Plays 1 Page 14

  Brother Kiyi You already know, there’s no need for me to . . .

  Alice Yes, there is a need! I need you to say, Alice, this is you. This is the child I gave away, this is the child I had and then couldn’t be bothered or be arsed to look after so I dumped into some children’s home to fend for herself, away from anything or anybody that cared, away from anyone that looked or sounded like her, away from all that is kin and natural and safe and you’re a fucking fraud, Peter Allan, whatever you call yourself now, fucking Brother Kiyi. You’re a fraud just like your fake fucking bookstore.

  Brother Kiyi It’s not fake!

  Alice Look. You’re more concerned about your stupid shop than you are about me, standing here before you, begging to be named, recognised.

  Brother Kiyi You’re not begging to be recognised. You know who you are!

  Alice I do, do I?

  Brother Kiyi Yes, otherwise you wouldn’t have come here to play with me, to test me.

  Alice I came to find out why I look the way I do, why I cross my legs when I’m afraid. And what did I find? A sad old man who pretends to love but hates everything around him.

  Brother Kiyi I do not hate. Disappointed, maybe. Hurt, possibly, but I don’t hate. I love my community. I built this for my community.

  Alice You’re making me want to throw up! What do you know about love? You leave your child to rot, to be raised by the very people you are educating your community against, and you talk about love? What did you build for me?

  Brother Kiyi I’m not educating my people against anybody, I’m teaching them to love themselves.

  Alice I AM YOUR CHILD!

  Brother Kiyi You know that’s exactly what your mother would do to me. Twist me up. Lose her temper and start to scream and I wouldn’t know what to do. It’s her spirit in you come to haunt me, innit? You come to haunt me, Chantella?

  Alice My name is Alice!

  Brother Kiyi Your mother named you Chantella.

  Alice How did she even lay with a beast like you? You forced her, didn’t you?

  Brother Kiyi What the fuck are you talking about? What do you know about your mother? You don’t know nothin’! You don’t know what she took to be with me, what shit I took just walking down the street, just fucking being with her. What do you know? What do you know? What does your blasted generation know? Do you have people spitting at you in the street? Do you have shit smeared on your windows? Do you have the pressure that makes you strike at the ones you love?

  Alice I don’t know because you won’t tell me!

  Brother Kiyi What do you want me to say? What do you want me to say?

  Alice I want to know why I don’t have a mother!

  Brother Kiyi Of course you have a mother.

  Alice Why I don’t have a mother that’s here?

  Brother Kiyi I don’t know – isn’t your mother down there in Somerset or wherever you come from?

  Alice No. I don’t have a mother, and I want one!

  Brother Kiyi Well, you can’t, because I killed her, alright? Is that what you want me to say? Is that what you want?

  I – killed – her! I didn’t mean to but I did, alright? I’m sorry. There! I’ve said it.

  As if all the energy has been drained from her, she stands and simply stares at Brother Kiyi. All his energy has suddenly gone as well.

  Brother Kiyi looks between Alice and Norma. Although she had just worked it out, Norma has never heard Brother Kiyi say that before.

  Norma Kiyi.

  Alice exits.

  Silence.

  Eventually Kwesi attempts to speak.

  Kwesi I . . .

  Brother Kiyi Shhhhh! Please!

  Kwesi I didn’t know she was your daughter.

  Brother Kiyi stares at him. He leaves.

  Lights down.

  Scene Six

  Fix Up bookstore. Saturday evening.

  The shelves of the bookstore are half-empty.

  Brother Kiyi is sitting in the middle of the store. He is both physically and mentally in a world of his own.

  Slowly he starts to chop off his locks. When all are gone, he runs his hands through what remains of his hair. His hands eventually fall on his face. He screams.

  Brother Kiyi Ahhhhhhh!

  Norma re-enters the shop.

  Norma You OK?

  Brother Kiyi Yes. Fine.

  Norma Well, everything done. Bernie waiting to go. What we can’t fit in your garage we’ll put in the shed. You coming?

  Brother Kiyi No, I’ll walk if that’s alright.

  Norma stares at Brother Kiyi.

  Brother Kiyi What?

  Norma What do I do with all that I have learnt from you, Kiyi. If even you peddle lies, who can I trust?

  Brother Kiyi I don’t know, Sister Norma.

  Norma I go see you.

  Brother Kiyi Yes.

  She leaves.

  He begins to sing the blues slave chant ‘Adam’ to himself. Very slowly, void of emotion.

  Brother Kiyi Ohhhhhh Eve, where is Adam. Ohhhhhhh Eve, Adam’s in the garden picking up leaves.

  Enter Alice.

  Brother Kiyi (without looking at her) An old slave chant from the Deep South. I would offer you something to read but I don’t expect you will be staying here that long?

  Alice No.

  Brother Kiyi I like that. No more questions. Statements are clean, you know where you stand with statements, don’t you? You weren’t abandoned, you were taken.

  Silence.

  She doesn’t answer. After a few beats he realises that it is pointless trying to explain.

  He picks up the photo album and brings it to her.

  She opens it and looks at the picture of her mother.

  Brother Kiyi stares at her, confirming the truth that she does look like her mother.

  She puts the photo album to her chest.

  Brother Kiyi I built this to shut out the cries. Of you.

  Alice takes that in. Brother Kiyi stands up, looks deep into Alice’s eyes and walks out.

  Alice is left alone in the store still clutching the photo album.

  The lights go down.

  Statement of Regret

  The government is considering issuing a statement of regret for the slave trade on the two-hundredth anniversary of its abolition. Commemorations are to be held across the UK on 25 March, two centuries after the passing of an 1807 parliamentary bill outlawing the trade in the British empire.

  The deputy prime minister, John Prescott, ruled out a formal apology for Britain’s part in slavery earlier this year. But he will chair a meeting next month of the advisory committee overseeing preparations for the commemoration, at which proposals for a statement of regret are expected to be discussed.

  Guardian, 22 September 2006

  If you are the son of a man who had a wealthy estate and you inherit your father’s estate, you have to pay off the debts that your father incurred before he died. The only reason that the present generation of white Americans are in a position of economic strength . . . is because our fathers worked for their fathers for over four hundred years with no pay . . . We were sold from plantation to plantation like you sell a horse, or a cow, or a chicken, or a bushel of wheat . . . All that money . . . is what gives the present generation of American whites the ability to walk around the earth with their chest out . . .

  Malcolm X, Malcolm Speaks, 1962

  We need first of all (for) the Caribbean Blacks to acknowledge we are not the same group as they are – to begin to learn about Africans, to begin to listen to us, to begin to understand that even if they have the African heritage they are not Africans any more.

  Lola Ayonrinde,

  Former Conservative Mayor of Wandsworth, 2006

  Statement of Regret was first presented in the Cottesloe auditorium of the National Theatre, London, on 14 November 2007. The cast was as follows:

  Kwaku Mackenzie

  Don Warrington

  Michael Akinbola

&nbs
p; Colin McFarlane

  Idrissa Adebayo

  Chu Omambala

  Issi

  Angel Coulby

  Lola Mackenzie

  Ellen Thomas

  Kwaku Mackenzie Junior

  Javone Prince

  Val

  Trevor Laird

  Adrian Mackenzie

  Clifford Samuel

  Soby

  Oscar James

  Directed by Jeremy Herrin

  Designed by Mike Britton

  Lighting design by Natasha Chivers

  Music by Soweto Kinch

  Sound design by Yvonne Gilbert

  Characters

  Kwaku Mackenzie, late forties, early fifties. Black British of African Caribbean descent. Founder of the Institute of Black Policy Research (IBPR) think-tank.

  Michael Akinbola, forty-nine. Black British of Nigerian descent. Deputy Director of IBPR.

  Idrissa Adebayo, thirty-four. Black British of West African heritage. Research Director of IBPR. Oxbridge educated, gay and very clever.

  Issi Banjoko, female, twenty-eight. Black British of West African descent. Very bright research fellow at IBPR. Oxbridge educated.

  Lola Mackenzie, fifty-five, wife of Kwaku. Born in Nigeria but moved to Britain when she was sixteen. Head of Human Resources.

  Kwaku Mackenzie Junior, twenty-six, son of Kwaku and Lola. Events manager at IBPR. Not as well spoken as the others. Did not go to university.

  Val Thomas, late forties. Born in Trinidad, came to Britain with parents when he was three. An eccentric, glorified postman. Has been with Kwaku from the beginning.

  Adrian McKay, twenty-five. Black British. Well-spoken. The office intern.

  Soby, late sixties. West Indian businessman.

  Ideas and arguments are second nature to all of the characters. Thus related dialogue should almost fall out of their mouths with ease, comfort and pace; there is constant overlapping by the others who have often got the argument before a sentence has been completed.

  Act One

  Scene One

  We are in the offices of the Institute of Black Policy Research (IBPR) – a privately run political think-tank. Chairs, eight in total, are being placed along the edges by Kwaku Mackenzie, founder and director of the company, immaculately dressed, authentic West Indian accent when he wants to, but his straight English accent defies his working-class roots – something he is very conscious of in this world dominated by middle-class intellectuals.

  On the walls are geopolitical maps of the Black world: Africa, the United States, the Caribbean, Australia, etc. Socio-economic breakdowns of Britain and America are mixed in with pleasant Afrocentric art – Chris Offili, etc. – and pictures of Kwaku shaking hands with every prime minister since Callaghan.

  There is a plaque on his desk with the words:

  At some future time the civilised races of the world will almost certainly exterminate and replace the savage races throughout the world – Charles Darwin, Descent of Man

  The radio is playing via the internet on a computer in the background.

  Lola Mackenzie – Kwaku’s wife, head of Human Resources, beautiful but sometimes strangely absent, mostly because she doesn’t really ‘like’ politics – enters the room quickly with a big Jamaican ginger cake in her hands. She gives it to Kwaku.

  Lola You forgot the cake!

  Kwaku Oh, thank you, wife. What would I do without you?

  She stops and stares him right in the eye. After a beat or so she lets out a small huff and walks out.

  Kwaku removes the Jamaican ginger cake from the wrapper and starts to cut it into pieces. When done, he places it in the centre of the table and steps back to see if it is indeed centred.

  The song on the radio changes to Johnny Cash’s ‘There Are More Questions than Answers’. Kwaku slowly stops what he’s doing and looks towards the computer. It is as if a dark cloud has suddenly descended. He pauses for a moment, unsure quite how or what to do. He moves quickly to the computer and switches it off. Still unsure what to do, he lets his head slowly fall, till eventually, even though he has tried not to, his eyes begin to swell – not crying, just simply swelling. Embarrassed at his sniffing, he catches himself and wipes his eyes just as Michael Akinbola, his partner, deputy director and best friend, not quite as clothes conscious but well dressed, with a cut-glass English accent, enters. Michael is Nigerian but never uses his Nigerian accent in the office.

  He knows what has just happened but tries to avoid it for a moment. Giving Kwaku enough time to gather himself, Michael spots a bottle of ‘home’ white rum on the table and points to it.

  Michael (not looking at him until eyes are clear) How many bottles of rum did you bring back with you, boy?

  Kwaku (laughs) A whole suitcase! That’s what happens when your best friend flies you first class. Dem na look in you luggage!

  Michael smiles.

  Michael (sensitive but straight) What else have I got to spend my money on . . . You OK?

  Now Kwaku is together, Michael switches on his computer without mentioning it.

  Kwaku Yeah yeah, of course . . .

  He returns to laying out the drinks. Michael then joins him.

  Kwaku (changing/avoiding subject) So, here’s one for you: US elections it’s down to Condi or Hillary, who you vote for?

  Michael Condi’s not standing!

  Kwaku Don’t be a claat, I know that . . .

  Michael . . . Plus I’m not an American!

  Kwaku . . . Alright, if you wanna be obtuse, for the purpose of this discussion, you are a Yank, you’re at the polling booth –

  Michael I’m not trying to be obtuse –

  Kwaku No, you’re doing what you normally do when you don’t want to answer a question, you’re being fucking rude – now answer the bloodclaat question!

  Michael And you’re doing what you normally do when you want to bully an answer out of someone – you start swearing in Jamaican.

  Kwaku (knowing full well) I don’t do that! . . .

  Michael You blatantly do.

  Kwaku I swear when I’m getting vex . . . frustrated that a very fucking simple question takes you eight bloodclaat hours to answer. Put the cake over there, it looks better.

  Michael Holidays are suppose to relax you, you know!

  Kwaku It was an extended business trip that you told me to go on.

  Michael (deliberately) I didn’t tell you to go away for three months.

  Kwaku Answer the question, Michael!

  Michael What was it again?

  Kwaku pauses, stares, knowing he’s being wound up.

  Kwaku (spells it out) You have the power to make Condoleezza Rice the first black female president of the United States. Do you do it and hand power back to the right, or do you give the power back to white folk?

  Michael What do you think I’d do?

  Kwaku Hillary.

  Michael That’s right. You?

  Kwaku Mind your own business, voting is private . . . Condi.

  Michael (outraged) That’s madness, you hate the right . . .

  Kwaku I didn’t say it was correct, did I? But it’s what ninety-five per cent of the human race would do – vote for their own.

  Michael (empathically) Well, they’re are wrong!

  Kwaku You said ‘three months’ as if as if I’d done something wrong.

  Michael (suddenly catching up) I don’t think it’s wrong, it’s just, well, when you were away I had to work really hard to keep everyone motivated.

  Kwaku I was at the end of a line.

  Michael That costs the company money. And anyway I don’t want to disturb you over little things . . .

  Kwaku Little tings like what?

  Michael Well, like today, for instance. Steve at the bank called, said there wasn’t enough money in the account to cover payroll.

  Kwaku I told you to bounce everything back to me, why’d he call you?

  Michael Cos he didn’t know if you were back.

 
Kwaku Tings that bad?

  Michael For now.

  Kwaku What did you say?

  Michael I’d get back to him once I’d spoken to you.

  Kwaku OK, I’ll call him in the morning, get him to bump some over from the surplus saving account . . .

  Michael Are you sure? Now you’ve said that, I can do it.

  Kwaku That’s why we got the savings, ain’t it?

  Michael I know that, but . . .

  Kwaku Listen, maybe it’s you that needs the break, it’s simple tings! You’re too conservative with money, I tried to tell you . . .

  Michael It’s not the money, I just wanted to make sure that you’d remember to do it, that’s all.

  Beat.

  Kwaku Of course I’ll remember. I’m fine, Michael – really. Top of the world.

  Michael stares at him, aware that Kwaku is playing up for him.

  Michael Hey, I know, today is your father’s day . . . in fact, forget words – come here – come here, come here . . .

  Kwaku (knows what’s coming) What? Ahhh, stop that stuff . . . No go away, go away . . . What’s wrong with you, man? You know I don’t do that huggy stuff!

  Michael runs and catches Kwaku.

  Michael When Maria left me, did I tell you that? No, you said, ‘I’m your brother and I love you’ and that you’d put a hit out on the fool she left me for.

  Kwaku stops and accepts the argument. Michael gives him a big hug. Kwaku eventually hugs him back. Then pulls back and smiles.

  Kwaku Thank you, comrade. But umm, he’s here with me! Ever here . . . (Changing the subject.) Maybe you should take that holiday – I’ll even pay.

  Michael What you, you tight git? I’ll think about it.

  He hugs him again. Enter Idrissa, research director – casual smart dress, Rolls-Royce brain, very quick, very clever. The kind of person who is biding their time in a think tank till they break into mainstream politics. He sees the men hugging, something he has seen many times. Issi, research fellow and finance officer, also enters. A do-gooder by nature, should really be at a big charity or NGO.