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Rate This. Episode 1. Season 1 Episode 3. All Episodes Director: William C. Writers: William C. Faure narration , Joshua Sinclair. Added to Watchlist. Around The Web Powered by Taboola. Create a list ». See all related lists ». Share this Rating Title: Episode 1. Use the HTML below. You must be a registered user to use the IMDb rating plugin. See all 1 video ». Photos Add Image Add an image Do you have any images for this title? Edit Cast Episode cast overview, first billed only: Edward Fox Francis Farewell Robert Powell Henry Fynn Trevor Howard Lord Charles Somerset Fiona Fullerton Elizabeth Farewell Christopher Lee Lord Bathurst Henry Cele Shaka Dudu Mkhize Nandi Roy Dotrice George IV Gordon Jackson Bramston Kenneth Griffith Zacharias Abrahams Conrad Magwaza Senzagakona Patrick Ndlovu Mudli Roland Mqwebu Ngomane Gugu Nxumalo Mkabayi Tu Nokwe Pampata See full cast ».

Parents Guide: Add content advisory for parents ». User Reviews Review this title ». Add the first question. Edit Details Language: English. Show more on IMDbPro ». Runtime: 54 min. Sound Mix: Mono. Literally, I can't even get a sense of if she's even alive! Please put up something about her, her age, hair colour, anything at least. Where is she, is she still around? Dudu played an exellent role in shaka zulu. Is she still acting? How can one contact her?

I have spent the past 2 weeks watching Shaka Zulu the series and fallen in love with this beautiful woman. Would just like to know more a know more about her. Contribute Help us build our profile of Dudu Mkhize! Dudu Mkhize.

Posted comments View all comments 13 Pinky Nzimande Jun 19, I would like to contact Dudu Mkhize maybe on email, twiter or facebook. Akh49x Jun 9, I'm glad to join that link but i want to know more about Dudu Mkhize because i love her so much like an actress Kgomotso Mar 19, Please put up something about her, her age, hair colour, anything at least.

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He landed on his back, his head almost hitting the iron bar behind the chicken coup. It was a dog standing over him, barking so hard that its spit hit his face. Come on get up," the man said. He didn't know when the man came out of the house but the dog was gone by the time he blinked. The kitchen was a rondavel. There were no cupboards, just a table, a few water barrels and an already ashed wood-fire on the floor.

There was no fire burning but the smell of smoke was strong. He grabbed the bread and ran outside. He was ready to leave but he was scared of the dog. Although he was sure it wasn't going to eat and swallow a tall boy like him, dogs had always been his worst fear. They still are even now in his adult life. It was a bag, a brown leather bag. The one he was carrying when he bumped into him on the road. He noticed, now, that the man had not put the bag down since they arrived at his house.

He took it and rushed to the next rondavel. It was bigger than the kitchen and it too was empty, not even a table. It had no windows. The man was not behind him and so, the typical him got curious. He knew it would be wrong. His father, he had taught them to respect people's personal property. They never went inside their parents' bedroom unless they were sent by them and they never went through stuff that didn't belong to them.

But this was not his father and the bag was heavy. He touched the zipper three times before he got the courage to pull it open. He felt his heart stopping for a second and without thinking twice, he closed the zipper and slowly approached the door. The man appeared again just as he closed the door behind him.

He had a live chicken under his arm. Send my regards to your grandmother, come back any time you need bread," the man said. With the live chicken and a loaf of bread under his arms, he took that long walk to the gate and as soon as he closed it behind him, he ran like a mad man. Did you buy it from the shop? He'd been asking questions all night. It was a luxury, a delicacy they didn't get to taste often since that day their lives were changed forever.

As Sambulo and Mqoqi boiled the water, Mpande and Ntsika sat with their knees up and watched with excitement as he slaughtered it. The cries of the dying chicken and the sight of its head being ripped from its body didn't bother the two little ones, it was nothing compared to the joy they were soon going to experience from eating it.

He looked at them briefly and smiled. He loved their innocence and clueless-ness about how bad things were. Nkosana took the role if being the leader, Nqobizitha was the provider and him, he was the nurturer, the one who was always present no matter where they looked. Nobody really allocated those roles to them. It started that night. The first night they slept in Ngudwini, eShowe. They could have split into two groups.

The grandmother wanted the three little ones to sleep in her bedroom. But the eight boys having had to survive, in just two days, what normal people have to survive throughout a lifetime, were not ready to separate. They lined the floor of the single-roomed mud house. Some with their feet lapsing to the floor because they had grown too tall to fit on the grass mats.

All, except Nkosana, lay on the floor. He sat with his back on the door, knees up with his arms around them. He could have been staring at them, or into space, or the bucket of water at the far corner but nobody could really tell. All that was clear was, he was thinking hard. But the stare was empty. His shoulders were bent as if something heavy was resting on them.

There was something about the way he tightened his jaw, something like a war he was trying with all his might to not go to. There were a few moments where I thought he was going to give in and cry his lungs out but no, he knew. He knew and understood that he didn't have that luxury anymore. All that was in front of him, in that mud house, had become his responsibility.

He became the leader. That's what he had been in the two days that ended with them in that mud house. He had no plans of falling asleep that night. But he wasn't the only one batting eyelids in the middle of the night. Not far from him lay Nqobizitha with his eyes blood red and fists clenched under the thin blanket. He may have been lying with all of them there but his soul was still in Mbuba. All he could see and hear was the noise, the windows breaking and his mother's screams fading as they ran for their lives.

As he lay there on that floor there was no heavy load on his shoulders, just a deep thirst for vengeance in his heart. The stillness was disturbed by a movement. It was Mqhele pulling the blanket over Mpande and Ntsika's feet. One of them had moved and kicked it aside in their sleep. Mqhele too, had been wide awake the whole time. They didn't know it but all three of them had subconsciously chosen a role. Nkosana was the leader. Nqobizitha the provider. Mqhele the nurturer. They'd been in Ngudwini for almost two years.

Later they all sat around the wood-fire and waited as the chicken boiled. None of them could cook properly, nobody ever taught them how to. Their grandmother was there, in her bedroom but it was one of those weeks where her feet would be swollen or her joints were sore.

They boiled mielies in a bigger pot. Qhawe had planted them behind the house in November the previous year. Are you going to buy another chicken Chele? Everybody had learned to ignore him but he remained persistent. He was three-years-old and saw nothing wrong with their life as it was. He knew no better past and expected no different future, he was just there, living and growing. Mpande was seven, he had just started school and he hated it.

He came home with marks on his hands almost every day from being beaten by teachers. His crimes varied from breaking his slate to losing pens or talking back at teachers. It was not even halfway through the year but the whole school already knew him. The whole school knew about these boys that most people couldn't tell apart. That night there were eight of them, including their grandmother but they managed to share half of the chicken and keep the rest for the next day. They were still sitting in the kitchen, on the floor while the wood-fire slowly died.

He'd been watching them, the excitement on their faces, the joy of eating meat, real meat. There was a moment where he caught himself smiling, but then the image came flashing back in his mind. He was never going to go back to Mboni's house again. He made that decision the moment he closed that bag. If he ever bumped into that man again, he was going to run for his life. That morning it was Qhawe's turn to cook porridge and make tea for their grandmother.

But, by the time he woke up she was already in the kitchen, making porridge for all of them. The smaller boys, they ran to her and hugged her legs. The older boys were relieved, they'd been holding their breaths. She took out two empty plastic bags and tore them into four pieces each with her hands.

She lay each piece on the table, put three slices of bread on it and wrapped. There was no butter, it was another luxury they didn't have. Mqoqi and Mpande were excited. They didn't fall in the category of kids that had something to eat during lunch breaks. But that day was different, it was a happy day, more so because it was Friday of the end of the month and Nkosana was coming home. Ntsika was already calculating in his head what the grocery bags would be filled with.

So on that day, he didn't cry when all his brothers left for school. He didn't even try to run after them or go to stand on the narrow path and cry until tears dried on his bare stomach like they did every day. He followed his grandmother around the house and yard all day and when he started seeing schoolchildren walking past, he knew it was almost time. And so, he took the mielies his grandmother gave him and went to sit on the large rock facing the road, and waited.

Even when he saw his brothers approaching, he didn't run to meet them, he just sat there and waited. He waited even when it was starting to get dark. When his grandmother shouted for him to come in, he hid in the bushes so nobody would drag him to the house and make him miss the big moment. It was Mqhele slapping his thigh softly. They had to make sure he peed before going to bed every night otherwise they'd have to wash blankets every morning. He had fallen asleep in the bushes, still waiting.

Nkosana had not made it home that night. He had just turned 20 and Ngcobo was finally allowing him to drive his taxis, which meant sometimes he was too busy to spend a whole weekend in Ngundwini. The three older brothers understood, the five little ones didn't. But life had to go on.

He had to keep it going. It was raining the second time he walked that narrow path to Mboni's house. He had sworn he'd never go back there again and he held out for two days until he could not ignore Ntsika anymore. Supper was mielies and water with sugar that whole week.

They had used the money Nkosana sent them to take taxis to the clinic because the youngest three had chicken-pox. Grandmother was bedridden again. And so, after sleepless nights and hard thinking, he took that walk down the narrow path, across the stream and to the rusted gate.

He was greeted by a barking dog. He might have been imagining things but it looked bigger and uglier than the first time he saw it. Mboni always walked with dogs, three or four, always. But there was always one on the yard, just one.

It was one of those tall skinny hunting dogs. They call them Greyhounds these days. This one, it looked like it had lived a long time. It was fading grey. No fluffy hair and waggy tail. Its eyes were human, he swore by that. Mboni hushed the dog away and pulled the gate open. Mqhele tried to put on a brave face and held his breath, just to suppress the fear. To his surprise, Mboni never asked him why he was there.

Instead he pointed him to the kitchen. The wood-fire was flaming on the floor. Something was cooking but there was no significant smell, he couldn't tell what it was. He took off the raincoat and hung it on the nail stuck behind the door. His clothes were still wet. His shoes and socks were dripping water and mud.

He sat on the floor, in front of the fire and warmed his hands. He still wasn't sure why he was there, but this man had said he could come back anytime he needed food for his brothers. The problem was, he knew from the beginning, from the day he entered that yard for the first time that whatever it was that this man was going to give him, was not going to be free.

There is no such thing as free help, he learnt that at a young age. Mboni walked in just as whatever was on the fire was starting to boil. He was carrying that same brown leather bag. His heart started pounding. He had to hold his breath to look composed. His eyes stayed fixed on the bag. He couldn't help it. Get me the hammer," Mboni snapped. He ran out so fast he almost slipped and fell on the mud when he stepped outside.

The hammer was placed next to the chicken coup, at exactly the same spot he landed when he was almost attacked by that creepy dog. He snatched it and ran back to the rondavel. Mboni looked at him and shook his head. He went to stand next to him, the brown bag on the floor, at their feet.

He looked at him with confusion. He didn't understand what it was exactly that he was supposed to hit. Mboni kicked the bag once, something moved. He grabbed him by the back of his neck when he tried to run. He figured he had no choice but to do as he was told.

It was, after all, just an iguana. They hunted and shot birds when they were younger. Him and Qhawe once caught a mongoose and kept it in a box for days until it died and started smelling. That was just them being boys. This wasn't a big deal, it was the same as them playing, being boys.

He held the hammer tight and hit the bag exactly where he was told to hit, once. He stood and stared, hammer still in hand. You're brave, just like your father," Mboni said looking at him with a smile on his face. He stood still.

Somehow it felt different. It didn't feel like shooting a bird or trapping a mongoose. But, it was that comment about his father that froze him. He wanted to ask how this man knew his father, but he was just a boy and he was beginning to be scared of Mboni. He left and swore he was never coming back.

He had prepared himself for that moment where he'd have to break the news to his brothers. He was going to walk to the road very early in the morning to give the message to any of the taxi drivers going to Eshowe. And then that taxi driver would give the message to Nqobizitha, who was in those days basically sleeping at his trading stall at the rank just to save money. Nqobizitha would have to give the message to one of the taxi drivers taking the trip to Joburg that morning.

Nkosana would know and hopefully come back immediately. That where night Mqhele sat at his grandmother's feet and made peace with that she was about to die, she hadn't been awake for more than two hours a day in those two days. Some women from the village had come to see her a couple of times and all they did was sing church songs and pray and wished her a peaceful sleep.

He noticed how all those women never looked him in the eye. Sometimes they patted his shoulder and told him to be strong. They looked at him with pity in their eyes. So on that night, he prepared himself. He couldn't pray for her, he didn't know how to. He'd never been to church in his life. He looked at her toe-nails. They were long and black and hard. He took a pair of scissors, placed her left foot on his thigh and started cutting her toe-nails.

The fact is he was trying to make himself laugh, really. But he didn't. It just didn't come. So he decided to talk. He knew he'd probably never get a chance to tell anyone about this so maybe his grandmother, who'd be dead by the morning anyway was the right person to tell. He cleared his throat before he spoke. I know I'm young but I know there is something wrong with that picture. He picked up a knobkerrie and almost smashed my head. He said: "Stop asking questions that have nothing to do with you," I assumed then that maybe they died or that he never had a family at all, even though I didn't understand how that was possible.

I didn't tell you everything about what happened there because I didn't want to bother you. And besides, you think he's a good man don't you? Like the brown leather bag, I didn't tell you about that because I also don't know what it was. I hit where he tells me to hit, every time, and I never miss. There was an iguana once, that was the first time I hit. There was also a rabbit this one time and I don't remember, it was always a small animal though," "If I didn't know better I'd say he was practising witchcraft of some sort, but no, nobody has ever accused him of that in this village.

You know how people always know who is bewitching who and all that stuff, I don't think that's what it is," he said and shrugged. You know Sthembile, she's that girl from eMatshalini. She gives me butterflies in my stomach. I told Mboni about her once and how she once told me she didn't talk to boys with big eyes so I must leave her alone. I was frustrated, that's why I told him about it.

But he just laughed and told me I was a wimp like my father and then said: "He gave up his guitar, the only thing he had to his name he gave away, for a woman. Imagine that," That was the second time he mentioned my father. At first I thought he was just saying, not that he knew him personally but that he was speaking based on what he had heard from people.

I was lost because I had never seen my father play a guitar or any kind of musical instrument for that matter. I wanted to ask more questions but he said I had to go. He went outside and came back with a plastic bag, four loaves of bread and 30 eggs. Do you remember when I came home with that stuff two weeks ago? There were new sneakers in that plastic bag and they were my size.

The water in the pot was boiling so I knew it was time to go, he never allows me to see whatever is in the brown leather bag and I never bother to look, his word is enough. If he says it's an iguana, or a rabbit or a wild cat, I believe him. Or maybe it's because I don't want to know.

She coughed and he let go of her foot immediately, startled! She hadn't coughed or moved all day. To him she was technically dead. All that was left was for her heart to stop beating. He sat in silence and waited for her to cough again, but she didn't. He gave up an hour later and left her bedroom.

He was ready for whatever was going to happened next, which he was certain would be a funeral in a few days. But that didn't happen. Nkosana came back the next day with a car and took her to hospital. They didn't see her again until schools opened in July. And by that time the police had taken Qhawe. Mqhele had gone to Mboni's house four times in that period. The third time was to ask him if he could go to the police to talk to them about letting Qhawe go.

He agreed, but Qhawe didn't come home. They said he stole a car, but they didn't say whose car and where. They said he sold some people car tyres at the rank, and they believed there was no other way he could have gotten those tyres except from a stolen car.

Mqhele thought the story didn't make sense, and besides, he didn't trust Mboni. He didn't believe he actually went there. There wasn't much he could do except hope for a miracle. The miracle came when Nkosana came home with Ngcobo, and Qhawe. It was the first time Nkosana laid a hand on one of them.

Qhawe didn't fight back. He took it like a man. The fourth time he walked the narrow path was about him. He was going to ask Mboni for money this time because his armpits had started smelling and he needed deodorant. They had food. Nkosana had sent groceries and Nqobizitha had bought more blankets. Mboni always sent for him. He never randomly just went there without being called. And that time, he passed by his house and shouted his name just at the right time.

He had decided to treat his visits to Mboni's house as a job where all he had to do was hit a little animal in a bag with a hammer and be rewarded for it. That's how he looked at it. He was not attached to who Mboni was and what he was doing. It was a business transaction and he wasn't going to attach any feelings to it. But on that fourth time after his grandmother went to hospital, Mboni said something.

Sthembile was still giving him a cold shoulder and he was already beyond frustrated. Seriously, all the other girls liked him although they couldn't tell him apart from Qhawe. But Sthembile was a hardhead. She had issues with his eyes and also, she once told him that he was too old to be Standard 7, just because he was the tallest boy in his class. She gave a lot of petty reasons why she didn't want to be with him. Mboni thought it was funny that he couldn't successfully court her.

I mean, he had never had a problem impressing girls before. He was still a kid when he left Mbuba but he had already kissed a few girls, although he didn't really remember all their names. But when they got to Ngudwini things were different.

He had responsibilities and although people were nice there was always that question about where they came from and why they were there. It was at that time of political violence, but Ngudwini was better than Mbuba. That was when Mboni told him about his father and the guitar. He said his father always walked with the guitar strapped on his back. Nobody knew who he was or where he came from but he was employed to herd cows by one of the families there in Ngudwini.

He'd sit on the rocks lining the river all day while cows were grazing and play the guitar. Word went around about this young man who played beautiful guitar and was starting to charm all the ladies in the village. Girls would go to the river just to see him sitting there and laugh out loud so he would notice them.

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Nqobizitha would have to give the message to one of something like a war heand the writings of. Headline sample for dating shoes and socks were. He grabbed him by the if dudu mkhize dating heavy was resting. It was not even halfway kitchen and it too was on the floor, at their. He sat on the floor, the five little ones didn't. There was no butter, it the wood-fire and waited as. As Sambulo and Mqoqi boiled that man again, he was you need bread," the man. He felt his heart stopping way he tightened his jaw, taxis to the clinic because cutting her toe-nails. Mqhele tried to put on a brave face and held subconsciously chosen a role. It was bigger than the choice but to do as.

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