Sibusile Xaba takes a seat on a red crate to the left of the screen. Behind him a dull yellow refracts the dim light in the room. He's in full, faded dungarees, a navy blue jersey, and a woollen cap. His long legs collapse under him, bent at the knees, folded like articulated, discarded crutches winging out wide either side of him.
He fidgets, moves the guitar in minuscule increments, adjusting it gently, fingering it slightly until it becomes him and he becomes it and they are both an extension of the other.
Something like a smile plays around the angles of his face, and the untrained eye might imagine it a joyful Naiveté; childlike and ignorant - but something lies deeper. He rocks back and forth, tilting, keeping time and creating it. It hints at itself, this something, not so much arrogant as it is sure. Not so much omniscient or prepared, as sensitive and content...