Little Baby Jesus

Arinzé Kene

• Publisher: Nick Hern Books
• Year: 2019
• Print ISBN: 9781848421998
• eBook ISBN: 9781788503020
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: British Drama
• Index: Literature

Three magnetic personalities and three remarkable stories from the poetic imagination of Arinzé Kene, winner of the Most Promising Playwright Award at the 'Offies' (Off West End Theatre Awards).

Kehinde is older than his years, a boy with an innocence and a passion for mixed-race girls. Joanne is dipped in rudeness and rolled in attitude. And then there's Rugrat, the class clown, underachiever and playground loudmouth.

The boy who never leaves, the schoolgirl trying to distance herself from her past, and the schoolboy always on the outer of the inner circle – in this lyrical triptych of interconnected monologues, three inner-city teenagers are about to become adults.

Little Baby Jesus was first performed at Oval House Theatre, London, in May 2011 in a co-production by Oval House, BEcreative and the English Touring Theatre.

ONE

Kehinde

(KEHINDE is sixteen, black. He is mature, very sensible for his age, but there is a sensitivity about him; an innocence.)

I used to have ‘mixed-raced-girl syndrome’. Mixed-race-girl syndrome is the long obsessive phase of over-fancying mixed-race girls. Girls of that lighter complexion. Most guys get it when they’re like fourteen, fiffteen. My favourite was when that black African or Caribbean skin mixes with that white English or European skin. You get that sun-kissed finish.

At one point. I actually wanted to be mixed-race. I wished for it. I wished my hair wouldn’t curl over itself like pepper grains, I wanted it to be bouncy and coolie. But no, broom bristles instead I concluded I was stuck with. I’d gladly have traded this nose for one that was sharper at the end. Shameful, I know. I was so stupid, I got down one time, asked God to forgive me for my sins, to protect my family and to bless me with pink lips. I actually remember going to sleep wishing that I’d wake up with green eyes.

My prayers were obviously ignored and I didn’t turn into a mixed-raced boy. And if I were God I would’ve blanked me for a year just to chastise me for being so ungrateful of this beautiful black skin I was gifted with – Praise God. Believe I had a lot of growing up to do.

Well, I couldn’t have grown up all that quick though because next I got a really light-skinned girlfriend. I just couldn’t leave the lighties alone. Said, if I couldn’t be one, I’d have to represent one – to compensate.

My grandma calls it ‘Yellow Fever’. She said it all started around slavery times when white overseers would secretly admire the beauty. I’m sure that back then it was nothing to rape black women. Africa was like the white man’s back garden and he did whatever he saw fit with his fruit. She said it’s not our fault though, she says something’s wrong with us. She always used to say –

(Nigerian accent.) ‘You African men are magnet for oyinbo pehpeh too much. You de follow-follow and think you are among dem but they will let you know how black you are. IF you trust a white man to build the ceiling above your head, you mustn’t complain of neck problems, my child, na your fault be dat!’

If I bring home a girl who’s any bit lighter than me then –

‘Ah-Kehinde! It’s getting late, your oyinbo friend has to go home. Doesn’t she have a home or have her parents split up?’

Cos all white people’s parents are divorced according to Grandma.

My older brother, he would sneak girls into the house all the time. When Grandma would go by his room, he’d get the girl to hide down on the side of the bed, on the floor.

Joanne’s Prelude

(JOANNE is a schoolgirl, fifteen years young, mixed-raced, fresh-faced, dipped in rudeness and rolled in attitude. She wears her school uniform and a pink mini-backpack. She is only young but something about her is profoundly jaded. She is a lot older than her years.

She stops to stick her chewing gum under a desk.)

JOANNE. When you’re born

You should get

A manual that says:

‘Okay listen up, you have seventy-fifve years to be all you can be!’

CHORUS. GO!!!!

JOANNE. Rather than wastin’ your time, getting caught up with things like… religion.

CHORUS. And finance.

JOANNE. And school!

CHORUS. Schooooool!

JOANNE. Flippin’ school.

CHORUS. Schooooool dinners.

JOANNE. Oh! Don’t EVEN get me started on da food.

CHORUS. It ain’t soul food.

JOANNE. And it ain’t food for thought.

It gets all stuck between your cheek and your gums AND it slides down your throat too damn slow. No joke. This one time, the fucking chips took so long to get to my belly that I thought I was gonna choke. Could not breathe. It stopped in the middle of my chest and just jammed there. Had to take three mighty swigs of IRN-BRU to wash it down. Oil-drinking simulation. Real talk – next lunchtime I’m boppin’ straight out of school gates for a smoke and that’s me. I beg a teacher try chat dust to me about smoking in my uniform and see if I don’t tiger-punch a dinner lady through her temple to send her staggering for pavement – Real.

But what’s worst than school. After school I haunt the 271 bus route for a couple journeys to kill time before I touch the morbidity that is a place I’m forced to call my home. Don’t even wanna put my keys in the door more-times but that’s the only door I got keys to. Ptshh. It’s Mum, innit.

CHORUS. Mum Mum.

JOANNE. Can I switch the telly on?

CHORUS. Mum Mum.

JOANNE. But Mum, I can’t sleep.

CHORUS. Mum Mum.

JOANNE. Mum, I’m not being funny…

CHORUS. Mum Mum.

JOANNE. … but can I have my dinner money please?

CHORUS. Mum Mum.

JOANNE. Aaaahh MUM!

CHORUS. Mum Mum.

JOANNE. You’re so… you’re so dumb!

CHORUS. Mum Mum.

JOANNE. You make me wanna die.

CHORUS. Mum Mum.

JOANNE. THAT’S WHY I’LL NEVER BE A MUM!

I will throw my baby away before she goes through anything you put me through.

(JOANNE, on her journey to school, ‘rocks’ (customises) her school uniform.

She rolls up the skirt until it is too short. She pulls her popsocks up to the knee. Fixes her hair bun to one side. Buttons down her school shirt to show a bit of cleavage, and turns the shirt collar out.)

Joanne

Whenever we had science and we’d do lessons on magnetism, by the end of the lesson there’d always be a few magnets missing. At least one of them were in my pocket. It’s a known fact that human beings love magnets. No matter how old you get you still find them fascinating.

When I was younger, primary-school days, I’d carry around this magnet that I’d stolen from school and on my journey home I’d see how many things it was attracted to. It killed me doing that. I’d stick it on the railings, on gates, on the postbox, drains, lamp posts, doorknobs, cars, telephone box, bus stop, fences. I think people are like magnets. When we come together we repel or attract.

Me and my mum are red magnets, so we repelled. Constantly trying to get away from each other. We hated being out together. Like… I had to go hospital one time cos I slipped in the shower. See, most people sing in the shower. I dance. That’s how I got this scar. Slipped and split my head open on a tile. I remember that day like it was Monday. The water in the shower turned pink all of a sudden. It didn’t hurt until I saw blood.

Had to wait for-eh-ver at A&E. Just me and Mum, in public, uuh, nuff uncomfortable. Nuff people who came after us were getting seen to first. That was making Mum vexed. On some Incredible Hulk flex – anger problems. She’s one of those people, once she gets started, everything, Every Little Thing, pisses her off. So she’s sitting in her chair at one hundred degrees Fahrenheit – just fuming. She kept telling me to close my leg –

‘Close your leg, girl!’

It’s really not that big a deal. I sit with ’em open, so what? We’re not in the 1800’s – real talk. If I’m wearing jeans I wanna feel free to go – (Opens legs.) ya get me? I’m there finking –

‘Mum, Mum, I broke my fucking head tonight yeah and you’re obsessing over my open leg. Please. I beg. Get over yourself. It’s not that deep.’

Didn’t actually say that to her though, she would’ve blasted another gash up-side my head – real talk.

We got back home and I think she was still upset –

‘Joanne, go and wash your blood out the shower curtain.’

She was so nice to me sometimes?

Rugrat’s Prelude

(RUGRAT is a class clown, underachiever, shit-stirrer, playground loudmouth. He’s on the outer of the inner circle. Hanging with the bad boys but always watching, and commentating, never getting his hands dirty.

RUGRAT, in lunchbreak detention, is indignantly writing lines. He keeps looking out of the window – )

RUGRAT. I must not disrupt this class

I must not disrupt this class

I must not disrupt this class

I must not disrupt this class

Ah dis is long! (Shortcut.)

I I I I I I I

Must Must Must Must Must Must Must

(CHORUS join in.)

Not Not Not Not Not Not Not

Disrupt Disrupt Disrupt Disrupt

This This This This

Class Class Class Class Class Class Class Class Class Class Class Class

CHORUS. Sometimes

CHORUS. I’m doing it

RUGRAT. Just so you can notice me

CHORUS. Notice me, notice, just so you can notice me – (Repeat over and over.)

RUGRAT (talking to Mr Taruvangadum, over the CHORUS).

Oi, sir. Sir! Can I go now?

I’m finished though, look.

Everyone else is outside playing football.

Sir!

But other people were saying it too, why didn’t you say nothing to them?

OH MY DAYS! How was it only me though? Jerome! Jerome said it before me even. Yeah, you wouldn’t hear him, would you. You’ve got selective hearing you know that, sir? Nah nothing, I said nothing.

(Flops back down in his chair, crosses his arms.)

THIS IS SO UNFAIR!

(Under his breath.) Ah shut up, man, look at your head.

… Pardon?

Yeah… (To himself.) but you never say anything good about me though, do you? Never say I got a bright future ahead of me.

(Mumbles.) Please.

I said please!

Thank you.

(RUGRAT jumps to his feet and races out of the classroom…

… reaching the playground just as the ball is blasted over the fence. Disappointed.)

Rugrat

Ahh! I flipping ha...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title page
• Contents
• Original Production
• Foreword
• Characters
• Little Baby Jesus
• About the Author
• Copyright and Performing Rights Information