Black T Shirt Collection

Inua Ellams

• Publisher: Oberon Books
• Year: 2012
• ISBN:
  9781849432955
• Edition: 1
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: British Drama
• Index: Literature

"The wild things they did with those tees. Some held together by wooden pins. Some strung to wear just once. Some of long thin detachable sleeves..." A T-shirt is something most people have. It is a common denominator like a pair of blue jeans or a pair of Converse All Stars. From Fringe First winner Inua Ellams, comes a new story about two foster brothers building a global t-shirt brand. On their journey from a market in Nigeria to a sweatshop in China, Matthew and Muhammed discover the consequences of success. The play tackles capitalism and exploitation, as well as sectarianism and homophobia in modern day Nigeria.

 

PART 1 //

Sound –

A man moving around in darkness.

PART 2 // A

Matthew is struck dumb by the brightness on the landing; he squints, his eyes like tadpoles scurry from the light, he tries to hide behind the box as if he were small enough – Welcome – Ayah, the sister says – We knew you’d come, come to the parlour, I’ve been waiting, so has Mum –

He trembles in the living room’s stifling darkness and nothing’s changed since the wake, weeks ago. Night squeezes through slits in the curtain, she says nothing but Halima, the mother, she is sat on the left. At the far end, a floor lamp is lit. Its low glow licks the rich thick carpet and flowers drooping in the humid heat. Ayah, the sister, takes her chair and begins:

– So, I heard you punched the pastor on Sunday? He’s fine, think you fractured his jaw, but you’ve done it this time, some cracks don’t heal? Why’d you do that to him? Eh? Matthew, They say you want to close the shop? It’s all you’ve got since... –

Her tongue fails her, mouth suddenly dry and Matthew finishes – since Muhammed died? – Ayah curls up, knees to her chest. There’s nothing save her muffled sobbing, just breath and darkness. Across the room her mother, Halima, who’d spoken not a word, lifts her head lightly like a morning mist, lifts, dignified, the way queens do, whispers – Tell me how he died. Tell me how he died. TELL ME HOW MY SON DIED, YOU BASTARD BOY, YOU WILL KILL ME IN THIS HOUSE! YOU WILL KILL ME O! Tell me how my son –

– He loved you – Ayah says as Halima, her mother cries – You were his favourite story to tell, he’d stop board meetings, bank managers, bar tenders, lean over, order that stupid drink of Scottish Scotch and Ribena, lean forward and say ‘It all started with him you know’ – Muhammed would say ‘Way back when we were boys, I ran with some bastard guys eh! Naija’s answer to John Travolta! Greased back hair, tight black jeans, trying to enter clubs or smoking, watching girls. All the small boys wanted to be like us you know, so we’d send them on impossible tasks “Sssss! Aeyssss! Small boy, come here. Take this 5 Naira, go to the shop, buy me 2 fried fish, 3 bottles of coke, 1 Fanta, 6 packs of cabin biscuits, 3 Guinness, 2 Moimoi, 7 Tomtoms and 9, no 10, 11...20 chewing sticks. Oya GO! Ayessss! I want my change O!” Impossible! Anyway, it was Matthew’s turn and Zebra Santana, that was his nickname, don’t ask, Zebra Santana sent him. But Matthew did what we hated most, returned empty handed, sniffing, crying as if all the desert dust had blown into his eyes. Zebra Santana just runs, kicks him in his chest, Matthew lands and bounces in the sand, doesn’t move. I go, punch Santana to the ground, then “Matthew, bro you OK?” And Matthew, he unfurls, slow, like a dust flower, except, he is looking at his black shirt. Santana’s footprint: stamped on his chest; perfect stone crystals glinting in the grooves. Bro looks at me with his little, big eyes, says “Let’s go home” I lift him and he says to mum ‘D’you have some black cloth?’ and copied the footprint pattern from the shirt. Next day we set up shop. Zebra Santana was the first customer after he apologised. We sold 30 shirts in 2 days and that was it! Black T-shirt Collection, thank you, Bob’s your uncle, gimme the cash, over and out! All started with him you know!’ – He loved you – Ayah says – Now you want to dismantle his life’s work? –

So this is about Muhammed. Musaddiq Zango, walking home from work, was stopped by a group of Christian men, vexed at a beheading of their brethren in the city of Kano, north of where they stood. They asked Musaddiq what he thought of this. He replied it wasn’t his business and tried to walk away. Muhammed was twelve, Ayah was five when their father, Musaddiq, Halima’s husband died. Halima banned religion from her house. One month passed and Halima returns with Matthew from a children’s home – Kids, this is your brother – They wished to fill the void Musaddiq left with someone to look after, one who needed love. This was unheard of at the time, a Christian boy fostered in a Muslim house. Matthew was just seven, he clenched the hem of Halima’s wrapper, a slow breeze twirled a loose dangling thread, he snapped it off. Muhammed smiled – Would you like to be my friend? – his arm stretched out like an olive branch.

They grew tight after that, inseparable friends of scuffed knees and stone-throwing-sand-magic, salt of the earth type of childhood living in Jos, Plateau State, Nigeria. When violence broke out between Muslims and Christians with casualties reported on both sides, Halima tried to hide the kids from it. Still some days, Muhammed returned with bruised fists battling those who’d tease his foster brother at school. Muhammed had a sense of what was right and wrong and tried to guard Matthew from the world in-between. Most fights they’d lose; slammed against a wall, Muhammed’s arms swinging out at the world, Matthew down low, raining in kicks. The kids would snatch Matthew, press him to the ground and pour sand across his nose and mouth, chanting ‘Onward Christian Soldier’. Matthew’d look forlorn and helpless at Muhammed and stir such holy anger in him, he’d burst through those holding him back and attack: a wild animal scratching this way, that, to collapse on the ground by Matthew. They’d hold each other there, bruised, covered in dust, sand in their hair. Something impossible was forged there, down on the ground: an absolute trust that whatever else life could thrust at them, they’d face it together. This was unspoken between the boys, this complete, fight formed, dust-ridden-trust.

They’d spend hours together, purposely get lost in fields and not speak a single word. They loved the silence that was choked by others: Halima’s brothers who said this was wrong, teachers at school, pastors and imams. They’d splash about naked in the lukewarm streams, or tag team through Super Mario video games. One afternoon in mango season, the sun splashing through the canopy of leaves, they sat under a mango tree and ate every fruit that fell. They got very sick, Halima couldn’t explain it and the boys refused to tell. It hurt more than most fights they’d lost but getting beaten was never any fun and after Santana and the Black T-shirt stall, Muhammed thought he could end it all: – Simple Matthew, if they like us, they won’t fight us, and they’ll pay us at the same time! You make shirts, I’ll talk to them – Matthew found a sewing machine, an old Singer one tossed in a skip, and taught himself the ins and outs of it. When the treadle...