Up the Garden Path & The Adventures of the Black Girl in Her Search for God

by Lisa Codrington

Running Time

  This play should run no longer that one hour and no less than forty-­five minutes. So if it’s longer than an hour, hurry up, if it’s shorter, slow down.

  Text

  Forward slashes (/) in this play indicate overlapping text or stage directions. Text in small caps doesn’t necessarily mean yell, it just means emphasize in whatever way you see fit. Ad lib when indicated and read text and perform stage directions in columns at the same time.

  There is Italian in this play. It was translated from English using Google Translate. It’s not meant to be good or particularly accurate.

  Performance

  This play can be performed by as many as fifteen actors or as little as eight. The only requirement is that the actors playing the Black Girl, Black Mamba, Black Bearer and the Conjurer do not play multiple roles, and that the actor playing GBS also plays the Naturalist. Otherwise, do what you will.

  The cross-­casting for the original production was as follows:

  Actor 1: Black Girl

  Actor 2: Black Mamba

  Actor 3: Black Bearer

  Actor 4: Conjurer

  Actor 5: White Missionary / Mathematician

  Actor 6: GBS / The Lord of Hosts / Naturalist

  Actor 7: Micah the Morasthite / King Solomon / Physicist

  Actor 8: The Almighty / Biologist / The Artist

  Characters

  (in order of appearance)

  GBS

  My interpretation of Shaw for the purposes of this play. He’s an old white guy who speaks how Shaw would speak as interpreted by the actor playing him.

  Black Girl

  Shaw says she’s an interesting but unsatisfactory convert. I say she asks a hell of a lot of questions and is not naked with a knobkerrie like in the John Farleigh illustrations. She is a young black woman who speaks like the actor playing her speaks.

  White Missionary

  Shaw says she found no satisfaction for her soul in her native England. I say she’s a middle-­aged white woman who hates answering questions and speaks like she’s from somewhere in England.

  Black Mamba

  Shaw says she is one of the few poisonous snakes that will attack mankind if crossed. I say she’s a black mamba snake (probably played by a black person . . . unless you can get a mamba snake to act) who has had it up to here with the way humans treat snakes. She speaks like the actor playing her speaks.

  The Lord of Hosts

  Shaw says he’s a well-­built aristocratic-­looking man with handsome regular features, an imposing beard, luxuriant wavy hair and a ruthlessly severe expression. I say he’s an old white guy with a short temper who speaks like the actor playing him speaks.

  The Almighty

  Shaw says he’s a kindly looking oldish gentleman with a soft silvery beard, turned up moustache and eyebrows that express a self-­satisfied cunning. I say he’s an old white guy who fights dirty and speaks like the actor playing him speaks.

  Micah the Morasthite

  Shaw says his face is very much wrinkled, but the wrinkles are those of pity and kindliness. I say he is a white man and a kind of spoken-­word poet / evangelical preacher but from like a long long time ago. He speaks like the actor playing him speaks.

  King Solomon (a.k.a. Koheleth / Ecclesiastes)

  Shaw calls him Koheleth and says he’s a remarkably good-­looking, clean-­shaven young man with a lift and twist about the outer corners of his brows that is both interesting and repelling. I say he’s a white guy named King Solomon, son of King David, lover of women, writer of the book of Proverbs, Ecclesiastes and Song of Solomon. He speaks like the actor playing him speaks.

  Black Bearer

  Shaw says they (because in his story there were a whole bunch of bearers) enjoy their meal at a respectful distance from the white gentlemen and ladies. I say he’s a black man just trying to get away from the drama of it all. He speaks like the actor playing him speaks.

  Mathematician

  Shaw says she is fifty, a neuter and an explorer who wears breeches and a sun helmet. I say she is a middle-­aged white lady who’s used to being the only woman among a lot of men. She speaks like she’s from somewhere in England or maybe even the UK.

  Physicist

  Shaw says he is an explorer. I say he’s a middle-­aged white man and a bit of a patronizing mansplainer. He speaks like he’s from somewhere in England or maybe even the UK.

  Biologist

  Shaw says he is an explorer. I say he’s a middle-­aged white man who’s maybe a bit depressed. He speaks like he’s from somewhere in England or maybe even the UK.

  Naturalist

  Shaw says he is an explorer. I say he’s an old white dude who loves snacks and believes that his colleagues are idiots. He’s played by the character GBS, so he speaks how GBS thinks he speaks.

  The Conjurer

  Shaw calls him an outcast and a wanderer. I call him a man of colour who can pass for a white guy when in sunglasses and a wig. He speaks like the actor playing him speaks.

  The Artist

  I don’t remember what Shaw says about him, but I say he is a white man playing a part. He speaks like the actor playing him wants him to speak.

  Preface

  Before the play starts. House lights are still up. Audience is in their seats. gbs comes out with a bunch of party favours. He drops a couple, picks them up, drops a couple more, picks them up and hands them to a willing audience member.

  gbs: Could I bother you to hold on to this for a moment, please? Thank you.

  gbs checks to see if the coast is clear and then pulls a handful of papers out from somewhere . . . his pants, his inside pocket, the stage, from under an audience member’s chair . . . maybe he doesn’t remember where and has to search for a bit. You choose, but once he gets the papers out, he drops a bunch.

  Oops.

  gbs picks up his papers and greets the audience.

  Hello. Hi there. Hello. For those of you who don’t recognize me, my name is George Bernard Shaw. Hold your applause. I am not the real GBS. Shaw, or Bernard Shaw as some call him, has been dead for over fifty years. I am merely a fictional representation created by the playwright, who wrote the quote unquote adaptation that you’re about to see — A playwright, who I’ll have you know, created me by reading a “selection” of my plays, skimming the thinnest biographies she could find, and oh, you know, downloading a free Shaw quotes app — All that to say, if I’m not as Shaw-­ey as you like . . . you know who to blame.

  Now, I have come out here to talk to you because one of the many important things that the playwright has failed to include in her “adaptation” of my story The — ­

  gbs checks to see if the coast is clear, then, quietly:

  The Adventures of the Black Girl in Her Search for God is a preface.

  gbs holds up his papers, then, even quieter:

  If you ask me, the playwright didn’t even read the preface I wrote for the original story. Because if she had, she wouldn’t have cut it along with half the characters, most of the major themes and ideas, the entire ending — Now don’t get me wrong, I am all for change and development, but this is a massacre! Therefore, I have decided that the very least I could do is share with you the entirety of my educational and endlessly enjoyable preface to The Adve — ­

  Yet again gbs checks to see if the coast is clear, then, almost mouthing:

  The Adventures of the Black Girl in Her Search for God. Now — ­

  gbs looks down at his preface — ­the pages are all mixed up.

  Oh, it seems my pages are all . . .

  gbs holds out a bunch of the pages to an audience member.

  Could I bother you to hold on to this for a — ­

  The black girl comes out.

  black girl: What are you doing?

  gbs hides the
preface behind his back.

  gbs: Nothing.

  black girl: You’re supposed to be handing out the party favours.

  gbs: And I am.

  black girl: You’re doing your preface, aren’t you?

  gbs: No (a couple pages fall, busted) well yes, but — ­

  The black girl grabs the preface from gbs. Maybe she tears it up, or crumples it up. You decide.

  black girl: We don’t have time for this.

  gbs: But the play needs — ­

  black girl: party favours, so get to it.

  gbs: I never even wanted this to be a play, you know. Sure I intended to write a play (to audience) but then I found myself writing the story of the black girl instead — It’s all detailed / in my preface — ­

  black girl: Okay, look, I know the playwright was all honouring you or whatever by putting you in the show, ’cause like you’re shaw and this is an adaptation of shaw that was written for the shaw festival — But you know what, you can be replaced. And I don’t just mean the show.

  gbs: What are you talking about?

  black girl: You wouldn’t be the first dead white guy from across the pond to have a prestigious theatre festival named after him . . . and then not. If you don’t believe me, go dig up Shakespeare and ask him what it’s like to catch a show at the stratford festival these days. “To be or not to be.” That’s the question, GBS.1

  The black girl leaves. gbs swallows hard.

  gbs: So, when I give you the signal (quoting the black girl), “You sing happy birthday and blow your horns, but when the lights come up, just shut up.” Trust me. Oh, and um, turn off your phones, don’t record, don’t take photos, blah blah blah. Now . . .

  gbs gives the signal, sings them through a verse of “Happy Birthday,” and then gets the hell off stage.

  Scene 1

  The white missionary hands the black girl a wrapped package.

  white missionary: Happy birthday!

  The black girl investigates.

  black girl: What is it? Is it food? Is it is it — ­oh, is it clothing? Is it jewellery? Oh, I know, is it — ­

  white missionary: Just open it.

  The black girl opens it.

  black girl: A book?

  white missionary: Not just any book. It is your very own Bible.

  black girl: Why can’t I just use yours?

  white missionary: I thought it was time that you had your own.

  black girl: Why?

  white missionary: You’re old enough now. Instead of asking me so many questions you can look up the answers yourself.

  black girl: But I like asking you questions.

  white missionary: and I . . . answer them, but soon I will not be able to answer any more of your questions because — ­

  Pause.

  I have decided that it’s time for me to leave Africa, and go back to England.

  The white missionary pulls a suitcase out of nowhere and begins to pack.

  black girl: You’re deserting me?!

  white missionary: No, I have merely decided — ­

  black girl: But why, why would you do that? Why now — ­and why didn’t you — ­

  The white missionary winces.

  white missionary: please stop.

  black girl: What?

  white missionary: Asking me questions.

  black girl: But why would — ­

  white missionary: did you know that there is a limit to the number of questions that any one person can bear to answer?

  black girl: Really?

  white missionary: Yes, and thanks to you and your constant queries, I am quickly approaching my limit, so stop!

  black girl: Don’t you think people will have questions for you when you go home?

  white missionary: Before coming here, I had been asked a grand total of six questions — In fact, it was the same six question six times, because, in england, questions are few and far between. Now, no more.

  black girl: Fine then, I’ll just come with you.

  white missionary: I am afraid that is impossible.

  black girl: But I’m a real live example of the work you’ve done down here!

  white missionary: I couldn’t bear to take you away from your home.

  black girl: You left your home.

  white missionary: Yes, but I came here on a mission and prepared for many many months.

  black girl: I’ve lived with you most my life, what further prep do I need.

  white missionary: It is very cold in England, and I fear a person with your pigmentation would suffer terribly in such a damp and foggy climate.

  black girl: What if I drink lots of tea?

  Another wince from the white missionary.

  white missionary: The answer to that question is no. Now, it’s getting late and I still need to pack.

  The white missionary packs.

  black girl: You’re in a big rush to leave.

  white missionary: My work here is done. I have spread God’s word to the darkest Africa, and I have taught little African children to love Christ and adore the cross.

  black girl: I’m your only convert.

  white missionary: Well, I have not had time to covert anyone else, have I? What with all your “Why would Noah bring fish onto the ark” and — ­

  black girl: But why would he? You said God told Noah to bring the fowl and cattle and the creeping things, but what about the swimming things — ­

  white missionary: Swimming, creeping it’s all the same / thing.

  black girl: But they’re fish, couldn’t they survive in the flood water?

  white missionary: Not without food. Which is why Noah brought them onto the ark two by two and built them an aquarium cubit by cubit.

  black girl: But couldn’t the fish eat all of the people and animals that died in the water?

  white missionary: Would you eat the meat of an animal you found dead?

  black girl: If I was a desperate fish swimming in endless flood water I would.

  white missionary: The people left behind were wicked. And when the wicked fish who were left behind ate the wicked wicked people, they became sick with the wickeder wickedness when wh — ­and died. the end!

  black girl: Yeah but why — ­

  white missionary: why why why!

  (to God) Do you now see what has forced me to improvise and invent in your holy name?

  black girl: You’ve been lying to me?!

  white missionary: If you weren’t such an unsatisfactory convert, I would not have to lie. and I would not have to live in constant fear of being excommunicated as a heretic!

  black girl: Well what’d ya lie about? / Did ya lie about everything or — ­

  white missionary: I taught you to read didn’t I? open up your happy birthday bible and see for yourself!

  The missionary goes back to packing. She’s pretty much just throwing her shit in now.

  I see now why no one wanted this station. The English Society of Merciful Missionaries on Meaningful Mission had been trying for years to put someone here. But everyone complained it was too remote — ­and then there were those reports of cannibalism. I bet I’d have a better time with a cannibal than I’ve had with you. Of course, I’d have to stay out of jaw’s reach for a bit, but after directing them toward more civilized nourishment, I’ll bet a cannibal would take Christianity with sweet docility instead of asking me trivial questions like, “Why God gave Adam the task of naming all of the animals” and / “Why the — ­

  black girl: But why would he? He didn’t let Adam name the plants and trees of the garden so why the animals. / Was he too tired? Why didn’t he just rest longer? One day of rest after six days of making the world really isn’t enough — / how can a god who doesn’t take care of himself ta
ke care of us? Is that why — ­

  white missionary: Stop. Please stop.

  Please please please just stop . . .

  please stop before you kill me like you killed your mother!

  black girl: I didn’t kill my mother!

  white missionary: Oh yes you did! Your questions are deadly, and I’ll be damned if I let them destroy me like they did her!

  black girl: You said my mother died of malnutrition and general savagery.

  white missionary: While I am sure that played a small part, / your questions — ­

  black girl: you said that’s why my father worked far away in the mines, so he wouldn’t catch it. / Why my brothers gave up our land and brought me to you, so i wouldn’t catch it!

  white missionary: Yes but — ­

  i lied, okay! I was trying to protect you, but you are now old enough to know that your father spent all of his time in the mines because he couldn’t stand your questions. That is why neither he nor your brothers have ever come to visit, and why the villagers lower their gaze when we pass them in the market!

  The black girl bursts into tears.

  Come now, there’s no need to cry.

  black girl: I killed my mother!

  white missionary: I never said you did it on purpose. I imagine your mother thought she could bear the weight of your incessant inquiries. I thought I could. I thought, how much harm could a small smiling child with satin skin and shiny muscles do? But the relentlessness of your requests can buckle even the strong and faithful. I am now certain that the only one who could bear to answer all that you desire is god. Oh, please stop crying and say something.

  black girl: Where can I find God?

  The white missionary winces.

  white missionary: (to herself) I suppose I walked into that one, didn’t I.

  black girl: If he’s the only one who can answer my questions, I’d like to speak with him because I have many more, like why would someone become a missionary if they hated answering questions so much — ­

  The white missionary clutches her chest.

  white missionary: Please stop.

  black girl: I can’t! I have to ask questions. They bubble inside me and if I don’t ask them I-­I-­I’ll explode!