From

BLACK T-SHIRT COLLECTION

by Inua Ellams

Black T-Shirt Collection was written and performed by Inua Ellams and directed by Louise Blackwell and Thierry Lawson. Commissioned by Warwick Arts Centre and produced by Fuel, the production opened at the Unity Theatre in Liverpool, England on 9 March 2012 and then toured nationally.

Black T-shirt Collection is a heart-breaking tragedy about the growth of a family business which results in the loss of a sibling. This one-man monologue play tells the story of two close-knit foster brothers, Muhammed and Matthew, who create a successful T-shirt business in Nigeria. When homosexual Muslim brother Muhammed is caught kissing another man by a journalist, the brothers have no choice but to run away from Nigeria. After reestablishing a successful T-shirt business in Cairo, the brothers get the opportunity to spread their business to London and China. As quickly as their business grows it soon comes crashing down, as the first disagreement between the brothers is met with fatal repercussions.

About the Playwright

Inua Ellams was born in Nigeria in 1984. He moved to the UK as a teenager and now lives and works in London. He is an award-winning playwright, poet and graphic artist, who is renowned for performing his self-written monologue plays at the National Theatre, Soho Theatre and Edinburgh Festival. Ellams wrote his first play The 14^th Tale in 2009, which won a prestigious Fringe First Award at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival, before returning to London for a sold-out run at the Cottesloe, National Theatre.

Other published plays by Inua Ellams include; Untitled, 14^th Tale, Knight Watch and Cape.

Summary (Extract)

Muhammed and his brother were able to avoid the homophobic backlash following Muhammed’s actions, but his mother and sister were not as lucky. The last update the brother’s received from close friend Santana confirmed that their home was burnt down and their family lashed. Now in China, and at the peak of their global T-shirt business, they receive a telephone call which reconnects them with their mother and sister. Stricken with guilt Muhammed agrees to return home but Matthew has other plans.

Muhammed, he burst into Matthew’s office holding his phone – Santana’s on the line! He’s found them – Muhammed turns the speaker phone on – Hello? – There is weight in the air, the stillness before the rain – Hello? //Muhammed, where are you? // Mama, I’m fine. // Muhammed, come home, it has been too long // Mama, things aren’t…simple // You are my son Muhammed, come home – Muhammed holds his phone, and there are tears – OK, I’ll leave tomorrow – Matthew turns sharply – //err…there’s work to do, we’ll come in a week or two. // Matthew, I’m going home // We have to finish the job…er…Mama, Santana, we will call you later? // Matthew don’t you dare – Matthew shuts the phone – Muhammed, what’s up? Why are you in a rush? Business is going well…// Matthew, look around. Why are we here? Have you seen downstairs? Those people, how much is Honshen paying them? How much are the shirts? Did we come to China to exploit these people? // No! Muhammed, we are helping them // This is help? // Yes! The factory almost closed, Honshen said, we’re putting food on their tables. You said yourself, families are broken, children sent away // Oh, so it’s about you, eh? Everybody clap for Matthew Zangho, saviour of China. We have our own problems at home. You know how crazy this business is? Desperate cotton pickers sweating for coins, Americans and their slave trade farms, bribing Brazilians to shut up so they sell cheap product across the world. Second-hand shops that ‘collect for charity’ and sell Matthew, SELL! In Nairobi, Haiti. Chemicals in the fields that cause cancer; those dark-skinned kids in India paid nothing, nothing, and we are one of them! You can map global poverty down to one shirt, one black T-shirt Matthew. From our stall in Jos to this huge factory, something’s wrong, something always goes wrong. This is too big for us Matthew, let’s go home. We can control things there, we can do this. // Not with you Muhammed, not with you! They’ll kill you // I don’t care anymore! I’m tired // Why d’you want to go where you can’t be…yourself. London, Milan, San Francisco, you can be who you are there! // I don’t know who I am. I’m tired, of ticking boxes, I’m gay, I’m an ex-pat, I’m African, I’m a black African, I’m Hausa, I’m Nigerian O! Muslim, this one, that one…journalists asking stupid questions ‘What’s it like to be…I DON’T KNOW! I just want to be a man again eh? Where people look like us, talk like us, No labels, no colour, no shirts, nothing. They are waiting for us Matthew… Halima, Ayah, our family. We’re connecting death here, one shirt at a time. Let’s go home brother // I’M NOT YOUR BROTHER! You ruined my life Muhammed. I wanted to do this in Naija, build this there, but I have it here, now. I’m helping, I’m doing something right. I’m helping them, all those…those men you are fucking! Think I don’t know about Wang Bin, that I don’t see you?! 15 years we grew up together, sharing the same bed, fighting the same fights, crying together, bleeding and you kept that away from me? ME! Muhammed, ME! You still won’t talk to me about it. You faggot! Fuck off! Go back to Naija, I hope they lynch you there, you will burn in hell fire anyway, go and fuck all of them! I don’t care!

Muhammed, sorry. I didn’t mean that. I just…I’m…

Muhammed is pressed flat against the door, as far from Matthew as he can stand. His hand is to his chest as if stabbed there. He reaches for the door – Muhammed wait, let’s talk – Muhammed leaves the room, crossing the bridge over the mixing vats, its blades turning, Muhammed runs to him – slow down – he shouts, he grabs Muhammed’s hand, who snatches it back, Matthew holds his shoulder, Muhammed throws his foster brother to the ground, Matthew grabs his feet. Muhammed loses his balance.

When he gets here, Muhammed’s falling off into the churning vat, its blades turning, that cave his skull in, break through the bone, the black dye mixing with Muhammed’s blood, chewing through limbs, twisting him up. There’s no order, guilt is not enough. Nothing makes sense and Matthew, he trembles, speechless, in the room. He flinches in Jos, he shudders in the gloom, he quivers on the carpet, Halima watching. From afar, he looks like a child who had lost something old, something deep, a hopelessness grooms his eyes. Closer, by the light that holds him, his still mouth, his hunched shoulders, Matthew looks like a man who had lost everything.

– Tell me how he died – Halima whispers – WHAT HAPPENED! – Ayah shouts. Matthew cannot speak. How to begin? What not to describe? What might hurt least? – What’s in the box? – Halima asks – The first one, the first black shirt // It’s true isn’t it? You want to close the shop? – Matthew nods. Ayah stands – I can’t let you, you will not –