‘Classical music is colonial? Utter rubbish’
Nine Lives Bridge Theatre, London SE1 ★★★★ ★
Are we not feeling a bit unsettled, anxious, restless and at times alone with this pandemic and not wholly sure the state will be there for us with a helping hand? Although the subject of Nine Lives, the final component of the Bridge’s (reopening) monologue season, is immigration and asylum-seeking, the predicament in which its Zimbabwean protagonist finds himself has acquired an unexpected quality of relatability since it was first staged in 2014.
Ishmael – the fictional creation of Zimbabwean-born, Yorkshirebased playwright Zodwa Nyoni after researching and consulting relevant UK asylum seekers – is first seen racing away from a mob, hounded for his homosexuality. His journey to Britain is skated over, the cold, hard reality of the promised land duly and swiftly sketched. Something about the way time slows during his bare-bones months in a Leeds high-rise, waiting for his case to be determined, rings a bell.
The danger with an issue-led piece like this is that it’s preaching to the converted and pushing a hoary agenda of grievance. There’s a fair bit of that at the start – gripes about heartless bureaucracy and the evocation of a growling local yob.
Not that harsh realities aren’t worth airing: the meagre £36 weekly allowance; the fear of sudden removal (which happens here to Ishmael’s flatmate). Last year it was revealed that the Home Office had refused more than 3,000 asylum claims for LGBT nationals from countries where same-sex acts are criminalised.
We need more than guilt-tripping, though, and – partly thanks to the lyricism of the script, and mainly to the energetic charisma of actor Lladel Bryant (directed by Alex Chisholm) – this 50-minute affair affirms the resilience and curiosity of the incomer in a way that’s unforced and even inspiring. Accompanied by the soothing plucking of a mbira (by Kudaushe Matimba), with only a light bulb and suitcase for décor, Bryant fills the stage – stepping into others’ shoes to convey his encounters, thereby inviting us to step into his.
He roves Leeds’ streets, wide-eyed, taking in fish’n’chip and charity shops, mosques and back-to-backs: “I want to remember it and I want it to remember me.” Perhaps there could be a monologue that dared to show a far less benign refugee figure, one who plays the system rather than being daunted and even dashed down by it. But the gentleness of the drama here (its highlight an on-off relationship with a single mum) feels like a necessary balm amid the roughness of current conditions and a timely reminder that redeeming instances of common humanity might be only an innocuous “hello” or friendly smile away.
The harsh realities of life as an asylum seeker in the UK are well aired here