By
Margaretta wa Gacheru (posted 5 June for 7 June 2019)
‘Written on
the Body’, by Andia Kisia, directed by Mugambi Nthiga and produced by Sheba
Hirst is a tour de force, a production unprecedented for its blazing honesty
mixed with searing horror, ironic humor and wit.
It’s a
horror derived from a history too many Kenyans forget. That could be why Kisia
chose to create a series of unforgettable vignettes that blend poetry and
powerful portraits which are often painfully poignant as they depict a past and
present that has never before been framed in such a daring and provocative way.
Put simply,
her portraits reveal a Kenyan history of oppression and resistance. Putting
them all into one play means they are abbreviated, like snap-shot moments in
time that reflect a wider truth that you may have to go home and research
yourself. But before you do, you’ll have to appreciate the way Andia uses
poetry to evoke emotions and embody a whole epoch in a single scene.
Fortunately,
her cast is filled with poets who understand the beauty of brevity. They are
also such good actors that they easily and credibly switch from one role to
another, often playing antithetical characters.
For instance,
an actor like Joseph Wairimu can start as an angry ‘slave’, then become a naive
school boy being trained by Marianne Nungo (who subsequently becomes a Judge)
to slash-and-slaughter fellow Kenyans in the pre-and post-election violence days.
Someone like
Elsaphan Njora can shift from being a bored mortician tired of counting dead
bodies following the 1982 failed coup to becoming a relentless interrogator of
those who resisted the oppressive Moi era of the Eighties and 90s.
One theatre-goer
told me he thought the play was too violent. “Why couldn’t there have been a
few good things about Kenya in the play?”
he asked. The playwright wasn’t there to answer, but the lay-critic had
to admit that every scene reflected actual elements of Kenyan history.
‘Written on
the body’ goes all the way back to the Arab slave trade and colonial hut tax
times. It takes us into a Mau Mau concentration camp where violence was the
order of the day and even into what looked like the basement of Nyayo House
where torture was also tragically common place.
Some
vignettes might seem difficult to situate in time. But that would be only if
the viewer hadn’t been keeping track of the strategies used by powers-that-be
to retain place even when it meant violating Kenyan people’s human rights.
For
instance, the slave trader (Abu Sense) used the African sycophant (Ngartia
Bryan) to interface with the captured Africans who are being bought and sold.
It’s a
similar strategy to what the colonizer used by training African home guards to
betray their own people and abuse them in countless ways. For instance, there’s
one scene in which a ‘gakunia’ (hooded informer) identifies Mau Mau
freedom fighters for the Home Guards. The cruelty of the deed is implicit, but
so is the cowardice.
The play
doesn’t only dwell on the past. Nor are the torture tactics only physical. In
more recent times, we meet two women civil servants (Shivishe Shivisi &
Mercy Mutisya) out to torture a fellow Kenyan (Akinyi Oluoch) who’s been out of
the country for years, but now has come home wanting a Kenyan ID. The two women amuse themselves by taunting
and playing games with the young woman. They insult her with glee and finally
refuse her application as they exercise their petty power.
In the Moi
era, the courts were often used to process innocents as well as dissidents. In
one stance, two university students (Ngartia & Gitura Kamau) have been
arrested and charged with treason and espionage. The treasonous deed is reading
too long in the university library. The espionage charge derives from the
student’s walking past the Libyan embassy and being deemed an agent of a
foreign government. A scene like this is spiced with absurdist wit to make one
laugh at what one might prefer to think was fiction. But no, episodes such as
these actually happen and Kenyans suffer as a consequence.
The portraits
of women were mixed, but again, their variety embodies the acuity of Kisia’s
eye for seeing the ways of ordinary Kenyans. But the lens through which she
views her people is clear-eyed yet unforgiving.
The beauty
of ‘Written on the body’ is that it’s a play that leaves its indelible mark on
your mind, compelling one to seek a deeper grasp of the country’s present and
past.
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