! Bang! Into your offices ka Converse-All Star ( Le-Russia) and a facial armour full of subtitles that could cut theatre walls!’ Often thinking, ‘Hawu! Is this a family meeting or a Netflix reboot of Generations: The Ghetto Chronicles?!’ Eish! Some of that drama Yoh, was not even light lunch—it was a full seven-colour Sunday meal… with extra spice and no cutlery!” and all three are still chewing!

Closer to the heart

Mama through you, the prayers of my foremothers and forefathers— BoNkgono le BoNtatemoholo—carried me like a VIP ride. Your words? Like magic beans that grew into gardens of “Wow, look at her now!”

You always said: “Popo, pray. Work hard. In order to succeed.” So I did. Hard. Worked so hard, I swear I almost needed a gas tank to explode my personal Wi-Fi hard.

But guess what, Mama! Working hard? Turns out it’s also a secret blessing and a curse. One that makes some folks panic, like “Whoa, who invited this glow-up?” Mama, they tried to dim my light, shush my voice, because I refused to be turn into a puppet, a poster child, a political welcome mat.

Also, your home—the one you so masterfully set and staged in Qwaqwa throughout my childhood— from my debut at Phuthaditjhaba Primary, through the ensemble scenes of Senior School, right up to the final act at Kholathuto High School it seems I’ve taken centre stage and claimed it as my own.

Anyway—I’m a student of life. And life? That’s the ultimate professor. My DNA doesn’t question who you are — It asks: What’s keeping you up at night? What’s haunting you so deeply that you feel the need to vomit art on stage?

So Mama, please take your bow tonight and rest easy, knowing I’m safe, alive, and still in rehearsal for “al’right” — trust me, the show goes on. And do whisper backstage to Papa—Tladi (Zero), my late father, now holding a seat in the celestial front row up in Makwane, Qwaqwa—that I’m still learning my lines, hitting my marks, and praying he’s nodding with pride, cuing a spotlight straight onto my becoming… right over the ancestors’ table.

Mamane-Jessie—your wisdom anchors me still:

“Nono… Baby Girl. We don’t lead with fear—we lead with truth, principles, and respect.”

To Mama and you—thank you for raising me with love, with class, with grace, with boldness. Thank you for rooting me deeply in being a firm out-of-the box girl with ancestry from both Lesotho and South African .

To my cousin-brothers—Katleho Thejane and Mohau Lekopa—you are every sister’s dream wrapped in brilliance and banter. Your late-night check-ins, legal wisdom, bodyguard presence, and emotional GPS? Simply priceless. Honestly, having a lawyer, a scientist, and an artist under one family roof (over gin and tonic nogal) is a beautiful kind of madness. Because whenever one of us is ready to blow up a lab, break into a courtroom, or blazed the stage, the others show up—summoning calm, cracking jokes, or quoting our linage like it’s Shakespeare.

“Bahlakoana Ba Napo Oa Mosito.”

Eish! Moloi, what do I even say?! You know that I know that you know — and that’s the magic of you. Thank you for being my anchor and amplifier — the calm in my chaos, the voice of reason when I was ready to spiral, and the soft landing for a wild childhood girl learning to find her centre. You once said “… you cannot bend the fabric of reality and not expect that it will snap back at you.“

You held space when I didn’t even know I needed it. You saw the light in me when I was still learning to switch it on. Thank you, beautiful soul, for being exactly who you are.

The Final Curtain. Popo—SELF

You stood your ground, even as the earth beneath you trembled. You didn’t just leave—you made an exit, stage left, cloaked in grace, blazing with fire, and crowned with fury. Rooted in integrity, sculpted by creativity, lifted by collaboration, and wrapped in the gown of truth—you remained.

You grew. You glowed. You gave. You bloomed like a rebel rose in concrete, forming fierce and fabulous connections along the way. Never forget—you are part of a dazzling constellation, a vibrant tribe of magic-makers.

Your art? It’s a sacred offering. Your gifts? They’re not for idle chatter, petty shade, or that tired old “pull-her-down” playbook. They’re for purpose. For power. For poetry in motion.

So here’s to you, Popo— To the grand world stage(s), to fresh pages dripping with possibility, to places that echo with your name before you even arrive. This isn’t your final bow. No, love—This is the prologue of your next, most electrifying ACT. Your under-ground-gang… Molimo le Badimo will always keep you guided and guarded

Curtain up. Spotlight on. The world is waiting

Spotlight is now off at PACOFS. So bow, African Child. Take a final curtain call. Nnake, inhale the applause. Smile at the work done. A seamless but heavy transitions that should remind you or any black child out there that: You are not a tree rooted in one place. You are not stuck. Your artistic bank is vast—rich in ideas, experience, and global alliances. Your creative currency is divine. No matter what… you will continue to blaze—the stages.

Baby Girl, o ngwana-oa-hloho-ea-Badimo, this curtain dripping down is not an ending—it’s merely a sacred pause. Not surrender. Not silence. But the hush before the drum rolls. A new dawn waits in the wings. New rhythms. New creations. New spells yet to be cast. And remember, you’re not walking alone—you’re being choreographed by ancestors, stage-left and spirit-right. “Ho ea morao ha se ho tshaba, empa ke ho nka matla.” (Going back is not retreat—it is to gather strength.)

AD, bow out—not in defeat, but in defiance of limitation. Ngwana, walk forward—led by light, carried by prayers. The stage is vast. The page is blank. The script—unwritten. The mic— in hand. So, Ntja Mme take your bow. Exit prompt —stage. These curtain may fall, but the magic never does. The world is waiting for your next SCRIPT.

.Poet and playwright Napo Masheane was until May 30, 2025, the Artistic Director of The Performance Arts Council of the Free State where she was in the position for nearly three years. This is an edited version of an essay she wrote after vacating the influential position at the State owned entity.-Editor.