Inua Ellams: Plays One

The 14th Tale; Untitled; Knight Watch; Black T-Shirt Collection

Inua Ellams

• Publisher: Oberon Books
• Year: 2019
• Print ISBN: 9781786828200
• eBook ISBN: 9781786828231
• Edition: 1
• Topic: Social Sciences
• Subtopic: Ethnic Studies
• Index: Social Sciences

Inua Ellams has established himself as one of the most distinctive voices in British and international theatre. Collected together for the first time are four of Ellams' acclaimed plays, including The 14th Tale, Untitled, Black T-Shirt Collection and Knight Watch.

KNIGHT WATCH

Knight Watch was first performed at Greenwich + Docklands international Festival on 23 June 2012.

Written and performed by Inua Ellams

Directed by Thierry Lawson

Original Music by Zashiki Warashi

“...from now on cities will be built on one side of the street so that soothsayers will have wilderness to wander and lovers space enough to contemplate a kiss...”

Saul Williams, said the shotgun to the head

KNIGHT WATCH // LOAMUS (PART 1)

All candles are cousins of the sun.

The moon plays foster mother. The waters swear always to reflect her light. Dust is daughter to these givers of life, all grandmother’d by nature holding tight. In this patch-work order, this unclear night, we all are prodigal sons; we alone journey to spirit city, but earth remains our home and scattered, we live across its round dome. We live in wilderness where vultures coast the sky, where sand storms, the land is worn, the river beds dry and lush forests where rain torrents and birds cloud the sky, where herds stampede past trees, feed on bountiful evergreens…

But mostly we live in cities where we can’t see stars for fumes, so turn to smashed glass, believing shards shine like constellations do. We disregard the sun and the moon who lights us when the dark looms, instead bow to cement and steel, to stone pollen and refined minerals that combined, make mountains that scrape the sky.

In the South East side of one such city lived two tribes, two constant rivals. First was the ‘House of Herne’ known for bank thievery and slow dealing, for crisp shirts, strict appearances and clipped speech. Slow to anger and slow to forgive, they rose to power in the late Nineties, followed close by the ‘Knights of Newtown’, the boisterous, brick-built, back street boys, known for loose clothes, deep throats and insults, quick to anger and quick to forgive, they worked in burglaries but ruled the drug deals.

This caused the quarrel. The House wanted the drug market for their own, but The Knights never wished to relinquish the throne. The battles over this were so subscribed to, that almost overnight, after scuffles, graffiti tapestries of fight scenes would be found sprayed on the sprawling urban walls.

I lived amongst The Knights in one tower block, one stone mountain circled by grey mists. I never joined the tribe, so became an outcast, they called me “the young fool” who lived in the past.

I lived alone and for stretches of days the only living things I’d see were trees. And in those days landscaped by stone and steel, those grey mornings and greyer nights, torch-lit by darker thrills, trees were dwindling single things; like me, last rebels from an age long gone, endangered in this city of dust and nylon. If I ever found one, I’d try to help it live. If it died, I’d take it home, wait till it dried and shape into any object I desired. So through me, dead trees would keep living. My first sculptures were small figurines, then palm-sized, then desk-sized and varied in between, but my greatest undertaking was a whole wooden car. It had wooden wheels, wooden tyres, wooden seats, wooden engine, wooden pistons, wooden doors, wooden forks but when I tried it, the car wouldn’t work.

Searching for wood one autumn night, I chanced across a disturbance by one small tribe that shattered constellations of glass in bar fights. I was alone and must have seemed like easy prey; the tribe circled me silently, the breeze blew in sympathy. I knew I couldn’t run, so though frightened stayed my ground as the nearest one threatened:

“gimme your money, if you don’t wanna die”

with a knife in the street light, flashing before my eyes, I told him all I had was bus fare home. But this just angered him, his voice grew louder, his hand shook, he demanded I shut up, advanced with a dark look. I gave him all I had, dropped to the ground, covered my face with hands as the tribe started to punch, kick and spit. The beating lasted an eternity of minutes then suddenly stopped. I looked up puzzled to find a fine rain’s drizzle, the tribe’s footsteps fizzling into the night and a hooded figure holding a gun.

“don’t shoot, I’ve got nothing, the tribe took all and ran”

“I don’t want money, are you okay?”

“I’m fine, thanks for asking…and…scaring the tribe away” I said lifting my bundle from where it lay.

“what’s that?” she asked

“wood” I replied, she pulled down her hood, I saw the question in her eyes,

“I turn them into things at my place”

“you’re a sculptor” she asked completely disbelieving, “listen” I said as the rain settled in, “I live a few streets from here, let’s get out of the weather, I’ll show you, it’s over there…”

She saved my life, it was the least I could do. Back at mine, I lit the gas fire and brewed two cups of coffee, showed her sculptures in the workshop, intricate figurines, replicas of buildings, door knockers, wall clocks, the just-started other things; the half-built model of South East with its tower blocks like dark fists, threatening into sky.

“you made these?” she asked

“yes” I replied

“show me…I want to learn”

“sorry” I said, my voice level and stern “I don’t teach, no one knows this place is here, I only showed you ’cause you helped back there”

“I saved your life”.

I started to reply, realised she hadn’t spoken any lie, if she hadn’t been passing by I’d be lying on the street, “okay” I said after minutes of thinking, “but only a few lessons, and only once a week…”

That night, I agreed to show all I knew about wood-grain, shaving, joining, sawing, all I’d learnt from mistakes and books.

For the first month I spoke a lot, she listened. She’d only interrupt to ask questions with four-worded sentences – that was patience-testing, like “please say that again”, “pass me the chisel”. The lessons were at night and always interrupted by the traffic, chatter and ...

Table of contents

• Front Cover
• Half-Title Page
• Title Page
• Copyright Page
• Contents
• THE 14TH TALE
• UNTITLED
• KNIGHT WATCH
• BLACK T-SHIRT COLLECTION