The Shadow of the Hummingbird

Athol Fugard

• Publisher: Theatre Communications Group
• Year: 2014
• Print ISBN: 9781559364829
• eBook ISBN: 9781559367950
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: African Drama
• Index: Literature

A legendary playwright mines the depth of the human heart

The Shadow of the Hummingbird tells the story of an ailing man in his eighties and the afternoon spent with his ten-year-old grandson. In a charming meditation on the beauty and transience of the world around us, Fugard mined the depths of the human spirit with profound empathy and heart. The text of the play includes an introductory Prelude by Paula Fourie with extracts from Fugard’s unpublished notebooks.

The play follows seamlessly after the Prelude.

Oupa shuffles toward the wall with the square of sunlight. As he approaches it, his shadow creeps slowly up from the floor. He holds out his arms in a welcoming embrace.

OUPA: Me . . . my dark shape . . . my very own unique little patch of darkness.

(He amuses himself for a few seconds by playing feebly with his shadow. He applauds his efforts with a weak little chuckle.)

In Afrikaans . . . my skaduwee . . . In Spanish . . . mi sombra . . . French . . . mon ombre . . . German . . . mein Schatten . . . my ever faithful companion . . . my shadow . . .

(Singing as he attempts a feeble dance:)

Like the wallpaper sticks to the wall

Like the seashore clings to the sea

Like you’ll never get rid of your shadow

Frank, you’ll never get rid of me.

Let all the others fight and fuss

Whatever happens, we’ve got us.

Me and my shadow

We’re closer than pages that stick in a book . . .

(Adopting the tone and pedantic attitude of the teacher he was once:)

Shadow. The word can of course also be used figuratively to suggest an atmosphere of ominous oppressiveness . . . or also sadness and gloom. As for example:

A shadow of gloom and mourning fell over the nations with the news of his death.

The usage I prefer to dwell on today, though, is when it refers to an inferior remnant or version of something such as . . .

(He tries to straighten up.)

This once fine figure of a man . . .

(He sinks back into his now customary stooping posture.)

. . . has become a shadow of his former self.

(His shadow follows him in more contortions.

Boba appears in the doorway. He is burdened with a school backpack. He stands watching the old man silently for a few seconds. )

BOBA: Oupa . . . Oupa! . . .

(Twisting his body as best he can, the old man turns on Boba with a ferocious roar.)

What are you doing?

OUPA: What’s the matter with you, Boba . . . are you blind? I’ve transmogrified!

BOBA: Into what?

OUPA: The teacher from the black lagoon! And I am hungry for your tender white meat . . . so defend yourself.

BOBA: He doesn’t frighten me anymore, Oupa. And, anyway, we’ve stopped playing with wooden swords . . . haven’t we?

OUPA: For God’s sake, Boba! . . . Have you forgotten everything I’ve taught you? Unsheathe the sword of your imagination, boy, because here I come!

(Slipping off his school backpack and using it as a shield and unsheathing the imaginary sword of his imagination, Boba eludes a charge from the monster. A terrible fight ensues in the course of which Boba delivers one mortal blow after another. The teacher from the black lagoon keeps wanting to end the fight and die but Boba doesn’t let him, with a: “Not yet. I’m not finished.” He does eventually kill the totally exhausted creature who falls to the ground with a terrible cry and lies there twitching as his life ebbs away.)

Come now . . . finish me off . . . you know the routine.

(Boba puts his foot on Oupa’s chest and, holding his sword with both hands, he delivers the mortal thrust.)

BOBA: Die! . . . You worm-faced creature of the night!

OUPA (Crawling to his chair with a groan): Merciful Heaven. Why did it take you so long? Was your sword blunt? I thought it was never going to end.

BOBA: Your skin was very thick, Oupa.

OUPA (Hands to his heart): Ooooh! That my lord was a deadlier thrust than any of those your Excalibur inflicted. But, pray tell me, at whose hand did I have the honor, the agony, and the ecstasy of dying this time?

BOBA: Prince Gruffydd of Deheubarth.

OUPA (Suddenly an old, cringing menial): Ay . . . ay . . . and a nobler lord never defended the sacred soil of Wales.

But come now, my master . . . let us now put aside our weapons and turn our minds to more mundane matters . . . How are things at home?

BOBA: Same as usual.

OUPA: Which I take it means you are in the dog-box again. What did it this time?

BOBA: Didn’t do my homework.

OUPA: As you well know, my cherished one, I hate to say anything in support of your father, but he might be right this time . . . And now to top it all, they, of course, don’t know where you are.

BOBA: No.

OUPA: So where are you supposed to be?

BOBA: At Norell’s house doing homework.

OUPA (Groaning): Oh God, Boba . . . what are we going to do?

BOBA: About what, Oupa?

OUPA: Me and you. Sooner or later they are going to find out that you are secretly visiting me again. And then you will be in very hot water with your dad.

BOBA: If you just say you are sorry, Oupa.

(Oupa starts to shake his head, protesting.)

And that you won’t call him a stupid ox again, he will allow me . . .

OUPA (Flaring up): No! I’ll drop the ox but not the qualifying adjective . . . because that is what he is and I know your mother secretly agrees with me. I know he is my son, but, believe me, Boba, that, as God’s dirty tricks go, giving him to me as my one and only heir, is by far the dirtiest one he has ever played on me. When he first married your mother, and she became pregnant, I lived in mortal terror of the possibility that another idiot was on the way. All I can say is thank God for your mother. She must have...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title Page
• Copyright
• Dedication
• Contents
• Acknowledgments
• Prelude to The Shadow of the Hummingbird
• The Shadow of the Hummingbird
• About the Author