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Peace Akinyode: The Stage Play “Hear Word” Addresses Salient Social Issues
The much anticipated Hear Word train finally made its stop at the University of Ibadan, on the 2nd and 3rd of December 2022 and I was lucky to be there.
The stage play may as well be titled something along the lines of “Come, Let’s Make You Squirm.” And if there is anything I like doing as an artist myself, it is making people squirm in a way that discomfits them out of their prejudices, and challenges them to confront their willful ignorance about societal issues.
During the show, I had the opportunity of sitting beside three gentlemen, and at various times while the stage was thumped with activity, I noticed their mouths agape. Sometimes they softly expelled the aha of disbelief and many times, they burst out in laughter. This is also a representation of the audience’s reactions in general, we constantly oscillated between clutching our chests in horror, shivering at the chilling realities of living as a woman in Nigeria, and cheering in appreciation of the brilliant performance.
Hear Word does exactly what it promises to do: it makes you listen to the shrill and urgent call to revamp the stubborn and rotten traditions of misogyny that continue to deprive womenfolk of their dignity and the entire society of its full humanity.
The play covers several stages of womanhood. From being an innocent girl-child forced into the murky waters of adulthood, to being a teenager exploring the new reality of her growing body, to a woman in her prime years who is put under the (at first) subtle pressure of bringing home suitors. And to her 40s, where her mother begs her to at least bring “anything” home.
Seated to my left during this play was also a friend, Favour, who through her narration, surely seemed we had both reached our third stage. We compared notes regarding our conversations with our mothers, who have started inching into the territory of “Where is your friend?” and “How is bro?” which are euphemisms for the apparently scandalous question of “Who is your boyfriend?” We also noted how maritally-inclined prayers on our behalf were gradually finding their way into family devotions.
A lot of Nigerian girls can find their own mothers in Mama Azuquo (played by Elvina Ibru) and Temilade’s mother (played by Joke Silva). They drum “face your studies squarely” into your ears throughout your teenage and university years. However, when you are in your final year, after sticking to these instructions for several years, a man must suddenly emerge from your books, and non-existing social life, to cart you off in white horses and carriage. Not that I personally would mind- fictional men are the absolute dream.
Props to the lightman for this particular performance; having two scenarios play parallel on stage is not an easy feat, but it made perfect sense as the light switched and dimmed from one end to the other.
When the director requested, as indicated in the invitation, that children under the age of sixteen should be excused from the venue, I got extra curious as to what we would be seeing on stage. Eventually, I saw kids seated behind me, with their stubborn guardians. Nothing was held back in displaying the menace of sexual harassment and its harrowing effects. Favour and I kept commenting on how accurately these scenarios were portrayed — the mental gymnastics that held you rooted in place as one stranger from the bus covertly toys with your breast, or how you try to predict people’s reactions to you eventually speaking up. Several other scenes that touched on rape in a society that continually wallows comfortably in the objectification of women were also so visceral. You could dread rising goosebumps on your skin as you take it all in.
Another part of the play, which I personally named the “Ashawo Medley”, also worthy of note is when women were seated together to cast stones at other women for the most ridiculous reasons. The one that laughed with squinted eyes, the CEO of a big organisation dating a top government official, the one who was seen going to a hotel alone at night, the neighbour who always moans too loudly during her late-night business with her husband, all of them were branded Ashewo. With the actress’s delivery, it felt, for a moment, like I was catapulted to the vicious streets of Twitter once again.
During this particular scene, the moment where actors had to decide if this woman with an enviably doting husband was also an ashawo stood out. The dramatic split second of silence, immediately tailed by the loud consensus to name her a witch, aje, was theatrical gold.
In the end, it points out the important lesson that as a woman in Nigerian society, no matter how you try to skirt around it, like clockwork, society finds a way to point the accusatory fingers of moral decadence at you for any reason at all.
I thoroughly enjoyed the scene with the physically abusive husband whose wife eventually taught a lesson by latching on to his nuts during a bout. When her in-laws refused to call their son to order, she further threatened to make sausages of his private the next time he laid a finger on her. That particular threat was heralded by the universal “oooh” of male expressions in the audience.
As expected, a man asked during the question and answer session why that performance ended in a way that seemed to promote further violence. To answer the question, Ufoma McDermott said something I couldn’t have expressed better: “No one should have the monopoly of madness.” I strongly believe that when abusive people are met (or threatened) with equal force, for their actions, they are more likely to revert themselves to sanity. After all, in today’s world of nuclear bombs, an awareness of mutually assured destruction is a major reason why the human race still exists.
And isn’t it annoying that many times when women who have been wronged by their partner subsequently stand up for themselves, their counteraction to the original wrong will come under heavier scrutiny than what or who wronged them in the first place? When a man beats his wife and she retaliates by, say, washing his linens on Facebook, the question that is mostly asked is, “How could she have done that to the father of her children?” or “Why would she expose her husband, the crown of her head, to such ridicule”?”
Played by Ufoma McDermott, the Sister Esther’s scene was the most comic act of the play for me. Esther was the firebrand daughter of God who left her newly-wedded husband dumbfounded after she mistook her first experience of orgasm for a demonic attack.
The performance was hilarious to watch, but at the same time concerning because, truly, a lot of women go through life ignorant of what sex really is and how it should work. Many lay Shavasana during sex with the belief that things should be done to them, as opposed to a mutual exchange of pleasure.
One of the paradoxes of Nigerian society is how women are traditionally raised to be apathetic towards sex. Growing up as a lady means that when sex is mentioned, you look away in fake modesty as if ovulation and the accompanying hormonal barrage are not a thing. A demonstration of this rancid socialisation is the practice of female genital mutilation in many Nigerian societies today. The procedure, which is aimed at saving a girl from promiscuity, involves cutting off her clit – her very pleasure button – or major parts of her privates.
At the same time, we bring up boys to fully express their sexuality and glory in it. Note the reactions after Dr. Tiwa Savage‘s sex tape got leaked. The viral video drew her a lot of bashing on the internet. “Slut,” “shameless,” and “attention seeker” are a few of the many barbs thrown at her during this ordeal. But compare these reactions to when her male colleague, Oxlade’s sex tape leaked months later. He was hailed for his sexual prowess, and at some point on Nigerian Twitter, his name became a slang for the act of sex itself. Who are men meant to enjoy sex with if their female counterparts are bred to feel shame for their sexuality?
As Sister Esther performed on stage, of course, I glanced over my shoulders many times, and as I rightly suspected, my dear gentleman neighbours had this scandalised look on their faces as she described her newfound way of praising God. We need society to get more comfortable with the idea that women are intrinsically sexual beings too.
The stage play was definitely worth every minute. It wasn’t just acting, there was music, spoken words, poetry, choreography, and comedy — a beautiful salad of conscious entertainment. It is, by a wide margin, the best acting I’ve seen, given the limitations of a stage play. The backstage crew also has to be applauded. Favour and I noted how there were no lags in the performance despite several outfit changes.
Joke Silva, Taiwo Ajai-Lycett, Elvina Ibru, Ufuoma McDermott, Omonor, Zara Udofia-Ejoh, Odenike, Rita Edward, Debbie Ohiri, Oluchi Odii, and Toluwanimi Arawomo gave us the performance of the year at Trenchard Hall of the University of Ibadan.
By the way, if the director, Ifeoma Fafunwa, during Saturday’s show (3 Dec 2022), heard someone scream from the end of Trenchard hall, “What is your skincare routine?” it definitely wasn’t me.
