A MONOLOGUE
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
ADWOA, a woman in her late 20s to early 30s who finally decides to abandon her children and husband.
PLACE
Her husband’s home
TIME
After enduring for long in the marriage
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SCENE: The room is a chaos. Clothes are scattered everywhere, some crumpled as if discarded in haste, others placed over the furniture. A suitcase lies open on the floor. It is semi-packed.
ADWOA enters, looking messy. She paces back and forth, her hands occasionally brushing through her hair, as though trying to untangle her thoughts. She stops, looks around at the mess, and sighs briefly. Then, she begins packing the suitcase.
ADWOA Today! Yes today, I end a journey. One that has taken me forever to do. A journey I never asked for. A battle I didn’t choose. A fight I must win with every penny that I have.
She pauses, holding a shirt in her hands. She folds the shirt, places it carefully in the suitcase, then stops and stares at the suitcase.
ADWOA I was thrown into it… no, dragged into it. My father…He took me there. Took me there when all I wanted was to be me. I wanted to live with him in that life we had.
Her eyes scan the room, landing on a particular dress. She picks it up, looks at it for a while, and then throws it across the room.
ADWOA This dress. This dress was his choice. His approval stitched into every hem and side of the dress. He bought it for me when I was 15 years old. He said it would make me look good. It did make me look good. It made me look nice.
She shakes her head and kneels by the suitcase, pulling out a scarf. Her fingers trace its edges. She smells it and realizes it stinks. She changes her face.
ADWOA Do fathers know what they do? Do they see how their choices press against us, like stones in the soles of our feet? He called it a legacy. He said I would thank him one day. But how do you thank someone for stealing your voice? For turning your life into their battle?
She sets the scarf down gently. She caresses it. She walks toward the window, looking out as though searching for something or someone.
ADWOA My father, Papa Agyabeng, he dragged me into this. He said it was for my future. But whose future was he thinking of? Certainly, not mine. My future ended on that day when he gave me away. He was a businessman. Oh yes, Papa Agyabeng knew how to turn words into money. He had the biggest shop in the village. Everyone in the village and from neighboring towns came to buy from his shop. After Ma died, he became both father and mother. Or so I thought. He was my rock, my shelter. But rocks crumble under enough pressure, don’t they? And he crumbled into selfishness.
She picks up another dress. She folds it carefully before placing it in the suitcase. She pulls out a photograph from the pocket of a pair of trousers. She looks at it. She smiles faintly but quickly stuffs it back.
Then came her. That woman. That hag. The witch with painted nails and a voice dipped in honey but hidden with poisonous venom. My stepmother they said. I never regarded her. I never liked her and she didn’t like me too. She wasn’t after me. She was after my father. She drained him. She took everything he had. Money. Pride. And even me. I was nineteen. She made Papa lose all his money and wealth. His shop became scraps. And he ventured into loans. He had creditors coming after him like he was a thief on the run. I… I became collateral to pay the price. I was fresh out of Adwomakoma Girls Senior High School, waiting for my results to continue school. I wanted to wear white. Be a nurse. Inject people and save lives. Maybe even prick that witch for fun. But Papa… Papa sold me. He didn’t ask; he didn’t plead. He didn’t even care. He simply handed me over, like a lamb for slaughter. “Kwaku will take care of you,” he said. No, what he meant was, “Kwaku has paid for you.”
She laughs at this and looks distant. She pauses and moves about before returning to the packing.
They made me into a commodity! A solution to debts I didn’t create. And Kwaku… Kwaku didn’t just buy me… he bought my silence, my dreams, my body, my time, and my mind. He would come back home and expect me to have everything ready for him. He then would damp in me his joys. There were days I truly was tired but I ignored it. I allowed him and laid there like a rock. Sometimes I wanted him to change his styles, and go further, but all he cared about was his climax. He never did anything like I saw in the movies. He didn’t even graze me…caress my body… Oh times! I wanted to be a woman on top and in command. All he knew was lie down and open your legs and the following scenes are continuous movements by his gbola for at most, a minute. When I told him about my aspirations, he never considered to think about it for a minute. He mocked me and reduced me. “A nurse?” he laughed, “Who will cook? Who will clean? Forget it, Adwoa.” “I need you! The house needs you” And I did. I forgot it all. I abandoned the dreams. For him.
The stage goes off momentarily. A spotlight shines on ADWOA as she stands, gripping the suitcase handle.
ADWOA I gave him two children. Two beautiful boys. They became my only reason to live. But even they couldn’t save me from the endless cycle: cooking, cleaning, breastfeeding, repeating. My nights were filled with their cries; my sleep was ruined by his demands. “Just the tip,” he’d say, as if it wasn’t more than that. He wanted to shove his manhood to me. I had just returned from the hospital. I came back after pushing out his two kids. He didn’t understand the pain and wasn’t there when I was kicking and screaming my heart out. He continued pushing and pushing his way till the babies woke up from our noises. Then I saw him sleep. He slept like the cries of the children didn’t matter. He slept, He slept. He didn’t even care. He would wake me up at dawn and say, “Adwoa your children are disturbing my sleep.” “Just feed them your breast because I haven’t been sucking yours.” “Can’t we get any sleep here?” Do you know what it feels like to feel trapped, Auntie?
She addresses an audience.
To be a prisoner in your own home? He didn’t love me. He loved the idea of owning me. He loved the idea of having a slave as a wife that did his bidding. And my father… the one man I thought would protect me… he sold me to that idea.
ADWOA paces back and forth, her fingers occasionally brushing her temple. She stops, looks at the suitcase, and exhales, then resumes pacing.
ADWOA It’s always the same story, isn’t it? You pack your things, determined to leave, and then you think, but where will I go? Any place is better than here.
She stops, stares at the suitcase, shakes her head, and opens the suitcase She pulls a dress from the suitcase. It’s a beautiful dress. Made for a wife. She holds it up, smiles, and frowns again.
ADWOA Kwaku bought me this one. Said I looked “like a queen” in it. A queen, he said. What kind of queen scrubs floors until her knees ache? Or cooks for a house full of uninvited guests when all she wants is to lie down? There was that day. Lord, that day! They came unannounced, his friends. Five of them. Hungry men with loud voices and even louder appetites. I had just come back from the market, carrying sacks of yam and plantain. My arms felt like they’d been stretched on some torture rack. And what did Kwaku do? “Adwoa, quick! Bring food for the guests.” Quick, he said, as if the food would magically appear on the table. Didn’t they have wives? Besides, Adwoa’s catering services had closed early that day. It was on promotional services.
She drops the dress on the chair and imitates Kwaku. She raises her arms and flung them above like a proud man.
“Adwoa, do you have any of that light soup you make? The one with goat meat? They love it.” Love it. Of course, they will. I was too tired to even speak, but I smiled. I smiled like a fool and went to the kitchen. I cooked for them. Pounded fufu until my arms felt like jelly. They ate, laughed, thanked Kwaku. Kwaku! As if he was the one who slaved over the stove. And when they left, he turned to me and said, “You make me proud.” Proud. I do make you proud, certainly!
She starts dismantling the folded clothes in her suitcase and laughs. She stops dismantling, throws one dress back into the suitcase, and sits on the floor.
ADWOA What about me? I wasn’t proud of myself. I never enjoyed doing anything. I always feel my body tired. My soul was worn out. I could feel there was no soul. No soul that belonged to me. I was only for other people. And the children. Oh, those children. Kwaku’s little clones. They weren’t born that way, you know. They used to be sweet, so sweet when they were little. I remember when Anim would crawl into my lap, his chubby hands reaching for my face. “Ma, you’re so pretty,” he’d say.
She touches her face.
I wasn’t but his words made me feel it. Adjei would give me hugs that made my pain disappear. His hugs so tiny and gentle were so calming that I wanted it. But now? Now they look at me like I’m a nuisance. Like I’m some old woman who doesn’t know anything … or some maid of theirs. Just last week, I told Anim to put his school bag away. It was lying in the middle of the floor like some forgotten relic. They usually messed around after school. I was tired that day and I wanted to teach them how to be responsible for once. And do you know what he said? “Why? It’s not like you bought it for me. Can you even buy a bag? I froze. I couldn’t even respond. It was Kwaku who bought the bag, yes, but did I not earn it? Was it not my hands that washed the bag and made it new each day? Was it not my own body that packed everything? My heart pounded and jumped from my chest. I heard Adjei laughing in the background. And when I tried to discipline him, when I raised my voice, Kwaku stepped in. “Adwoa, they’re just kids. Let them be.” Let them be? While they trample all over me? We fought that night. The worst fight we’ve ever had. I told him he was turning them into disrespectful brats. He had audacity to say that they were boys. I spoke my mind. I do not know where I had the power to tell him. He dared bring his mother and classified himself as a gentleman. He had the effrontery to say that I don’t perform much. “My mother raised me just fine without shouting,” he said. “She had a gentle hand and never hit me.” Gentle hand! If his mother was so perfect, why did he come crying to me when we first met? “Adwoa,” he said, “I want a woman who will love me, care for me, build a home with me.” And like a fool, I believed him.
She sits on the bed again, quieter now, picking up another dress from the suitcase. This one is a sleek piece.
ADWOA CONT’D This one… He didn’t buy for me. I used the “chobo” to buy. I have never worn it before. I deserve to own such a piece like this at least. I deserve to have something like this that will make all heads turn to look at me. I am always dressed like a maid, oh no nanny or even a carer. When I entered the stall, the woman thought I was buying for my madam. I didn’t correct her on that. Let her think the way she wants. I untied the money from my handkerchief counting it because it was the toil of my face. I used it to buy this dress precisely. This one. I will wear it today. This is how I will leave the house. This is how I will say bye to them.
ADWOA stands before the mirror, her makeup set scattered across a stool. She’s wearing the dress. She starts with her makeup and hair.
I won’t clean anything here. Everything, that’s dirty here will be left for them. Not a single plate. And I won’t even fold the clothes. I deliberately left them here. Left them here for them. They will find it themselves and find their way. Let them figure it out. Anim can argue with the dirty dishes the way he argues with me. And Adjei? He can trip over his scattered shirts for all I care. Kwaku can sleep with the palm oil stains I have left on our white bed sheets. Do you know what will be better? I will open the windows for the animals: ants, a mouse, or anything to enter the house?
She laughs manically at her thought and holds her chin. Then picks up a tube of lipstick, pauses, and stares at her reflection. She applies the lipstick slowly and smiles at herself. She finishes with the lipstick, presses her lips together, and tilts her head to inspect her work. A small smile plays on her lips.
ADWOA How about I leave breadcrumbs on the floor for ants to fill here up? Maybe I should rip off Kwaku’s suits! Those ones he gives instructions to me on how to wash them and hang them up. How long has it been since I dressed for myself? Not for church, not for some guest arriving uninvited, not for Kwaku’s approval. Just me. Not because I am a married woman. Akosombo. The river, the hills, the serenity. I have heard so much about the place. I heard it is a real beauty. I know I am going to sleep peacefully. I’ll wake up and see beauty with nothing hanging on my neck. When I open my eyes, I’ll hear, “please, sleep, please.” Nobody banging on my door shouting, “Ma, where’s my uniform? Where’s my breakfast? Wash this!” Akosombo is a place where nature is a home to you. It is a feeling. A release of everything that has been held inside you. I want to sleep and sleep while knowing I’m safe with no worries. There’s absolutely nothing stopping me from being myself. I’ll be known as Adwoa there. Not “Kwaku’s wife” or “Anim or Adjei’s mother.” And certainly not Papa Adjabeng’s daughter. Just Adwoa. A woman with her own life.
ADWOA sees her apron. She picks it up.
Do you know what Anim said to me yesterday? “You’re always shouting. No wonder we don’t listen to you.” He said that. The same child I carried on my back through the dawns of my sleep. And Kwaku, what did he say? “He’s just a boy, Adwoa. You know how they are.” Why won’t I shout?! Why won’t I be conformed to a mad woman? Why won’t I seem like a maid? The first time Kwaku took me to his office, everyone thought I was his maid. Though I had dressed the way he wanted me to, I looked like a maid and my demeanor reeked of a housemaid. I remember seeing the women around looking at me. They were murmuring something and I felt it. I was a village girl. I was worthless to Kwaku. The uneducated village girl. At the same party, he abandoned me and went to talk to his colleagues, the other women who came with no husbands. They giggled and laughed. He left me alone. I became a mad woman. I played with myself and as if overcome by disgrace, I went to the washroom and stayed there till I knew it was over and went home with him. Since that day, I avoided going to the workplace. I fake sickness and leave him to be alone. Sometimes I wish I could understand the work he does. When I ask him “how was work,” I do not expect “It was fine”. I want him to tell me everything, no matter how complicated his day was. I also want to tell him my day without him adding instructions. I’m done shouting. Done begging to be heard. Let them live in the mess they’ve made. Plates crusted with stew, shirts tossed on chairs, school bags kicked into corners. It’s all theirs now.
She pauses and picks up a shiny pair of earrings and clips them on. She looks at herself. She stands in front of the mirror, smoothing the dress over her hips, and spins slightly, admiring the figure in the mirror. She steps back from the mirror, fully dressed now. She grabs a pair of high heels from the bed and slips them on. She closes the suitcase again. She picks it up from the floor.
ADWOA This dress… I look good. I look like a free woman. Finally, my feathers are ready to fly. To move in the air and live freely for itself. Let him buy his next wife all the dresses in Accra. She’ll learn soon enough what kind of man he is. And the boys… they’ll grow up and understand why I left them at such a young age. They will see the importance of marriage. Maybe then they’ll see my importance and wealth. Akosombo will know my name. Adwoa, the woman who left and never looked back. I’ll walk along the banks of the river, watch the fishermen cast their nets, and breathe. Just breathe. No complaints, no demands. Just me being me.
She looks round the room for a few minutes: the scattered clothes, the dishes, the messed bed, she scans everything and laughs briefly. She stands holding her suitcase. She walks to the door and looks again in the room for the last.
ADWOA CONT’D Let them come home to this. Let them see what life without me looks like. Maybe then, they will understand. Goodbye, Adwoa from the village.
She steps out. The lighting moves around in the room: the stained plates on the left, the clothes scattered about on the right, and everything else that looks disorganized in the room.
End of Play.