The Oberon Book of Monologues for Black Actors, Monologues for Men, Volume 1

by Simeilia Hodge-Dallaway

  About the Playwright

  Poet, novelist and playwright, Fred D’Aguiar was born in London in 1960 to Guyanese parents. He was raised in Guyana until the age of twelve, before returning to England in 1972. Fred D’Aguiar is best known for his award-winning novels and poetry, namely his first collection of poetry, Mama Dot (1985), which was published to much acclaim. D’Aguiar’s first novel, The Longest Memory (1994), tells the story of Whitechapel, a slave on an eighteenth-century plantation in Virginia. The book won both the David Higham Prize for Fiction and the Whitbread First Novel Award. It was adapted for television and screened by Channel 4 in the UK.

  D’Aguair has written two plays which have been professionally produced in Britain. His first play, High Life, was performed at the Arcola Theatre. Inspired by the poem ‘An Irish Airman Foresees his Death’ by W.B. Yeats, Fred D’Aguair wrote his second play ‘A Jamaican Airman Foresess His Death’.

  Summary (Extract)

  ALVIN WILLIAMS, a Jamaican in his early twenties, struggles to maintain his focus during his last mission as a rear runner, due to the anticipation of his first love-making experience with new girlfriend Kathleen. As his insecurities and fears intensify, Alvin completely loses concentration and makes a costly error that will weigh heavily on him, his Jamaican friends and Kathleen.

  ALVIN

  Rear-gunner ALVIN WILLIAMS on his final mission.

  They firing! They missed? Return fire! Aim! Fire! We missed them? They’re still firing! Aim! Fire! My first time I freezed up. I could only watch. She lying there, her legs spread-eagled. I wanted to touch her but couldn’t. I seized up like a engine. It wasn’t anything to do with her, she was lovely. It was me. We’d been kissing for ages. At the time I wanted whatever she had to offer. She tore off her clothes; I mine. We were neck and neck, matching each other garment for garment; my shirt her blouse, my vest her brassiére, my trousers her skirt, my socks her stockings (I couldn’t do anything in socks, I knew that much), my hat, her hairpin that let her hair fall about her shoulders with a slight shake of her head and her half-smile. We were cruising. My underpants, her panties. Us stark naked. Our shoes kicked off long ago, landing somewhere in the room with thuds. Where did they come from! God, they missed! Fire back, Alvin! Fire back! Save yourself! Suddenly, I freeze, like someone throw a switch in my head. All I could do was watch her, lying there, her legs spanning the bed, her hips moving from side to side, a quiet groan escaping her lips and her ‘I want you’. She couldn’t understand what I was waiting for. And us like two sticks rubbing together for a half-hour before, but now only she on fire, me with this thing between my legs that won’t work, that could be anybody’s. My first time and me only able to watch. She lying there, reaching for the four cardinal points, I mean wriggling like a heel and resembling a starfish or someone treading water all rolled into one. But I’m nailed to the spot at the end of the bed. Aim! Fire! Bull’s-eye! So it must have clicked with her that I was good for nothing. So she just went ahead without me. I mean we had been kissing, she was all worked up. So, her hands come down her body, she getting louder and louder: ‘I want you!’ Her hands working faster and faster. Finally her hips rear up clear of the mattress, her heels digging for a grip like they spurring a horse, the bedclothes riding to the bottom of the bed, the bed springs crying. My hands brought to my ears, her cries still loud as ever, my eyes squeezed tight, stars swimming behind my lids till I scream stop! Stop! No! Not now! She says, ‘I’m nearly there!’ Foolishly, I ask where. ‘Everywhere!’ she shouts. I hit them! They going down! Fast! Her knees brought up and together and she rolling onto her side. Smoke! Fire! Her free hand pulling the scattered bedding over her body ever so slowly, her groan low and drawn out. Me tiptoeing off the world, my heart filling my head in the sudden quiet. (Slight pause.) No, God! Not one of ours! Nooooooo.

  From

  TWO STEP

  by Rhashan Stone

  Two Step by Rhashan Stone premiered at the Almeida Theatre as part of the PUSH 04 festival, in London on 30 August 2004. It was directed by Josette Bushell-Mingo with the following cast: Rikki McLeod (AJ), Dona Croll (Mona), Derek Griffiths (Lenny), and Remi Wilson.

  Rhashan Stone was encouraged to write for the stage by Josette Bushell-Mingo, Artistic Director of PUSH (a black theatre company in the UK) and director of Simply Heavenly. Bushell-Mingo asked Stone to adapt The Odyssey for Push 01; the adaptation was entitled Pantheon of The Gods. Bushell-Mingo subsequently commissioned Two Step.

  Two Step is a haunting play about resentment and revenge, as a recovering alcoholic man is forced to face the consequences of his actions. Now, on the eighth step of a 12-stage Alcoholics Anonymous programme, Lenny is instructed to seek forgiveness from family and friends he hurt during his days of alcohol addiction. A visit to his ex-girlfriend’s (Mona) flat unravels dark forgotten memories. But it appears that Lenny has forgotten to pursue forgiveness from someone closer to home, his son.

  About the Playwright

  American-born British actor, playwright and screenwriter, Rhashan Stone began his career as an actor starring in British television comedies Desmonds and Mutual Friends as well as the stage musical Five Guys Named Moe and Simply Heavenly by Langston Hughes.

  Summary (Extract)

  Lenny’s estranged son AJ reluctantly appears at Mona’s house in search of his father, who never returned home the night before. When AJ hears that Mona has rejected Lenny’s apology he finds it hard to contain his frustration.

  AJ fights back by explaining why he deserves an apology more than anyone else in his dad’s life, for the humiliation, abandonment and emotional damage caused by Lenny’s unhealthy relationship with alcohol.

  AJ

  AJ sneezes.

  Fucking rain. Black people and water don’t mix.

  Beat.

  I always used to tell that to my teachers, but they wouldn’t listen. I was just a kid what did I know? Every week I’d say ‘Black people don’t like water’ and every week they’d still drag me down that fucking Lido.

  Beat.

  How fucked up is that?

  Beat.

  They used to take us to this dirty old place down Tooting. I couldn’t stand it. Only crazy ass teachers would make school-kids swim around in some other school-kids’ piss. I begged my dad to let me have a sick note so I wouldn’t have to go swimming in all that nastiness. But instead of taking my side, hear how he goes. ‘The reason you don’t like swimming is because you don’t know how to swim. So I’m going to teach you.’ This was a new one on me, ’cos we never did shit together.

  So there I am at Tooting Bec Lido sitting on the side, looking down into the yellow water. And Dad’s in there, swimming around, going underwater, letting the piss go in his mouth and everything. ‘Don’t be such a pussy.’ He goes. ‘Get in.’ It was like I was stuck to the ground. I just couldn’t do it. Not because of the yellow water, but because I knew I would sink like a fuckin’ brick. Dad’s telling me how if I was in the Dead Sea, the salt would hold me up and shit. I’m thinking ‘I don’t care how much salt you put in there, I’m still gonna fuckin’ sink and anyhow I ain’t in the Dead Sea. I’m in Tooting Bec Pissing Lido!’

  See how my feet are dangling in the water ’cos I’m trying to show willing, yeah, but all the time I’m thinking ‘No way. No fucking way.’ Dad is calling out to me and by now people are looking over, what with him having a loud mouth and all. Especially after a couple of drinks. ‘Come in. Don’t be scared. I’ll catch you.’ I’ll admit it. I was scared. I thought to myself ‘You best do it now dread before people start looking for real.’ I look down at him, at his long black shadow in the water, sleek as a fucking shark. ‘It’s alright. I’m here. I’ll catch you.’ He’s got his arms out, ready, so I take a deep breath and I just fling myself into the water towards him. The last thing I saw before I hit the water was my Dad backing away from me, pulling his arms out of my reach.

  The shock hit me just like the water hit me. Hard. I don’t know how
much I swallowed. Thrashing around trying to reach out and grab hold of something, anything. No matter what I did I felt my body sinking like a stone. I didn’t even know which way was up and all I could taste was piss, chlorine and rain.

  Somehow I struggled to the side of the pool. No one helped me you know. See me there, clinging to the side, gasping for breath. I was still shaking, snot coming out my nose, my eyes red. I look around and everybody – and I mean everybody – is staring at me. And there standing over me at the poolside was my Dad.

  ‘Best way to learn,’ he goes. ‘Sink or swim.’

  I scrambled out of the pool, trying not to catch anybody’s eye. But I knew they was all still watching. As I went to get changed I could feel the shame hanging off me like a wet towel, dread.

  Beat.

  We didn’t speak until we got to the car, and all he said was...

  Beat.

  ‘McDonald’s?’

  Pause.

  From

  SOMETHING DARK

  by Lemn Sissay MBE

  Lemn Sissay MBE was commissioned by Apples and Snakes, Contact Theatre and Battersea Arts Centre in 2003 to write his first full-length play, Something Dark. The play premiered at Contact Theatre, Manchester, in England on February 12 2004, followed by an international tour. It was directed by John E. McGrath, the former Artistic Director of Contact Theatre, and performed by Lemn Sissay.

  Something Dark was also broadcast on BBC Radio 3 in September 2003, and received the Race in the Media Award (RIMA) from the UK Commission for Racial Equality in 2006.

  Something Dark is an autobiographical story, mapping Sissay’s journey from 1960s Lancashire as his Ethiopian mother puts her baby Sissay into care. Throughout his years in foster care Sissay is moved around to different abusive foster homes and renamed Norman Greenwood and nicknamed Chalky White. The story ends with Sissay finding his birth mother in Gambia, twenty-one years later. This is a true story about a fostered child’s pursuit for his true identity, family and heritage.

  This monologue is written as a piece of performance poetry, and categorises different chapters of his life. This play demands a sense of compassion, integrity and conviction. Throughout the play, Lemn uses the metaphor of light and dark to suggest truth and lies. He also uses this metaphor to imply the feeling of being visible and invisible.

  About the Playwright

  Award-winning poet and playwright Lemn Sissay MBE was born in Lancashire of Ethiopian and Eritrean heritage. He began his career as a published poet releasing his first book of poetry Tender Fingers in a Clenched Fist in 1988 aged 21, followed by Rebel without Applause, Morning Breaks in the Elevator (1999), The Emperor’s Watchmaker (2000) and Listener (2008). Sissay has performed travelled internationally, and some of his poetry can also be seen inscribed on landmarks around London and Manchester.

  As a playwright, Sissay has been associated with the Contact Theatre in Manchester, Battersea Arts Centre and he is currently the Associate Artist at London’s Southbank Centre.

  Published stage plays include Why I Don’t Hate White People and Refugee Boy.

  Summary (Extract)

  The following extract is taken from the chapter entitled ‘Barefoot Dread Lock’. LEMN recalls his transition from a ‘child of the state’ to becoming an adult at age 18 and a freeman. After years of living life in the care system, Lemn is finally given the keys to his one-bedroom apartment and access to his file, containing birth records and letters from his biological mother revealing his true identity.

  LEMN SISSAY

  After coming back from holiday, Bognor Regis, with the children’s home, I stopped wearing shoes. I stopped wearing shoes. Without reason I just stopped wearing shoes. Without thinking I am going to stop wearing shoes – I just stopped. I go barefoot and treat it as normal as pie. Proudly I learned to walk on glass and to stub out a cigarette with my little toe. It was a silent rebellion an implosion. You may take my identity but you will never take my feet – if you like. I was barefoot and I was barefoot for a full twelve months. In Lancashire.

  If ever we had six senses the feet would be the sixth. There is nothing more gratifying than walking on short soft dew-filled grass. Not many things are as sensual as warm pavement stone. My feet became like hands gripping all the different textures of our world. I was becoming to know the difference between tarmacs and the gentleness of soil or peat or heather. Point being, I was searching my senses. Barefoot dreadlocked.

  ‘Bet you can’t do that in the snow’ was the most common thing people would say, ‘Bet you can’t do that in the snow.’ Of all the things to say. I could have been told ‘get some help’. I could have been asked ‘what’s wrong’. I could have been pulled over the coals and told ‘You cannot do this any more you foolish boy’. Who cared enough! Who cared enough.

  ‘Bet you can’t do that in the snow.’

  It was dark. It was night time and I watched thousands and thousands of snowflakes sloping from the sky. Little pieces of light peppered the darkness. As a child once said to me in a workshop once ‘Night time is like a shoal of black fishes sprinkled with sea salt’. Come morning I put on my scarf and walked outward around the housing estate walking through the virgin snow leaving barefoot prints as I walked. I had to leave this town when I left care, because all this town can offer me is ‘I bet you can’t do that in the snow’. I’ll bet I can...

  This blackboy who had been called snowflake more time than he cares to remember. This blackboy, commonly known as chocolate drop and widely known as Chalky otherwise known as Norman Greenwood… When I got back to the children’s home I put on my shoes. The footprints had melted and the snow had disappeared leaving bits of road salt, the scattered seasoning of winter’s coldest dish. It was as if I had never been there!

  I’m 18 I am in the flat that I signed on for. I am alone. Nobody but nobody is responsible for me, on my birthdays, at Christmas, when ill, on weekends, on Saturdays and Sundays. No cousins no sisters no brother no aunts no uncles.

  ‘You’re lucky’ says a loose friend as he passes me a spliff – families are a pain. And how much would I want that pain, at least if I felt pain I would know, I was alive. Dark.

  After moving in my social worker sat me down for our final meeting. My whole life had been punctuated by ‘case conferences’.

  ‘Norman’

  He said

  ‘Your name isn’t Norman.’

  See, legally the government was no longer my parent and therefore had to pass over one incredible document and that document was my birth certificate. It had two pieces of information – my name Lemn Sissay and my mother’s name Etsegenet Amare. It was a dark afternoon mid-winter. But there was so much light in that front room – I was someone! This was a truth: a clear undeniable documented recorded hand written witnessed signed piece of incredible undeniable and absolute TRUTH. And there was more, he passed me letters dated July 1968. She said:

  ‘I want him to be with his own colour, his own people – I don’t want him to face discrimination.’

  The reply letter:

  ‘Many thanks for your letter. Lemn is doing well with his foster parents and in good health.

  Yours Faithfully Norman.’

  Letters from my mother pleading for me back, writing to a social worker whose name was Norman Goldthorpe. He had named me after himself.

  From that point I reverted to the only truth I knew, my name Lemn Sissay. Immediately I lost all my remainding friends in that small town.

  Who the bloody hell do I think I was, Lemn?

  I had to leave everything I knew, not because of what I didn’t want to be, but because of what was to become – most of all, and behind it all, I just wanted to find my family. I had no qualifications. I had no experience. I had a birth certificate and a fist full of poems and I was going to Manchester and there would be no going back…

  From

  BOY WITH BEER

  by Paul Boakye

  Paul Boakye’s Boy with Beer was produced
by HOB Productions, in association with This is Now Theatre Company, at The Man in the Moon Theatre, London on 14 January 1992. This production was directed by Steven Luckie and performed by Tunde Oba (Donovan) and Clive Wedderburn (Karl).

  Boy with Beer boldly tackles the taboo subject of homosexuality and AIDS in the Black British community. This two-hander explores the making of a loving relationship between two black men, British West-Indian Donovan and British African Karl, showing the societal and cultural pressures that impinge on their relationship.

  Donovan lives a double life flitting between his year-long relationship with girlfriend Susan and the occasional secret one-night stands with black men. Donovan wants to be a father one day and hopes to impregnate girlfriend Susan for his own gain. Karl is the complete opposite to Donovan; he is an openly gay, educated man who sleeps with white men but wants to settle with a black man. The two meet in a nightclub, but unlike other men that Donovan has slept with in the past, he returns to Karl’s house more than once. As the play unravels, the relationship with girlfriend Susan becomes more turbulent, Donovan stays at Karl’s house for longer periods of time allowing Karl’s feelings for Donovan to intensify. Tempers flare when Karl realises that Donovan is still sleeping with Susan who is now pregnant with his child. He gives Donovan an ultimatum; to leave his house for good or accept the fact that he is gay.

  About the Playwright

  Paul Boakye was born in London in 1963. He is an award-winning playwright, essayist, editor and entrepreneur, best known for his self-produced play Boy with Beer, and as the former CEO and editor of DRUM magazine which was inspired by the famous DRUM of South Africa in the 1950s.