Teeming with energy, humour and heart, a love song to black Britain told by twelve very different people.
is walking along the promenade of the waterway that bisects her city, a few early morning barges cruise slowly by
to her left is the nautical- themed footbridge with its deck- like walkway and sailing mast pylons
to her right is the bend in the river as it heads east past Waterloo Bridge towards the dome of St Paul’s
she feels the sun begin to rise, the air still breezy before the city clogs up with heat and fumes
a violinist plays something suitably uplifting further along the promenade
Amma’s play, The Last Amazon of Dahomey, opens at the National tonight
she thinks back to when she started out in theatre
when she and her running mate, Dominique, developed a reputation for heckling shows that offended their political sensibilities
their powerfully trained actors’ voices projected from the back of the stalls before they made a quick getaway
they believed in protest that was public, disruptive and downright annoying to those at the other end of it
she remembers pouring a pint of beer over the head of a director whose play featured semi-naked black women running around on stage behaving like idiots
before doing a runner into the backstreets of Hammersmith
Amma then spent decades on the fringe, a renegade lobbing hand grenades at the establishment that excluded her...