By Jonathan Mbiriyamveka
As Zimbabwean actress Charity Dlodlo prepares to embark on her inaugural tour of New Zealand this March, she carries with her more than a suitcase and a script.
For 23 days, Dlodlo will traverse new stages with Once An Actress, a searing one-woman play that confronts exploitation, power, and the fragile architecture of ambition within the performing arts.
Titled Once An Actress, the production is directed and adapted by Stanley Mambo, written by Tony Layton, and produced by Charity Dlodlo.
At its heart is Sarah, a character whose journey through the shadows of the entertainment industry becomes a mirror reflecting a much wider social reality.
For Dlodlo, the tour is not about geography. “This journey is less about the places we visit and more about our shared humanity,” she says.
While the narrative draws from her lived experience as an actress, she insists its themes transcend borders.
Across continents and cultures, women navigate power imbalances, ambition, vulnerability, and safety. “I believe viewers will see parts of themselves—or people they know—reflected in Sarah’s story.”
Indeed, Sarah’s narrative refuses confinement to any single nation. Sexual exploitation, harassment, and abuse are not isolated to the arts, Dlodlo notes.
They surface in workplaces, schools, homes, politics, religious institutions—everywhere power meets vulnerability.
The play wrestles with silence and shame, but also with resilience and bravery. At its core lies a stark reminder: dignity should never be sacrificed in exchange for opportunity.
Taking on such emotionally charged material for a continuous 23-day run requires careful preparation.
The role’s intensity demands both physical and psychological endurance. Dlodlo maintains strict vocal care, prioritises rest, and incorporates strength training into her routine. Equally important is her mental wellbeing.
Therapy, reflective practices, and a strong support network anchor her.
“To convey a narrative centred on exploitation effectively, I need to be emotionally stable,” she explains. “It’s essential for me to turn my portrayal of pain into a source of purpose.”
At this stage in her career, the tour represents a personal act of courage. Performing, she says, is one thing; publicly confronting uncomfortable truths is another.
“I see this phase as a chance to use my voice purposefully—not only to entertain, but to advocate for change.”
While she acknowledges progress within the industry—more conversations about accountability, an increase in female-led productions, heightened awareness around consent—Dlodlo is clear-eyed about ongoing challenges.
Exploitation has not disappeared; it has evolved. The difference, she observes, is that women are speaking out and audiences are listening.
“The silence that once shielded predators is now being confronted.”
The play also interrogates society’s perception of women artists. Are they valued for their talent, or for their compliance? Are institutions more concerned with preserving their image than protecting individuals? These questions ripple beyond theatre, touching business, education, religion, and politics.
A recurring motif in Once An Actress is waiting—the agonising pause between auditions and callbacks, between promise and fulfilment.
Yet Dlodlo believes a generational shift is underway. “For many women, waiting is a common theme,” she reflects.
“But we are creating while we wait. We are voicing our concerns while we wait. We refuse to sacrifice our self-respect for access.”
Her advice to young women entering the industry is unequivocal: exploitation is never your fault. Establish boundaries before stepping into any room.
Build solidarity with other women. Document experiences. Ask questions. Trust your intuition. “Walking away from an unethical situation is not defeat—it’s safeguarding your future.”
If she could speak to her younger self in drama school, her message would be simple yet profound: your abilities are sufficient.
Success does not require self-betrayal. The right opportunities will align with your values.
Resilience, for Dlodlo, is neither hardness nor denial. It is the deliberate refusal to internalise exploitation as identity.
It is healing without losing softness. It is ambition tempered with awareness. Above all, it is not allowing trauma to dictate one’s future.
When the curtain falls each night in New Zealand, Dlodlo hopes audiences leave unsettled—but awakened.
She wants men to reflect on influence and accountability. She wants women to feel solidarity. She wants institutions to feel challenged.
Most importantly, she hopes that someone in the theatre recognises that their voice matters—and that their dignity must remain intact.
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