“Monkey dey work, baboon dey chop” – A Nigerian saying
CHARACTERS
OLD WOMAN
MAN
SCENE. – Living room in OLD WOMAN’S tiny flat in one of those low-cost housing projects of a long-forgotten government. The room is dark and quiet. The OLD WOMAN sits in the middle of the sofa, bible clutched to her chest, silent. She cocks her head when she hears movement at the door; moves to the edge of the seat.
OLD WOMAN: Agbara. (The movement stops.) Agbara. (There is no sound.) Agbara. Are you counting the sound of your name off my tongue? Before you answer me? Answer me. (Raises her voice a pitch higher; firmer.) A-gbara!
(The person at the door has opened it and stepped into the room. He shuts the door behind him gently and waits in the darkness.)
OLD WOMAN: Agba–
MAN: (Cuts her off sharply, a menacing edge in his voice.) SH!
OLD WOMAN: (Defeated voice.) It’s not you?
MAN: I don’t know who it is you’re looking for, but–
OLD WOMAN: (Indignant.) I am not ‘looking’ for anybody; I am waiting for my grandson…
MAN: I am not your grandson.
OLD WOMAN: (Frantic.) Then who are you, whose grandson are you?
MAN: I am not anybody’s grandson. I am… just a man.
OLD WOMAN: What kind of man is that who just lets himself into an old woman’s house at such an evil time of the night like a… a thief? (Drops her voice.) Oh, no, you’re not a thief, are you?
MAN: I said I’m a man… And, you, what kind of woman sits in the dark at the time of the night when witches gather?
OLD WOMAN: An old woman waiting for her grandson.
MAN: Ah, the Agbara… Where has he gone to?
OLD WOMAN: I don’t know, but I know that he is coming back… I just don’t know when.
MAN: (A distant, pensive note enters his voice.) The way this place is now, nobody knows if he will make it back home when he goes out in the morning. And if he does, he doesn’t know if it is all of him that came back. We lose too many pieces of our lives out there every day trying to make a living. We lose too much…
OLD WOMAN: (Confused.) Are you lost?
MAN: (As though roused from deep slumber.) What?
OLD WOMAN: Did you lose your way? Are you looking for something here?
MAN: (Sighs and settles onto the sofa, next to her.) As it is, aren’t we all lost? Aren’t we all looking for something? Or the other… Look at you now, an old woman like you, looking for your grandson, when you should be resting, in peace.
OLD WOMAN: I said I am not looking for him, I am waiting. Can’t you see that? Can’t you see the difference?
MAN: That is the problem – I can’t see a thing in here. Don’t you have a light? Any light.
OLD WOMAN: I don’t. I’m fine like this. What do you need light for anyway?
MAN: Hm, you’re right; I mean, all the light we’ve had all our lives, and we still don’t see the point…
OLD WOMAN: The point? The point of what?
MAN: (Sighs.) The point to our existence! The why of the ‘why are we even alive.’ Why are we the ones alive and the dead ones the ones dead? Why?!
OLD WOMAN: I don’t know, but would you rather be dead?
MAN: No! That is not the point! This is not a question of choice! It is not a matter of life or death.
OLD WOMAN: (Unimpressed.) Then what is it a matter of? Because you sound as if you are tired of life since you don’t know the point of it, and the Word says that the power of life and death is in the tongue, so all you have to do is say it, say what you want – life or death; yes, say the word and it will become.
MAN: (The menace returns into his voice.) Say one more word about ‘the Word,’ and you’ll become silent. (He shoves a pistol into her side.)
OLD WOMAN: (Gasps.) What is that?
MAN: The power of life and death.
OLD WOMAN: (Calmly.) Do you think I am afraid of death? No. It is death that is afraid of me, for I carry in me a Life that cannot die.
MAN: (Snorts.) Alright, Anikulapo.
OLD WOMAN: No, it is not death I carry in my pouch, it is Life; and as darkness cannot comprehend light, so is death confounded about what to do with me, since it cannot kill me.
MAN: (Grinning evilly.) I appreciate that. But we’ll see if your darling grandson is just as brave as you are in the face of this death you speak so dismissively about. I’ll wait for him with you.
OLD WOMAN: (Panicky.) Please don’t harm my grandson; he’s just a poor little boy trying to make it out of the mouth of this beast like you, my son. There’s no need for violence. Just tell me what you want, and I will give it to you. Anything.
MAN: (Scoffs.) Anything. (Sounds rough.) Better don’t make stupid promises that are heavier than your mouth, old woman; I’ve had enough of that from those mates of yours in the Capital. And I am tired.
OLD WOMAN: Ok, what do you want?
MAN: (After a brief pause.): What do you have?
OLD WOMAN: I have no money. All the money I have is in the hands of my grandson.
MAN: (Frustrated.) So, what do you have then?
OLD WOMAN: Food. A little food.
MAN: (Sniggers.) Do I look hungry to you?
OLD WOMAN: I can’t see that. But you sound hungry. And angry.
MAN: (Pokes the gun deeper into her side.) I did not come here to play games with words, old woman.
OLD WOMAN: (Winces.) I am not playing games with you, my son.
MAN: (Sternly) I am not your son; stop calling me that.
OLD WOMAN: (Plaintive.) Ok, but please just take anything you want to take before my grandson comes back. I made him some rice, you can have that…
MAN: (Laughs.) Some rice. What am I going to do with that?
OLD WOMAN: Eat it; manage it – you know things are tight everywhere…
MAN: I’m going to need more than ‘some rice,’ mama.
OLD WOMAN: I thought you said you’re not hungry.
MAN: (His voice drops, something resembling shame in it.) It is not for me, it’s… it is for… my children…
OLD WOMAN: You have children?
MAN: Yes, and hunger has almost killed them.
OLD WOMAN: How many of them are there?
MAN: (Voice even lower as if speaking to himself.) Six.
OLD WOMAN: Where are they?
MAN: At death’s door, at home, waiting…
OLD WOMAN: (Sighs.) Wait here… (She tries to rise but the barrel of the gun digs deeper into her side, forcing her back down.)
MAN: (Gruffly.) Wait, where is your phone?
OLD WOMAN: Why?
MAN: Bring it.
OLD WOMAN: Why?
MAN: I’m not going to let you go in there, wherever you’re going to, with your phone.
OLD WOMAN: I want to go and bring something for you, for your children, and you don’t trust me?
MAN: I don’t know you.
OLD WOMAN: What? The kindness of my heart is not enough for you to trust me?
MAN: (Laughs.) Kindness! In this our country? Where kindness can be worn over an evil intention like a cloak? Where people’s kindnesses exist within inverted commas. Kindness of your heart indeed. I’d rather go with what I know, and I don’t know you, so I don’t trust you, no – yes, I don’t know what you have under that soft kindness that you wear so proudly like a badge… I mean, what if you go in there and call the police, or call your grandson? While I’m seated out here like chicken in a pot, waiting to be cooked, waiting for the kindness of your heart to come back to me; then you come back in here with rice and a smile, and your grandson comes back with the police. No, no, no, I do not trust you, sorry. Ah, I have learnt not to trust you old people, you sneaky old farts! More slippery than serpents, the lot of you; you think because you have spent more years on earth than us, so you have more sense than us. Just like those ones in the Capital, old men with new slogans every time, then we trust them with our lives, and what do they do – they take our trust and make stew of it for themselves, while all we see is pepper.
OLD WOMAN: (Sighs.) I am not a politician, my son.
MAN: I said I am not your son! Do I look like your son?
OLD WOMAN: No, you don’t. I am sorry, I don’t mean it like that – I don’t mean it as if I am your mother, as if I gave birth to you, I–
MAN: I don’t care how you mean it, stop using that word on me… That is how you people, you old ones, infantilize us, calling us your children, as if we’re small, just so that you can look down on us from your high thrones in the Capital, so that you can treat us like rubbish, and kick us around, send us on errands of electoral violence that you can’t send your real children, so that you can spit on our heads, and we won’t be able to do anything about it because we’re supposed to honour our parents so that our lives may be long, but you’re the same people who work relentlessly to shorten our lives!
OLD WOMAN: (Quietly.) You keep speaking of the Capital, as if I’m one of them, I am not; I am not a politician, I’m just trying to help you, like a mother would.
MAN: (Through clenched teeth.) You are not my mother; I am not your child; I am only trying to feed my children.
OLD WOMAN: Like a good father should… but… a… a good father wouldn’t have a gun in an old woman’s side like this.
MAN: What would he do, a good father?
OLD WOMAN: Ask for help.
MAN: You mean ‘beg’.
OLD WOMAN: Would you rather be a thief than a beggar?
MAN: Why should I have to be the beggar while the ones in the Capital have been getting by as thieves for decades; why can’t we all just be thieves, big thieves, small thieves, what’s the difference?
OLD WOMAN: Where’s the dignity in stealing?
MAN: True, of course there is more dignity in begging. I should be out in the streets in rags begging to feed my children. That is a more dignified enterprise. (Scratching his chin.) Why hadn’t I thought about this earlier; that is really what I should be doing – begging.
OLD WOMAN: No, you should be working.
MAN: I am. This is work. Trying to get anything from you is a lot of work. And I’m tired.
OLD WOMAN: ‘Trying to get?’ You mean robbing?
MAN: Ha-ha, yes, when a poor man steals, it is ‘robbery’, but it is ‘corruption’ when your mates at the Capital do it; ‘misappropriation,’ ‘malpractice,’ ‘maladministration,’ not as ugly as robbery… Abeg just bring your phone.
OLD WOMAN: Are you going to take that as well?
MAN: Don’t worry, I’m not stealing it, my children can’t eat a phone; I’m just going to hold it for you while you go in there.
OLD WOMAN: The phone is useless, it is dead. As you can see, there is no light; there hasn’t been light for weeks.
MAN: Aren’t we all just as dead and useless, groping in the darkness of our daily struggles…? (Firmly.) Give me the phone, unless you don’t mind being called to glory.
(As she looks for his hand in the dark to put the phone in it, their fingers graze each other.)
OLD WOMAN: You have the hands of a hard worker, like a bricklayer’s hands… I know because my son was a bricklayer. It killed him. Not the work, the thinking.
MAN: (Confused.) The… thinking?
OLD WOMAN: Yes, the thinking. He was just like you, always thinking about things heavier than his years, his thoughts digging holes in his heart, killing him, small by small. It was what got him in the end, all that thinking. And asking questions that have no answers. Questions that only have holes. After building a house, he would come home, stare at his hands and weep into them, asking why they were building mansions for the people stealing from him and the rest of the masses, taking food from their mouths, and paying them in crumbs for the work of their hands. Asking why his hands were building houses he can never dream of living in. Oh, he worked and worked and worked and killed himself with the thinking and the weeping in the end, with nothing but hollow questions in his pockets when he died. And a son for me to raise. Agbara. A poor old woman like me. And then the poor boy also has to work, like his father had, because, how much work can a shriveled old thing like me do? Ehn? And the poor boy has been working and working and working and hasn’t even had a chance to live yet and I can see it in his eyes that he has begun to die his father’s death, the worker’s death, the death of the hard worker, a slow, silent death that creeps up on you, climbs up your hands as you work, enters your eyes and makes a throne in there, then fastens its sharp teeth upon your heart and begins to kill you in small bites of thinking, nibbling questions, until it has chewed a huge hole through your life and all that is left to do is die. (Pauses to catch her breath.) I hope Agbara doesn’t die like that. (Turns to face the MAN, her face close to his, her breath in his nose.) I pray you don’t like that.
(Just at that moment, the bulb comes on, and the room is flooded with light. Both of them, seeing each other’s faces for the first time, stare for a while, then they look up at the lone bulb.)
OLD WOMAN: (Smiling down at him.) You brought light back into our lives. (Softly.) Thank you.
(She looks down at the small pistol with the same warm smile; ashamed, the MAN tucks it back in his pocket, a look of apology in his eyes. Then the eyes fall on the newspaper on the table in front of them. He picks it up and reads, his expression changing, from curiosity to surprise, as he reads. He looks at the OLD WOMAN.)
MAN: Ma… What did you say your grandson’s name is?
OLD WOMAN: (Smiling.) Agbara.
MAN: AgbaraOluwayimika?
OLD WOMAN: (Eyes wide with hope.) You know him?!
MAN: Erm, er, no… But…
OLD WOMAN: What? What is it? Have you heard from him ni?
MAN: No, no, no… I… (He looks down at the paper with a sad look.) You said he went out.
OLD WOMAN: (Smiling, a faraway look in her eyes.): Yes, and he is coming back soon.
(The MAN stares at the front-page story reporting the progress of the protests sweeping through the country, which had been sparked by the murder of a young boy a week ago by policemen… AgbaraOluwayimika Agboola. He folds the paper up, rises and doesn’t – can’t – look at the OLD WOMAN’S face as he leaves. She rises also, but doesn’t follow him.)
OLD WOMAN: Wait, wait, my son! Wait! Let me give you some food for my children, your children. Let me give you the rice I made for my grandson. I’ll cook for him when he comes back. Wait!
(But the MAN is already out of the house. He closes the door gently behind him. The OLD WOMAN shrugs and settles back onto the sofa, clutching her bible tighter to her bosom, staring up at the bulb. Waiting.)
CURTAIN.
Olubunmi Familoni
Olubunmi Familoni has written plays for stage and for radio. His debut play, Every Single Day, was selected by the British Council for production as part of the Lagos Theatre Festival in 2016; his second play, When Big Masquerades Dance Naked, was longlisted for the Nigeria Prize for Literature in 2023; his children’s novel, The Road Does Not End, won the Nigeria Prize for Literature in 2024; he has published one-act plays in several literary journals. He lives and works in Ibadan, Nigeria.