and breathe...
by Yomi Ṣode
Directed by Miranda Cromwell

CREATIVE TEAM
Written by Yomi Ṣode
Direction: Miranda Cromwell
Light: Paule Constable
Sound: Tony Gayle
Video: Ravi Deepres
Composer & Musician: Femi Temowo
Design Consultant: Miriam Buether
Costume: Claire Wardroper
Voice Coach: Hazel Holder
Assistant Director: Ewa Dina

CAST
David Jonsson
Femi Temowo

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TRANSCRIPT:

JUNIOR: It was close to midnight when you called back. I realised how rare it was to receive a call from you before watershed. I was still angry at you for keeping this from me, for two years. There was a scratch in your throat and a stutter as if revving to start your sentence. I waited for you to spit it out.

"Junior, I didn’t tell you because you have not been around to talk to." Of course I’ve been around. I have been at your school performances, wondering how you and your skin survived that institution, I’ve been around. I drove you to your university for induction. Me, you and Big Mummy, I’ve been around. 4 hours there and back. Big Mummy wanting only gospel songs to bless us there safely - I’ve been around. I was at your graduation, frantically fixing the focus on mum’s camera in time for your name to be called. "Junior, I’ve hardly seen or heard from you."

You said what you said and it silenced me. I felt hollow enough to be crushed. I said "I’m sorry", but pride did not want to admit to what extent. The over-indulgence in my own life, performances. The going home to my family, the writing for shows and only checking in on you via social media, I failed you. Two years you kept this secret, at 21.

At twenty one I sped through red lights. I worked, drank alcohol I couldn’t handle, embraced my cheapskate ways into clubs before having to pay. I drank some more, I spoke to girls older than me and questioned the difference between fucking and making love. I wanted to say sorry that I wasn’t there on the days you drove Big Mummy to each appointment, days you helped her up and down the stairs, wiping her unsteady mouth after feeding, days you saw me and said "Junior, I’m ok" and I knew you weren’t ok. The many days and nights you stayed home knowing she was a piece of paper pinched on its bottom corner to hold upright. A mother, your mother, too weak to leave her bed. "I’m sorry", I said.

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The Almeida Theatre exists to launch the next generation of British artists onto the world stage. We make the argument for theatre as an essential force in an increasingly fragmented society.

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