Learning how to walk: Zikhona Sodlaka on memory, mastery and a life on stage

FADE IN:
INT. CORRIDOR – DAY (TIMELESS)

The light is soft, with that soothing scent in-between morning and memory. A little girl in a white dress dotted with a single red star walks down a long corridor towards her very first performance. Her feet barely make a sound, but her steps hum a hypnotic hymn.

She carries no toy, no fear, no tumbling joy; just a curious certainty of a child who does not yet know that the years are watching. As she moves, the corridor shifts. The walls rearranging themselves from the pastel tones of childhood into the sterile brightness of a corridor that leads to an audition room.

She grows as she walks: five years old, then twelve, then twenty. The dress turns from cotton to chiffon, from innocence to intention. Her grown self glances at her younger shadow rising on a door in front of her, almost guiding her. She grabs the doorhandle, pauses for a deep measured breath… she opens.

CUT TO BLACK.
TITLE CARD:
“Some people travel to arrive. Others travel to become.”

INT. RESTAURANT – MELROSE ARCH, JOHANNESBURG – DAY

The low murmur of mid-morning business talk. A shy percussion of cutlery clinks against porcelain. A waiter glides by with the grace of a well-rehearsed extra.
At a corner table, a laptop glows faintly.

VUS’UMUZI (V.O.)

When we meet, the little girl is now a mature mother. You can see in her eyes the traveller, the one who always remembers to pack silence, courage, and laughter for the road.

Across from me sits Zikhona Sodlaka, posture poised, mien puckish, presence immense, with the kind of calm that comes from surviving many a script.
After a jolly jaunt of laughs and a cursory catch-up, I inform her that I have but a few open-ended questions and she will lead our crossing, to which she cal-de-sacs. I yield. I press record. The red light blinks.

VUS’UMUZI:

“Manje ke, let's start with your earliest happiest memory. As far back as you can remember, please play it out for me.”
(She laughs. That deep, unguarded guffaw that carries a childhood still uncharted by expectation.)

ZIKHONA:
“People remember that?!” She swerves in disbelief.

“What is yours? Maybe share and I can get an idea of how to answer…”
(I take the offramp, ease into my own memory lane, and she leans in.)

ZIKHONA:
“No, shut the front door! No, you remember when you were four?! Oh, my gosh! I feel like other people are such geniuses.”

VUS’UMUZI:
(I steer back with a chuckle.) “But yah, it's just this moment, because I don't remember much, but this very moment.”

ZIKHONA
“Oooooh! I’ve got one for you!”
(Her eyes cruise through reels of recollection in impish glee.)

“I remember the trips we used to take when I was a child… I don’t know if it’s my memory or the family’s, you know? You know those pictures where your mom is wearing a swimsuit, and your father is vestless?” (She giggles, idling briefly at the rest stop of nostalgia) “There’s that image in my brain.”

VUS’UMUZI (V.O.):

And just like that, she shifts gears, pulls the past into motion, and takes me on a roadtrip.

EXT. EASTERN CAPE HIGHWAY – 1990s – DAY (FLASHBACK)

The sky is a wide blue drum, stretched taut over the hills. The road thrums beneath a fleet of old cars: scores of family members all packed into a December convoy snaking from Mthatha to Port St. John’s.

ZIKHONA (V.O.)

Mthatha is two hours from Port St. John’s, hidden in the folds of the old Transkei. They moved us to the outskirts, thinking they were hiding beauty, but the joke’s on them (voice shrieks, amused). Because that coast? That coast is the Caribbean of South Africa.

The Eastern Cape is The Wild Coast. I didn’t know that until recently, because KZN markets itself better. (A breath of laughter rolls through her words.)
A young Zikhona pressed against the backseat window, face lit by the sun, eyes wide with wonder.

ZIKHONA (V.O.) (CONT'D)

So, every December, the whole clan hit the road, my mom, her husband… my dad (A small, knowing titter escapes), uncles, aunts, cousins, noise. I swear, half the village came. (The titter widens in the voice)

A convoy of cars winds through green hills; a Cressida leads, dust rising in its wake.

ZIKHONA (V.O.) (CONT'D)
The bungalows by Second Beach overflowed with us. Now that’s where it's at. Where the blacks are. That's where everyone is swimming nge-Bogat, nge-tight neskipa, proper black beach culture. If one bungalow slept six, we huddled in as sixty.

And this is amazing because the more I talk, the more it's like… remembering something. (Voice drifts, then returns, gentler).

So I know that there would be joyous spurts. That would be the experience. And my sisters tell me of these memories that I don't have, when they were younger and how my dad… dad is like Superman. Uhm… Bless his soul.

VUS’UMUZI (V.O.):

There’s a pattern to the Sodlakas’ story, and that is movement. A kind of inherited pilgrimage where travel was for escape, surely, but also for connection, for remembrance, for return.

Perhaps that’s where her own restlessness began, in those long drives. Perhaps that’s where the journeying into every character she’s played commences. Perhaps that’s why every character she’s ever played feels lived in.

There’s purpose in her pace, knowing in her direction. If you look closely, there’ a man in those footsteps.

INT. RESTAURANT – MELROSE ARCH – DAY

The restaurant whirs softly. A spoon stirs, a chair slides. For a moment, time seems to rest between us.

VUS’UMUZI
“Dad has passed?”
(She looks up, eyes pausing somewhere between here and then)

ZIKHONA
“Yah, 4 years ago.”

(I offer quiet condolences; we take a breath, then continue walking through her memories)

VUS’UMUZI
“And your earliest happiest memory of him?”

ZIKHONA
“Shoo, My dad…” (A soft smile traces her face.) “That man...”
(She exhales, laughter folded into breath.)
“He taught me how to walk.”

VUS’UMUZI:

“You mean…”

ZIKHONA:
“I mean walk. Literally. But also… you know, walk.”
(Her hands mimic small steps, her fingers tiny feet learning rhythm.)
Yeah, he always used to hold my hand. Like when we're going to the shops I’d hold his hand, this ginormous man walking by me.

And he would teach me how to walk fast and I would be like, ‘hy are you walking so much faster?’ And he’d be like, ‘this is how you walk. Don't do this.’ (She gestures slow clumsy steps with her fingers) ‘Do this’. (Her hands shift into measured, confident strides). And then you're like, ‘oh, okay, you do this, okay.’

(Her laughter lands softly, a foot finding even ground.)

ZIKHONA (CONT'D):

“And I think that’s what he’s done my whole life, you know? Let me find my balance. He’s always been that kind of man. Traditional, yes. But soft. Patient. A cinema-on-Sundays kind of father. The sweets-under-the-pillow type.”

(Silence. A stillness that comes when you stop to tie your memory’s laces. Then, a small, knowing smile walks across her face, the kind that says: he’s still beside me, step for step.)

VUS’UMUZI
“And is this the kind of walk you took the first time you travelled into a character? Can you take me through that experience?”

INT. AUDITION ROOM / PRESCHOOL STAGE – TIMELESS TRANSITION

The twenty-year-old Zikhona opens the door to the room at the end of the corridor and her five-year-old self steps in.

It isn’t an audition room anymore but Holy Cross Preschool, alive with paper stars and cardboard crowns. Children fidget behind a drawn curtain, whispering lines they’ve half-remembered.

A teacher claps twice; silence falls.

A five-year-old Zikhona in her white dress takes center stage. The lights are bright, but she doesn’t flinch. Her tiny frame stands tall with her chin up, and shoulders back, as someone who already knows that the spotlight is something to fill, never to fear.

MATCH CUT TO:

ZIKHONA (V.O.)
I’m in this white dress with a red star on my chest. You couldn’t touch me in that dress.
(guffaws, the sound takes a few playful steps ahead of her.) Don’t mess with me in that dress.

My poor mom (the guffaw stumbles, catches itself) it was white! I don’t even know if I played in it.

(She giggles, steadying her breath)

I was at Holy Cross Preschool, in Mthatha… And there was a play. I think it was called Yamiravet… No… Yamirabit!
(She halts mid-thought. A melody returns to her, she hums, off-key but proud.)
Onstage, five-year-old Zikhona sways slightly, singing along with the others, her voice bright and certain. Her mother immersed proudly from the front row, and her father, a tall silhouette at the back, watching destiny rehearse, grins.

ZIKHONA (V.O.) (CONT'D)

That was my first stage. My first audience.
Maybe my first time becoming… me. It was about a princess. And I played the princess.

INT. RESTAURANT – MELROSE ARCH – DAY
Zikhona leans back, smiling, eyes glimmering with the same child-like light.

VUSUMUZI

“Halala wena princess!” (Laughter strolls easily between us).
“So, you were already playing lead in pre-school?”

(She waves the question off with a laugh, and with a light titter, I step into the next question.)

VUSUMUZI (CONT'D)
“What other characters, lead or not, did you travel in primary or high-school, and how was the journey?”

ZIKHONA
“No. Zero. Zero.
I was just a sports child. I was playing volleyball. I would touch on as many sports as I could. I was definitely playing netball and tennis.”

VUSUMUZI
“Were you any good?”

ZIKHONA
“I'm a beast.
Don’t mess with me. F around and find out!”

VUSUMUZI
“So, you were in the first team.”

ZIKHONA
“Always.”

VUSUMUZI
“Which means you’ve always been competitive?”

ZIKHONA
There’s a steadiness in her tone, like someone who’s learned the art of not arriving too soon.

“Never been. My approach has always been excellence. This is what I strive for in an individualistic way.

Competing with the next has never been a priority, or even a desire. I’ve always wanted to be the best I can be, and if that meant winning, then be it. But competition has never been my drive.”

VUSUMUZI
“I see. And what of fame, be it from acting or sports, has it been a drive?”

ZIKHONA
“Fame is something people want?”

VUSUMUZI
“I believe so. There's a lot of people who want to be famous. I can attest to that.”

ZIKHONA
“I hear you. But to be famous, more famous, the most famous has never been a thing for me. But as we now know as adults, that excellence has benefits. It attracts things like fame, and winning. Excellence is the one thing that I know was my indoctrination. It is my indoctrination.”

VUS’UMUZI
“And yet, fame found you.”

ZIKHONA
(laughing)
“Like an uninvited guest. You can’t tell it to leave, but you don’t let it rearrange your furniture either.”

INT. PRESCHOOL STAGE / AUDITION ROOM – TIMELESS TRANSITION

Five-year-old Zikhona bows with the other children. A ripple of applause fills the room. When she rises, the stage lights dim, and the air shifts. Her small hands lower, but when she lifts her head again, she’s twenty, standing in the same spotlight, but now it’s an audition room.

A casting panel sits before her now, the preschool vanished. The laughter of children replaced by the hum of a camera. The air is thick with nerves, but she stands sure.

A beat. Then… she performs.

INT. RESTAURANT – MELROSE ARCH – DAY
ZIKHONA
“So I’m doing this hostess job, you know, one of those high-end places. I’m this hot, thin girl in a nice dress, standing at the door, smiling.”

VUS’UMUZI
(laughing)
“Bucket on the head, bottles on fire, and everything?”

ZIKHONA
(teasing back)
“At that time? It was classy!”
(We both laugh. It lingers, the kind of laughter that folds time.)

VUS’UMUZI
“So… you didn’t go down that path? Off the record.”

(She shoots me a mock “behave” glare.)

ZIKHONA
“I was terrible at it, Vus’. I mean, really bad.
(laughs)

I probably did a handful of shifts before they realised I was not built for that life.”
(Beat. Her tone softens, reflective.)

ZIKHONA (CONT’D)

“But as fate would have it, the manager at that restaurant was also a casting agent.

So one day he pulls me aside and goes, ‘Look, you’re bad at this, but you should be doing something else. There’s an audition I think you should try.’
And I’m standing there like, What? An audition?
He explains it to me, gentle, like a mentor would. How I studied for that role!
(Beat.)

So I show up, completely wrong for the part.
I’m in this pink tight dress, high heels… and the role is a mechanic under a car.
(laughs)

I thought, this is not going to work. I’m not going to excel here.
But when I walk in, sitting right there is Shaft, who’s still in my life to this day.

He and the team start walking me through it, as mentors would, showing me how the process works, guiding me like I actually belong there.

And that’s how I got my first job.
My debut.

Twenty years ago.”

VUS’UMUZI (V.O.)

And twenty years later, Zikhona Sodlaka has become a household name, a tour de force whose presence is as commanding as it is comforting. She’s travelled far since that white dress with the red star. She has walked… one role, one reinvention, one revelation at a time, moving through story the way some move through prayer.

The girl whose father taught her how to walk now teaches others to find their own footing with her Masterclass. She walks with community, with curiosity, she walks with care. Every session a pilgrimage, a steady, barefoot journey through the hearts of her kin.

And now, two decades on, she arrives at this milestone as yet another beginning. A celebration of the miles behind her and the many ahead.

INT. RESTAURANT – MELROSE ARCH – DAY

ZIKHONA:

“This year I turn 40.

And it’s at the same time when I turn 20 years young in this business. This is my 40-20 as it were. And there's something about it that has come with liberties, certain liberties that a woman, including one like myself, can give herself.

There’s something about this business – that I've grown to know and love so much, that I belong to – that wants to tell people how to be, to behave, to do, to not do, say, not say, Celebrate, not celebrate. So the culture of patting one’s self on the back must be private.

I believe the contrary. One must be able to say, ‘I did one year of work’ and pat themselves on the back. ‘I did a decade of work’, pat on the back. ‘I did two decades of work’, I pat myself on the back.

And so the first point of departure has just been that, where I sat back and
I realized that a lot of time has gone, and that’s exciting to me. It’s honorable, it’s quite an achievement.

But this marathon that we run does not give you the privilege of knowing how many more miles are ahead, all you can do is look back and say, ‘Oh, I've done six already, I only have as many more as my legs can carry me left.’ So when I took a moment to take a breath and looked back, I realized that I’ve run quite a lot of laps.

And with that, I am allowed to do against what I'm not supposed to do as far as other people are concerned. But because I’ not driven by other’s opinions of me, but by my own excellence, I’m not phased by naysayers.

There's so many rules about what women can do. Women can't celebrate excellence, especially the excellence that they do. When women do that, we're shunned upon, looked at nasty as if there's something wrong.

And I disagree with it. So also, the many points of entry are the fact that, ‘how would I celebrate this?’ And in the culture of Zikhona, who says, ‘Sengingenile, masambeni sonke’. I could…

Someone said to me, if it wasn't you.

You could have just popped champagne and traveled to America and enjoyed, but I hold the door open. That's who I is.

We have a plate of food let’s share.

I mean, I'll take the good piece, you’ll have the other one. But ‘this is what I have, come lets share’, this is the culture I come from.

Essentially, permission is something that we ought to give ourselves, especially when we've worked forit. And especially when it is in the culture of progression and educating and giving access.

For me, a door was flung open.

I was sent to a door of opportunity, and someone held my hand. I say this a lot to people who want to ask, ‘why did you do this?’ And I say that if a door was held open for me, I need to hold the door open for other people, too.

I need to give people access to the things that I have access to, information and I have access to, to who it is that I am and I come with, because I don't go alone.

And whatever piece of information I acquired over 20 years, perhaps one person in that room with a door that I swung open for them, it may be fast forwarded four times. Maybe it will take them four years to achieve something that took me twenty.”

INT. AUDITION ROOM / CORRIDOR / MASTERCLASS HALL – TIMELESS

The audition room exhales.

A twenty-year-old Zikhona stands still, heart racing, face trying to contain the scream of joy behind her eyes. The casting team exchanges approving nods.

She thanks them, bows slightly, the same small bow she once made as a child.
She turns. Walks toward the door.

Each step measured and reverent.

Her hand meets the doorhandle.

She opens.

As she crosses the threshold, the air bends again.

On the other side, she’s no longer twenty, she is now forty.

She steps not into a corridor but a quiet auditorium.

Rows of seats curve gently before her, scores of young people with notebooks open, eyes wide, and hearts steady.
At the far end, a screen glows:

ZIKHONA SODLAKA MASTERCLASS

She stands there for a moment, not entering, not performing, just arrived.
She takes a breath and walks to the stage “like this”.

FADE TO BLACK.

WRITTEN BY: Vus'umuzi Phakathi