Whether you're the privileged daughter of a rich father or a slum-bred bantling attending on a scholarship, it's not easy being one of the rare Nigerian girls lucky enough to receive an education. Not only must you excel at academic pursuits, but do so while modeling exemplary social skills and a veneer of cosmopolitan savvy to arouse the envy of your peers. This last factor, with its emphasis on outstanding physical attractiveness, is a focus of contention at the moment, precipitated by the news that an alumna of the Aburi Girls School, now serving as a talent scout for an international beauty competition, will soon be arriving—armed with an invisible comb, tape measure and paper bag for weeding out any but thin, straight-haired and light-skinned candidates for the promised title of "Miss Ghana.”
When you saw the word "African" in the play title, did you envision someone who looked like Folake Olowofoyeko, Danai Gurira, or Lupita Nyong'o? Or did your imagination conjure a picture of Charlize Theron? Our play is set in 1986, remember, when sponsors of glamorous pageants adhered to very narrow standards in their quest for female pulchritude, so that ambitious ghetto-raised Paulina's determination to take the honors, no matter the cost, is obstructed at every turn by the favoritism shown toward the biracial American-raised Ericka, despite the school headmistress's exhortations. A story so closely tied to bodily appearance (cf. “Of Mice and Men”) presents its own set of challenges—difficulties admirably resolved in this Arkansas-based production by TheatreSquared company. To be sure, Makha Mthembu's Paulina and Amira Danan's Ericka are required to display contrasting complexions, but director Vicki Washington also coaxes out an array of defining character traits—variations in vocal range, speed of delivery, hair-length, and texture—while Azalea Fairley's costume design deftly tweaks the severe student uniforms to reflect the individual personalities of each wearer, from the brawny Nana, slow-witted Gifty, bookish Mercy and outspoken Ama, to Jasmine M. Rush's straitlaced Headmistress Francis and Shariba Rivers's pragmatic ex-celebrity Eloise.
2021 is not 1986, of course, and times have changed—but Bioh's stereotype-shattering insights into the encumbrances that still cripple women of every demographic in their search for their own identities, provides a much-needed reminder for audiences too quick to dismiss Teen Girl Blues as an outdated myth.
