Cry Of Winnie Mandela: A haunting ode to women who wait

Watching The Cry of Winnie Mandela as a woman evokes a torrent of nostalgia—some memories personal, some shared, many borrowed.

This production, which had a singular run two weeks ago at the Goethe-Institut, is not merely Winnie’s story; it is a mirror held up to women’s lives intertwined with men. Lives marked by waiting, often in vain.

Staging a show of this calibre—one that has earned critical acclaim and extended runs in South Africa, where it is set—requires patience and self-belief.

Director Esther Kamba first learned of the play in 2024 from Greg Homann, Artistic Director of Johannesburg’s Market Theatre. After months of deliberation, she secured the script and the rights to stage it in Nairobi.

The play resonates deeply because Winnie Nomzamo Mandela was, and remains, a force of nature.

So too are the four women novelist Professor Njabulo Ndebele introduces in his book, from which this play is adapted. Their stories remind us that, in different ways, we are all Winnie—bound by the quiet agonies of waiting.

These women are Penelope’s descendants. In Homer’s Odyssey, Penelope waited 19 years for her husband’s return. Her modern counterparts endure similar trials. Love, departure, and uncertain reunion weave through the script, laying bare the emotional toll of separation and the resilience demanded by prolonged absence.

The performance took the form of a play-reading, a genre Esther Kamba has championed in Kenya.

Less dramatic than full staging, it invites the audience to visualise the scenes as the cast narrates them. The actors excelled in modulating tone and tempo, though South African diction proved occasionally elusive.

Read: Winnie Mandela: Sanitising history an exercise in futility

Esther Kazungu, who played Marara, is known for her spot-on impersonations of South Africans, but that evening, she played it safe with the accent.

Seated on stools, scripts in hand, the four women—Mannete Mofolo (Mukwela Hlatshwayo), Mamello Molete (Selina Otee), Marara (Esther Kazungu), and Delisiwe (Sefu Sanni)—reflect on their lives. Njabulo Ndebele (Mugambi Nthiga) interjects, while the narrator (Mugambi Ikiara) sets the scene.

Mannete, from Lesotho, waits for her husband, who left for Johannesburg’s mines. Years later, after a futile search, she accepts solitude. Mamello’s childhood sweetheart vanishes, only to send a postcard from Cuba a year later. He returns a decade on, divorces her, and marries a white woman.

Delisiwe’s husband secures a scholarship abroad at 35. When he fails his fourth year, she scrapes together funds to support him—only for him to return after a decade, divorce her, and wed a nurse. “Why must women always wait?” she demands.

Then there’s Marara, whose unfaithful husband slinks home bankrupt after losing his corporate job. She tends to him until his death, burying him in an expensive casket under the township’s watchful gaze.

These women summon Winnie Mandela (June Njenga) to their Ibandla Labafazi—a sacred gathering—to ask: Was it worth the wait? In understanding Winnie’s endurance, perhaps they might fathom their own. The nation mourned a hero; Winnie lost a husband.

And the rumours? The whispers of her involvement in the boys’ deaths, the ANC’s summons—what of them?

June Njenga’s portrayal is formidable, balancing awe with steely dignity. Winnie deflects the gossip with chilling poise: “My silence has protected me from those who seek to confirm their truths about me.” A line so potent it echoes beyond the stage, speaking to every woman who has endured scrutiny.

The production’s music, however, needed tighter arrangement. While Sefu Sanni’s vocals shone, the ensemble’s harmonies faltered, dulling otherwise poignant moments.

Yet The Cry of Winnie Mandela remains a masterful exploration of resilience. It deserves a second audience—and Esther Kamba deserves acclaim for bringing it home.

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