Moriba, a 31 year old man of exceptional warmth, is standing in front of large roomful of people, receiving a standing ovation.
Moriba Thank you. Thank you very much for listening and thank you for your kindness.
Lights change- and he is now alone, smoking a cigarette. Olivette, a striking woman of 29, strolls up to him.
Olivette Got a light?
Moriba Sure. (He fumbles, eventually extending a lighter and lights her cigarette)
Olivette That was quite something. You are quite something.
Moriba I’m really not.
Olivette No really, you really worked the room. You had them all in the palm of your hand, every single one of them and they lapped it all up.
Moriba I was just telling the story.
Olivette YES! Storytelling is quite the thing now isn’t it?
Moriba I guess it is in my culture, in my nature.
Olivette But you told it with such… drama, like a Hollywood movie with all the trimmings; violence, sex, drugs and rock and roll.
Moriba Except it wasn’t a movie. And I was more into hip hop and reggae.
Olivette No you’re right, it wasn’t. It was your life. What’s better than something that’s based on a true story, eh?
Moriba If it didn’t happen?
Olivette You gorgeous creature, but then there wouldn’t be a story to tell now would there?
Moriba I suppose not.
Olivette That Chiwetel Ejiofor could play you, and when the film pans to your later life? Oooooh, we should totally get Eamonn Walker as older you.
Moriba I’m really not planning to make a film about my life.
Olivette Oh you should. Sooner or later someone will. You’re writing a book are you not?
Moriba Yes I am.
Olivette How very therapeutic for you.
Moriba I suppose you can say that.
Olivette And how very redemptive of you.
Moriba I’m sorry?
Olivette When all the other former child soldiers swapped their AK-47s for the $200 from the UN disarmament programme and started motorbike taxi services around Freetown, Moriba Abimbola swapped his AK for a pen. Sweet isn’t it? ‘Former child soldier, now the Oprah-appearing-international-best-selling-memoir-whoring-author. ‘
Moriba I don’t intend to do any whoring. I deplore ‘whoring’ the horror of war.
Olivette You can tell you’re not a media type. Like Hollywood, sensationalism sells books now my dear.
Moriba Who are you?
Olivette Not exactly a fan per se, but I am definitely a follower of your ‘work’.
Moriba My ‘work’?
Olivette You know, the raping and pillaging, that line of work. Tell me, when you put your pre-pubescent penis inside innocent young girls, did you ever think of your sister, mother, cousins?
Moriba I can’t remember. I was/
Olivette /drugged and desensitised? Yes I heard your speech back there.
Moriba Have we met?
Olivette August 13th, 1994.
Beat
Moriba Where?
Olivette Mattru Jong
Moriba Did I?
Olivette Yes. Although, that wasn’t the first time we met Mobi.
Moriba No one calls me that anymore.
Olivette No?
Moriba Not since I lost my family.
Olivette Irretrievably lost.
Moriba I don’t know where they are. It was war, when I came back to my village I saw people with limbs missing, a baby headlollingly dead on his mother’s back, people dragging themselves across the dirt ground dying, a blind man sitting outside his hut mumbling… it was war, and I lost them. And I looked for them, I tried then and I am still trying. I went over to some of the refugee camps in Liberia, and searched among its shit streams and tarpaulins… I’m constantly on the lookout but I can’t find them.
Olivette Maybe you’re not looking hard enough.
Moriba How can you say that?
Olivette You’re looking but not seeing Mobi.
Moriba Stop calling me that.
Olivette Hit a nerve have I? Are you not Moriba Sahr Abimbola, Mobi to your family?
Moriba I’m gonna have to call security.
Olivette Thuggish measures.
Moriba What do you want form me?
Olivette An apology.
Moriba I’m sorry.
Olivette For the atrocities you have committed, I’m sorry is a bit minimal don’t you think?.
Moriba If I could give my life back for every single one of the people I have pained, I would, including you.
Olivette Then I want your life. (beat) Look at me. Really look at me. Who do you see? We listened to Bob Marley on the cassette together, you wiped my knees when I fell over, you raped me on my 13th birthday.
Moriba Oli
Olivette Hey bro, long time no see.
Moriba My god, look at you.
Olivette Yeah, look at me now.
Moriba You are beautiful.
Olivette Some say fuckable.
Moriba I don’t.
Olivette But you have. Fucked me.
Moriba It was/
Olivette War. I know. And you were drugged and desensitised. I know. Your well rehearsed lines are rather tiresome. (beat) Brother.
Royal Court Unheard Voices 2012 Week 3: Dramatic Actions
Games are always a good way to introduce an idea; As active creatures, we understand more implicitly when it seeps through body and actions. Teaming up in pairs, we assigned ourselves as A and B, this takes a degree of negotiation but in pairs you develope a sense of commaderie. Not for long though as we were told that As must now group together to rival Bs. On opposite sides of the room and the goal was to gain points while following the rules
The rules were simple- We do not talk about fight club.
Wait hang on, that’s not it. A bottle of water was placed in the middle of the 2 groups, each original pair were given a number and at the point of a number being called out, the previous partnership that are now assigned numbers on opposing teams must take the bottle and safely cross back to side A or B. However should your opponent tag you before you reach the safe area, the point is awarded to them. To start off with Team A (my team) disregarded the bottle altogether and just went to tag the opponents, but after 2 go’s the shelf life of such tactic expired as it had been ‘worked out’ by Team B and thus came more face to face varying confrontations to win the point, these included:
Distractions, intimidation, bluffing, exploitation, charm, conspiracy, collaboration and alliances and plain physical strength.
We all invested in this game and there was huge suspense and emotions run high. We all wanted our team to win. It came to a climax of ‘match point’ and with a victory (by the other team, goddamnit) the game concluded.
And scene.
Yup, that could easily have been a scene in a story, just as the Capulets and Montagues had challenged and rivalled each other at the start of Romeo & Juliet.
Dramatic action- The behavioral tactic a character uses to get what they want.
In this game, we had clearly defined goals which introduced conflict and competition and made it compelling. I’m going to call it the the three C’s of dramatic actions. (Good that isn’t it? Say yes.)
In writing, it helps to define a character through what they do and also their wants. And thus the following is a 10 min writing challenge should you accept it.
Two characters, with a pre-existing relationship who are both after the same goal, each uses two different tactics to achieve what they want.
So here goes. Disclaimer- I am not going to pretend this is going to be good:
Rob and Josette are engaged to be married. They are walking through the snow, in the woods on a cold winter’s evening. They both want to end the relationship.
R It’s just up here.
J Robbie, I think my boot’s got a hole in it. My socks are soaked though. Was it absolutely necessary to do this now?
R Yes. I want to catch you in this snow. You’re radiant with all this white reflecting on you. God knows when we’ll get another chance.
J And with cold feet I’m sure I’m bloody gorgeous.
R Always, my dear, always.
J Look how far we are from the house, wouldn’t your parents be worried?
R I grew up here. I know exactly where I’m going. I am also 27, not 5, my parents are probably on their third bottle of wine by now.
J Shit!
R What?
J I don’t have any signal or 3G here, it’s only that weird circly thing and it makes me nervous. Look. If you turn out to be some chainsaw wielding psycho, I’m done for.
R You’re positively bonkers, I love you.
J I’m not joking, who’s gonna know if you kill me?
R Well, for one my parents would be a little suspicious if I went back, minus you, with blood on my shirt.
J Yup but they’re probably shit faced by now and they wouldn’t notice. Eurgh, my feet are soaked. I’m gonna catch a cold at this rate. Remind me why I’m marrying you?
R Because I am your knight in shining armour (he picks her up in a fireman’s lift) Better?
J Put me down!
R Nope.
J Put me down now!
R Nope.
J Robert Cecil Anthony Goldman, I mean it.
R Why?
J Because I don’t need you to rescue me and I think you’re being pretty disrespectful of my wishes.
R You’ve been complaining about your feet since we stepped outside. What are your wishes your majesty?
J I want you to put me down for starters.
R And what if I don’t? Run home and tell mummy and daddy? You can barely run with your wet socks and cold feet.
J Exactly.
R Cold feet. I knew it!
J I am so sick of you telling me what to do.
R And I am so sick of you whining and moaning all the time.
J Are you trying to kill me?
R Yes.
Imperial Lotus Leaf Tea
Choose an object, 15 mins, don’t think, just write; write a monologue
Mia So I’m suppose to drink this yeah? Before or after a meal? Let’s see. (she reads label) It doesn’t actually say, so… whenever then. What? This isn’t some femme talk torture about slimming or weight loss or whatever, it’s for my inner balance. See (holds out pack) IN-NER-BA-LANCE. (beat) Oh who am I kidding, I’m trying to get back to a size 8. When you’re 30 things start to go in the different direction, these (indicates boobs) go south, these (indicates hips) go out and these (wobbles bingo wings) well the less said about them the better. I just want things to be a bit, you know, tighter. It’s really easy to stop eating you know. Look at me right now. See. Not eating. Although I could murder a bowl of soupy slurpy noodles. Mmmmmm…..
He used to like these (boobs), these (hips) and to be honest I don’t think he paid much attention to these (arms). And now he barely looks at me, if at all. Do you know what it’s like to starve yourself? No? Nor do I, I like my food too much. I imagine it’s a lot like getting a book on Valentine’s Day, from the man you’ve been with for 9 years, that says ‘I love you but I’m not in love with you. 7 ways to save a relationship’ by Siobhan Ingram. Well Siobhan Ingram I think you’re a cunt. Excuse my language, I’m a bit upset. Siobhan Ingram probably hasn’t been shagged properly for a while. Nor have I to be honest. I didn’t know whether to cry or be proud he took the initiative when I saw the book, I just said, ‘Thanks’. No that’s not like starvation at all is it? It’s more like life just stops. That’s it. You’re dead. Your love is dead.
So here I am, 30 and drinking Imperial Lotus Leaf Tea which other than weight loss also helps with (reads label) water retention, hair loss, asthma, pubic hair loss (well that should save on the immac) and male infertility. Wait. What? Male Infertility? Well that’s definitely not for me now is it. Shit. You know when historians come to investigate the rise and fall of this empire, I think herbal tea ‘s got a lot to answer for.
Royal Court Unheard Voices 2012 Week 2: Inspirations and Starting Points.
As I travel home, on the reliable cousin of the underground system (aka The Victoria Line), after the 2nd session this week, I started humming, very quietly, the start of Sound of Music’s ‘Do. Re. Me’
‘Let’s start at the very beginning. A very good place to start.’
Indeed, Maria Von Trapp.
This week we looked at starting points and inspirations which produced a wonderful spidergram of ‘What inspires you’: Art, literature, music, people, places, senses, language, personal experiences, historical events, alternate realities all featured heavily and there are a few more too, actually a lot more but that’s for you to explore yourself. We also each explained why we want to become playwrights; some wanted to direct their own pieces, some have rediscovered it after successful other careers, some chose it because it’s better than dramaturgy and some wanted to write parts for themselves to play. I fell into the latter category. As a child I was hyperactive and so my mother sent me off to ballet to whip me into the ‘elegant and poised’ Chinese girl that I should be, to tire me out and to mainly get me out of her way. Her plan failed, I sang showtunes and Cantopop loudly, recited poems louder and danced energetically, and generally annoyed the crap out of everyone. My sister and my best friend will tell you I am still doing so and have since made a career out of it. I decided that the best way to get people to engage in politics (my 1st degree) is through theatre (my second degree), as proven by an accidental social experiment I did at university ‘mock the week’ style. My friends too are excellent actors, and I want each and every single one of them to be able to play a good part and me too, so I am going to write good plays for good actors to say something about the world. Knowing who you are certainly helps so ask yourself these questions:
- What makes you angry?
- What scares you?
- What gives you hope?
- What would you never say out loud?
And here comes my Carrie Bradshaw ‘I couldn’t help but wonder’ moment (Look pensively towards the top railing of my curtain- I don’t know why); As an East Asian, am I writing plays for East Asians? Not specifically. I want to write parts for my beautiful and erudite friend who’s a bit Vietnamese, the fearless and Shakespeare quoting Henley born Hugh Grant lookalike and my northern artistic husband too. Perhaps that’s my go-to inspiration, people; people who have seen things I may not have, who have shared things with me, people who would do things I wouldn’t dream of doing. And if being East Asian means that I have to work a bit harder and be outstandingly good for people to take notice, then so be it. As Simon says (not the game, one of our supporting mentors) ‘Be so good they can’t turn you away’.
The night ended in the bar (I see a pattern forming here), with a keen discussion of politics and shared hatred of the rulling class continued till closing time. The conversations, as free flowing as the drinks, was inspired by Posh by Laura Wade, which was first produced at the Royal Court in 2010, now showing at the Duke of York.
Fucking Cupcakes
Nat King Cole’s ‘Quizas, quizas quizas’ plays as lights up on:- A modern day London domestic kitchen. Natasha, a woman in her twenties, is sitting at the dining table with a cup of tea and a black eye.
She stares vacantly and slowly takes a sip from her tea.
Natasha Shit! (as she spills some down her front)
Ryan, a man in his early thirties, enters while putting on a T-shirt .
Ryan Morning baby. (Goes to kiss her, she flinches away from him) Ok… I see. (he busies himself around the kithen)
Natasha What time do you think you’ll be home tonight?
Ryan She speaks!
Natasha Just answer the fucking question.
Ryan Hey! No need to talk to me like that.
Natasha Sorry. (beat) What time will you get home tonight?
Ryan I don’t know. Around 7ish, maybe a bit after.
Natasha Ok.
Ryan Need me to pick anything up on the way back?
Natasha It’s fine.
Ryan Asparagus? It’s in season. You can make that Jamie Oliver lemon, mint and asparagus risotto. That was good.
Natasha I said it’s fine.
Ryan I like it when you go all Jamie Oliver on me, all homey and lovely. (He strokes her hair from behind while she tenses up) I love you, you know.
Natasha I know
Ryan Now Heston Blumenthall, that geezer ‘s just a show off, he’s seriously compensating for something the limp dick fucker. I bet you if you stood them side by side, Jamie would blatantly have the bigger balls. (He makes a gratuitous testicular gesture)
Beat
Ryan I said I was sorry.
Natasha I heard you.
Ryan How many times do you want me to apologise then?
Natasha You don’t have to.
Ryan I just thought it might be nice to have cupcakes for the BBQ.
Natasha I don’t bake.
Ryan I just thought it might be nice.
Natasha When have I ever baked? I’m not Jamie Oliver (beat) or Nigella.
Ryan You suck like Nigella though. Ok ok, I’m sorry. Please. Just look at me. You won’t even look at me. (he turns her head towards him) What the…
Natasha It’s nothing.
Ryan Tosh, that’s not nothing. That’s a black eye. What the fuck.
Natasha I was mugged.
Ryan What?! When?!
Natasha Last night. By Nando’s.
Ryan What happened?
Natasha It doesn’t matter.
Ryan Of course it fucking matters. Look at your face. Who was it? Was he black?
Natasha Stop it.
Ryan Sorry. Did he take anything?
Natasha No, I managed to attract enough attention. The taxi guys at the end of the road chased him off.
Ryan Thank fuck for those Greek bastards.
Natasha Ryan.
Ryan Sorry.
Natasha After our… you know, and you went upstairs, I went out for a bit of fresh air.
Ryan Thought I heard the front door.
Natasha And by the time I got back, you were asleep.
Ryan I’m sorry baby.
Natasha But you know what, I went out to find friggin cupake holders.
Ryan ?
Natasha I went to get things for cupcakes.
Ryan But you don’t’ bake. You just said so yourself/
Natasha /Because she bakes, doesn’t she?
Beat
Ryan Not this again.
Natasha Yes this again. Everytime anyone mentions cupcakes, all I could see are her hands on you. Everytime I walk past fucking Hummingbirds, I see her hands on you. Everytime someone tweets a photo of the cupcake they’ve just iced, I see her hands on you.
Ryan That’s not my fault.
Natasha Yes it is. You slept with her. That’s your fault.
Ryan A year ago. Once.
Pause
Natasha I saw him coming you know.
Ryan Who?
Natasha The guy who mugged me; the black guy.
Ryan I knew it.
Natahsa I thought about crossing the road but then I thought ‘Oh don’t be such a racist Tash, he’s not gonna mug you just because he’s black.’ At least he didn’t take anything.
Ryan But he did punch you. For goodness sakes Tosh, black or not, if you feel threatened cross the fucking road.
Natasha Are you blaming me for this?
Ryan Of course not.
Natasha Well I’m blaming you.
Ryan What?
Natasha If you hadn’t fooled around with Miss ‘please love me I baked’, I wouldn’t have reacted so much to your cupcakes request and we wouldn’t have rowed and I wouldn’t feel the need to go and walk it off and I wouldn’t have wondered into the streets at 2am to find things for baking and try and keep you with cupcakes and turn into Miss ‘please love me still I bake too’. I don’t bake! When have I ever fucking baked?
Ryan (tries to hold her) You don’t need to bake. I love you just the way you are. Billy Joel remember? Our first dance, when we met, at Jim’s wedding. I love you because you make me laugh and because you overreact and because you have 27 different ways of looking at me and because you are fucking insane and you scare, excite and intrigue me all at the same time and because I wish I had never let myself be so stupid as to hurt you. I’m sorry. I love you.
Beat
Natasha Nat King Cole.
Ryan What?
Natasha It was Nat King Cole. Our first dance was to Nat King Cole.
Beat
Natasha If you heard the front door. Why didn’t you run out after me?
Ryan To let you cool off.
Natasha I can’t be angry anymore.
Ryan Then don’t be.
Natasha I’m going.
Ryan What time will you be home tonight?
Natasha I won’t.
Ryan Tomorrow?
Natasha No.
Ryan Don’t leave.
Natasha I have to.
Ryan I’m sorry.
Natasha I know but I can’t forgive you.
Ryan Fucking cupcakes
Natasha Yeah, fucking cupcakes.
Royal Court Unheard Voices 2012: Week 1
11 weeks, 11 writers of East Asian descent, 2 tutors, 2 mentors.
That’s the Unheard Voices writers programme at the Royal Court Theatre in London I have been selected for. Although, exactly who hasn’t heard my voice I am not entirely sure; I’m quite loud. Then again, so are the voices in my head, and the coming 11 weeks might turn out to be quite healthy as I put these voices onto paper with guidance and structure rather than unedited stream of consciousness. Theatre therapy, if you will, as we are encouraged to write, as much as possible. The aim is to produce at least a first draft of a full length play by the end of this programme. (And hopefully mature my use of punctuations too)
Now that I’ve stopped quoting from the ‘aims and objectives’ handout, let me just do a little jig at the prospect of the next 3 months. A marginalised ethnic group get to cause some mayhem in the literary department? Like. A safe environment to share and discuss your work? Like. Being at THE new writing producing house where many an emerging writers have emerged? Em… like. So my conclusion is; What’s not to like.
Week 1 has been a gentle ease into it all with various name games and writing exercises but I expect things to get a bit more challenging as words and voices are heard (Oh, ha! See what I did there). There was a general discussion of whether ‘ethnicity’ will shape what we write and will produce. I don’t expect a huge adaptation of Wild Swans to come out of this programme, besides Alex Wood, one of our tutors, has already done that for the Young Vic. Certainly what we have experienced as people, ethnic or not, will influence how we see the world and use words, at the same time trying to engage whoever is listening.
At the end of our first session, we were given ‘homework’. From a random word association writing exercise we did, we must choose 1 word as a starting point for a short scene that we must bring back for next week. I’ve chosen CAKE. I will share that with you here too. (the scene, not the cake… I don’t bake)
And after the session? To the bar to take full advantage of our discount and bond over our collective Asian glow from alcohol… oh and writing, always WRITING. Unfortunately, one member of our group couldn’t join us in the bar as she had to catch her train back to Glasgow. Yes, commuting to London from Glasgow on a 7 hour train journey for this opportunity, THAT’S commitment to the cause. Round of applause please.
I seem to have set the tone of this blog now; waffly. And that way shall I continue.
