The title of Adam Brace’s latest play
comes from a 1980s advertising slogan for the tropical juice drink Um
Bongo; Brace uses it to signify that that is our primary association
with the Democratic Republic of the Congo rather than its continuing
wars and atrocities, funded in large part by mineral mining. One of the
characters here appears in a shocking pink suit festooned with mobile
phone components made, we infer, with conflict-mined coltan ore.
Some of the play’s scenes take place in the DRC itself and deal with
the bloody chaos there; most, however, are set in London and tell of an
attempt to stage an awareness-raising arts festival, Congo Voice.
Issues alluded to include western hypocrisy, pretending to come to aid
whilst still exploiting the area; the sectarianism of diasporas, who
here cannot agree on which interpretation of “the Congo” they want to
help; the notion, common to all too many, that an event can come to be
considered more important than the cause in which it is intended; and
above all, that this kind of thing is not about actually helping but
simply salving liberal consciences and turning patronising anguish to
complacency.
Indeed, the opening words of the play, from the character of Congolese
exile Anne-Marie (Anna-Maria Nabirye, excellent), are an indictment
along these lines. It’s clearly meant as an upfront, pre-emptive
acknowledgement, a pretended
mea
culpa but actually an exculpation. However, the play never quite
shakes off this suspicion. Brace, and director Michael Longhurst’s cast
led by Fiona Button as festival organiser Stef, blend intense
seriousness with both comedy (such as an African band playing a rumba
version of The Smiths’ “Heaven Knows I’m Miserable Now”) and satire.
The intention is to avoid being pigeonholed, but I fear the effect is
to seem unfocused. After the last words uttered on press night, we
heard what sounded like the plaintive notes of the most unambiguously
tragic figure’s mbira thumb-piano; in fact it was an audience member’s
ringtone. It was both symbolic of my reservations about the play and a
serendipitous moment that took the play’s deliberate ironies one step
further.
Written for the Financial
Times.