Duration: 20 to 30 Minutes

Playwright: Patrick Majekodunmi Benjamin 

Opening Scene: The Damaged Creek (Present Day)

A heavy, suffocating silence blankets the creek, once brimming with life, broken only by the sporadic drip of oil from a rusting pipeline. A battered white jerry-can floats by, spinning lazily. Its design—two V-shaped patterns, one blue and the other red, stacked upon each other—is faint but unmistakable. A half-naked woman is seen. She kneels, then suddenly jumps to her feet, only to repeat the motion again. She begins to dance erratically, her movements disorganized and unsettling. Her wild, tangled hair frames a face smeared with crude oil. Abruptly, she freezes, as if halted by an unseen force. Then, with frantic energy, she scrubs the ground furiously with a tattered rag, hissing, muttering, and laughing all at once, her emotions shifting chaotically between rage and hysteria.

Woman (in a high-pitched tone)

Clean, clean! If I clean it, she will come back. You will see, you will see…

She pauses, staring at her trembling hands. Suddenly, she starts clawing at her own skin, scrubbing invisible stains.

Woman (screaming)

It’s still there! It’s on me. It’s in me. You put it in my baby too! 

She grabs a bundle of rags, cradling it like a child, and begins whispering a lullaby:

Ovwe n’ohwo na, okan vwe ro rhie…

(My child, sleep where there is peace…)

Mu’oto rhie vwe, mu’oto rhie vwe…

(Find peace, find peace…)

Kpokpo kevwe ra vwe, okan rhie…

(Your laughter is gone, sleep in peace…)

Ovwigho ro oghene, vwe phiyo na rhie.

(May God’s light guide you to rest.)

Her tone shifts—soft and tender—then suddenly, sharp and angry. She rocks back and forth.

Woman (to the bundle)

Shh, little one. Mama’s here. Mama will fix it… No! Don’t look at the water. It’s a liar!

In the background, villagers watch from a distance, murmuring in hushed voices. A child cautiously steps forward, holding a clear bottle of water.

Child (innocent voice)

Mama, abeg, take am, make you drink am. (stretches forth the bottle of water, but hesitates to approach her fully).

And from afar, there is Tega, a worker with one of the multinational oil companies, gazing with deep guilt at the Woman who provided him and many other youths with educational opportunities through her scholarship program for the community. He is burdened by the guilt of knowing he could have saved Oghenekevwe, thus preventing her mother’s current state of insanity. Unable to watch any longer, he covers his face in shame and walks away.

Flashback: The Green Past & Tega’s Guilt

Tega (sits dejected. Voiceover, somber and reflective)

Mama. The pillar of our community. The most successful farmer and livestock merchant this land has ever known. Her wealth was not hers alone—she poured it into us, into everyone. She was a mother to all of us. For years—more than twenty long years—she waited, hoping, praying, yearning to hold a child of her own.

The screen flashes to different scenes: Mama, her face lit with purpose, handing out neatly folded clothes to a line of smiling children. Then the camera pans to her in a classroom, kneeling beside a child, patiently guiding his hand as he traces letters on a chalkboard. The scene shifts to a communal feast, where Mama ladles food onto plates with a warm smile, children clamoring around her like chicks to a hen.

V.O resumes

When Oghenekevwe finally came into her life, she poured every ounce of love and care she had into her. But even then, she never stopped caring for the rest of us. We have always been her children, her family, her purpose. She gave us everything. (Tega sobs.)

Mama was a revolutionary. A lone thorn in the flesh of the oil multinationals and the corrupt chiefs who betrayed us.

Cut to an inciting scene: young Mama standing before a crowd of young men and women, her voice commanding, her hands raised in defiance. The camera flashes the placards they hold—“Our Land, Our Rights,” “Oil Can’t Buy Life.” The roar of her words drowns out the faint hum of the approaching oil trucks.

She fought before we even knew what we were fighting for. She saw the storm long before the clouds gathered. She rallied the community. She warned us of the disaster yet to come. 

The screen intensifies, showing Mama standing at the edge of an oil-slicked river, her hands clenched into fists. A flare from an oil rig lights the sky behind her, bathing her figure in an eerie glow. The camera zooms in as her eyes narrow, her resolve defiant.

She gave her voice, her resources, her everything for this land—joyfully, happily, until one fateful day… (Screen returns to the present to reveal tears slowly dropping from Tega’s face. Regret and guilt laced in his voice intensifies.)—the day my disloyalty changed everything forever. (Screen again transitions to a beautiful past, showing the Woman—young and fresh—and her daughter interacting.)

Tega (V.O.):

(Takes a deep breath) That day, the warm glow of the sun bathed the creek, casting everything in golden hues. Birds sang, the wind whispered softly through the leaves, and laughter echoed—innocent laughter. But none of that matters now. Not after what happened that day.

My dearest Mama… (The screen shifts to the Woman and her daughter, their silhouettes glowing in the golden light of the creek, complementing Tega’s narration.) Radiant and full of life, she walked beside our princess, Oghenekevwe. I still see her so clearly in my mind—so vivid, so full of promise. She was a true amazon to ’Kevwe.  A symbol of everything good—hope, strength, and love. (The screen shows a serene creek, with Mama and ‘Kevwe laughing, the child chasing reflections in the water.)

All was well—until it wasn’t. A sharp crack under Mama’s foot broke the moment. She stumbled, her heel crushing something brittle beneath her. A large snail shell, shattered on the ground.

(The scene shows her faltering, her arms flailing, trying to regain balance. A close-up captures the shards of the shell beneath her trembling foot.)

She staggered but quickly found her footing again, brushing it off like nothing. Yet, in that fleeting moment, something changed. A chill prickled at the back of her neck, as if the air itself carried a warning. (Mama hesitates, glancing briefly at the shards before shaking her head. She picks up ‘Kevwe, her unease masked by a tender smile. V.O pauses.)

Woman

It’s nothing… It’s nothing… (dismissive)

V.O resumes

She whispered to herself, pushing the feeling away, turning her attention to the water sparkles, alive with color and movement. I remember her words… (V.O pauses again.)

Woman (laughing softly as she bends down to show her child the creek)

Look, my love… see how the water sparkles. It is life. It is home.  

V.O resumes

She always spoke like that—like the world could be saved if you just had enough love to share. 

A little distraction, and little ‘Kevwe toddles ahead, giggling as the sunlight dances on her tiny feet. Her eyes—so wide, so full of wonder—were untouched by the cruelty of the world. But innocence doesn’t protect. It was all about to change.

(The screen shows ‘Kevwe leaning down by the creek, her fingers dipping into the water. The camera lingers on the serene surface before shifting to the faint glisten of oil.)

Oghenekevwe, unaware of the lurking danger, lowers her lips to drink. I should have stopped her. I should have shouted… but I didn’t. And then it happened.

The camera shows Oghenekevwe collapsing into the creek, her small hands flailing before her fragile body succumbs to the poisoned water. Her struggle fades quickly as she drinks too much of the tainted stream. The silence that follows is deafening. The camera captures ‘Kevwe’s tiny frame drifting lifelessly toward the bank. Her laughter is gone. The creek, once bathed in golden hues, darkens as shadows creep in, the water reflecting an oily sheen.

Suddenly, the Woman’s maternal instincts kick in. She spins around, her gaze snapping to her embattled daughter. Her body tenses as realization dawns, but it’s already too late.

Woman (off-screen, a piercing scream that cuts through the silence, her voice rising in anguish as she sprints toward her child.)

My pikin! ’Kevwe! ’Kevwe! Oghenekevwe! Oghenebiko!

She plunges into the water, dragging the lifeless child onto the bank. Her hands tremble as she cradles ‘Kevwe’s limp body, sobbing uncontrollably. The camera lingers on the Woman’s tear-streaked face, her cries raw and guttural, echoing across the creek.

Voice-over resumes

She screams, a cry so raw, so guttural, I felt it in my bones. I wanted to run to her, to stop the pain, but… But I was powerless. I could have been the one to help. But I stood there. I did nothing. The water—The water that had once sparkled like life itself—now darkens. It turns black. Oghenekevwe’s tiny lips and nose drip with the oil from the stream, a sight I will never forget. I… I could have warned her. I could have run to her… I should have…

(Voice-over pauses, the camera captures the bereaved mother’s trembling form as she clutches her child. Her raw grief consumes the moment, her sobs filling the void as the audience is left to absorb the devastating loss.)

V.O resumes

And our boat—our boat passing by, our faces turned away from her cries. We didn’t even look back, with our shells stacked on our backs. We dare not look back. I dare not! We were just… following orders. But I could have dared. I could have stopped by… I could have helped save ‘Kevwe. I could have helped avert Mama’s insanity. But I did not. (He sobs.)

Mama’s eyes locked on me at that moment. I can still see her gaze—broken, desperate, pleading with me. She had a fire in her, a love that couldn’t be extinguished. But I could not intervene. I could not save ‘Kevwe. And in that silence, my conscience was forever stained.  

The tone darkens. The screen cuts to a haunting image of an empty classroom, desks covered in dust. A lone swing, creaking in the wind, hangs limp on a barren playground. The vibrancy of her life fades, replaced by shadows and silence.

Tega Voiceover, voice breaking

But all of that… all she built… all she was… disappeared that day. It was gone. She was gone.

The screen fades to black, the echo of Mama’s laugh lingering briefly before it’s swallowed by silence. A faint sound of dripping oil begins to grow louder.

Tega’s Voice Over continues:

A week after ‘Kevwe passed, we were sent with a message from the company. It was the first time I had seen Mama since that day ‘Kevwe passed away. She had moved deeper into the creek, far from the village. She would not go back—not after everything.

The flashback begins to dim, the golden hues fading into the dusky shadows of a dense, somber creek. The Woman sits alone by the water, her back to Tega and his boatman colleague as their canoe glides silently toward her. Her posture is slumped, her head bowed low as if the weight of her grief has left her broken. Tega remains seated in the boat, unable to meet her eyes.

The boatman climbs out, his movements deliberate but without words. Tega stays behind, watching as his colleague approaches her cautiously. From his place in the canoe, Tega sees her restless hands, her unfocused eyes flitting around as if chasing ghosts. He notices small, erratic gestures—a repeated scratching at her arm, her lips moving without sound, repeatedly starting a dance and stopping almost immediately.

Tega (voice-over)

I couldn’t get closer. Guilt kept me rooted in the boat. But from where I sat, I saw the signs. The way she moved, the way she stared at the water for too long. Something had already begun to break in her. (Voice-over pauses)

The Woman doesn’t speak aloud, only gestures firmly with her hand—one decisive wave that says everything: Leave! The colleague nods silently, turns back to the boat. It was at that moment Tega saw what shattered his soul beyond repair: Oghenekevwe’s lifeless body still lay unburied, with flies and ants feasting on the poor child. As his colleague finally climbs into the boat, Ayodele steals one last glance over his shoulder. The Woman’s figure, framed against the shadowed water, and ‘Kevwe’s desecrated body were the last images burned into his mind as they rowed away.

Tega (voice-over)

I left her there. Alone in that place.

Halfway into the boat ride, Tega’s chest tightened as he noticed his colleague whispering something inaudible, his eyes darting uneasily toward the shoreline they had just left. Suddenly, without warning, the man jumped into a waiting canoe that seemed to materialize from the shadows. He began paddling furiously back toward the shore, his figure shrinking against the darkening horizon. The sound of splashing oars faded into the distance, leaving Tega stranded in eerie silence, with only the rhythmic slosh of water against the boat to keep him company.

Tega (voice-over)

And that was the last time I saw her—until the day she turned up in the village, raving mad, with a child offering her a bottle of water.

The screen transitions back to the present. Tega sits motionless, his face heavy with grief and regret, his voice trailing off into silence. After a long, weighted pause, he stands, his movements slow, as if burdened by invisible chains. He picks up a worn bag, meticulously packed with a few belongings, slinging it over his shoulder.

Stepping outside, the camera follows as he kneels by the edge of the path. He gathers a handful of bare sand from the ground, carefully placing it into a nylon bag. His actions are reverent, almost ritualistic, as though taking a part of the land with him—a silent farewell. Without looking back, he rises and walks away from the only place he has ever known.

End of Flashback

Return to Present: The Pains of Motherhood 

The lights dim again. The Woman stands in the middle of the creek, clutching her bundle tightly. Her voice grows louder, filled with rage and grief.

Suddenly, she violently tosses the packs of trash from her waist. A small black lion toy—her late daughter’s prized possession—flings out, followed by her daughter’s yellow cloth. The toy lands with a hard thud, as if the air itself celebrates its fall. She snatches up the yellow cloth, her hands trembling, and spreads it carefully on the ground. Placing the black lion toy upon the cloth, she stands over it, her breath quickening. The rage and grief rise in her chest as she glares down at the black lion on the yellow cloth, her body shaking with raw emotion.

Woman (pointing at the black lion and yellow cloth)

You lied to us! You said it was wealth. Said it was life. You gave us death! (She hisses loudly, dragging the sound out.) Nonsense! (She eyes an empty space like an African mother eyeing her child’s irritating behavior).

She throws the rag-baby into the creek, then wades in after it, splashing and laughing hysterically. The villagers turn away, some covering their faces in pity. The child with the clean bottle of water approaches again, this time placing it in the woman’s trembling hands.

Women (staring at the bottle, softly)

Is this for her? You think this can wake her up?

(She leans her mouth toward the polluted water, screaming her dead daughter’s name, convinced that she will rise from the depths).

Woman:

’Kevwe! ’Kevwe! Oghenekevwe!

She clutches the bottle and rags to her chest, her scream dissolving into quiet sobs. The faint hum of the oil flare echoes in the distance.

The Radio Broadcast

Scene opens to a group of villagers gathering around a crackling radio placed on an old wooden stool. They listen intently, their faces tense, reflecting years of anger and despair. In the background, a faint murmur of the oil flare is heard.

Radio Voice (Activist speaking with so much rage)

We are tired! We are tired! Our land, farm, water, fishes—gone! All gone! Children are being born with deformities because of contaminated water! Entire generations are being wiped out while the oil giants rake in profits! They were ordered to clean up our land by 2011, but till today…

Suddenly, a shrill noise interrupts the broadcast. The villagers wince, covering their ears. The radio crackles and hisses as though it has lost its signal. Seven good seconds of uncomfortable shrilling follow, before a smooth, corporate voice takes over.

Radio Voice (Corporate)

At our company, we prioritize people and the planet. By collaborating with local communities, we’ve planted thousands of trees across Africa. Together, we can build a greener, healthier future. Remember, sustainability starts with you.

A jingle plays softly in the background, its tone contrasting the grim reality around the villagers.

Villager 1 (elder, angrily)

Imagine! They cut him off. Even our words are stolen. They won’t even let the world hear the truth.

Villager 2  (young man, despairing)

Trees? Will they clean the water? Bring back our farms? Our children? Each year, their promises. Each year, more graves. Doing nothing means we have already lost.

Villager 3 (elder, fearfully)

What can we do? They own everything. The rifles meant to protect us now aim at our children. How many more of them will be sent six feet underground by the bullets we paid for with our taxes?

Villager 2 (fiercely)

Then let them aim their guns! Let them fire! We’ve already buried children, buried our peers, seen our elders starve, and watched the creeks that once fed us all turn into poison. If we stand here and do nothing, we’ll die slowly anyway. But if we fight—if we dare—our deaths will mean something. They may own the land, the guns, but they will never own our courage to resist!

Suddenly, from a distance, the rhythmic slap of hurried sandals cuts through the silence, growing louder with each beat. A young woman bursts into view, her wrapper tied tightly for ease, her scarf slipping from her head in her haste. Dust clings to her bare arms, and her face is a portrait of urgency—eyes wide, lips pressed into a tight line. In her hands, she clutches three weathered newspapers, their headlines barely visible through the smudges of ink and sweat.

She doesn’t speak. Words would only slow her. Instead, she thrusts the newspapers into the hands of a tall, wiry young man standing at the edge of the group. He hesitates, his fingers brushing the brittle paper before he unfolds the first with care. The bold headline leaps out at him like a struck gong:

“Ecuador Stands Tall: Indigenous Youths Force Oil Companies to Abandon Contaminated Amazon Territories.”

Gasps ripple through the group as a few men step closer, peering over his shoulder. He doesn’t stop. Shaking the dust from the second newspaper, he unfolds it. The bold print glares back at him:

“Peru’s Revolt: Villagers Seize Oil Facilities, Demand Cleanup of Amazon Devastation.”

This time, the group can’t wait for him to reveal the next paper. They close in, their faces taut with shock and a brewing anger. The man finally lifts the third paper, unfolding it slowly, as if unwrapping a secret that everyone fears but needs to know. The headline delivers its final blow:

“Global Outcry: Indigenous Nations Across Canada Protest Tar Sands, Fight for Clean Water.”

For a moment, there is silence. The young man stares at the words, his grip tightening until the paper crumples slightly in his hands. His head rises slowly, scanning the faces around him. Eyes meet in mutual understanding—a shared rage, a shared purpose. Without a word, he steps forward, his chin lifted, his bare feet striking the ground with deliberate force.

The others follow, their movements a ripple of resolve. The sound of feet pounding the dirt grows louder, a drumbeat of defiance. A thin plume of dust rises, wrapping around the group like a shroud as they march into the horizon. Their determination is clear—they will no longer tolerate being silenced by the powerful multinationals crushing their voices.

Somewhere in the distance, the haunting rhythm of a local drum begins to echo, carried by the wind—a call to arms, a call to unity.

Elderly Woman (bitterly, following the young men with her eyes)

Eruvwe kpe ukọ re vwo kẹro! Eruvwe kpe ukọ re vwo kẹro!

(We have no one but you!) (We have no one but you!)

She sighs heavily, shaking her head as she turns to leave. Her hunched figure seems weighed down by years of injustice, but her spirit carries the bitterness of generations wronged.

The young woman stands motionless, watching the young men disappear into the haze. Around her, the women of the village emerge, their hands gripping pestles, mats, and calabashes—everyday tools turned into silent symbols of solidarity. The cry of a baby pierces the air, a sharp reminder of what’s at stake.

Secret Call and Betrayal Revealed

Setting: Dusk. A shadowy figure sneaks away from the gathering of young men preparing for the revolt. The air is thick with the weight of the impending confrontation.

The shadowy figure’s movements are deliberate but cautious, like a predator slipping past its prey unnoticed. It pulls out a battered mobile phone and presses it to its ear, speaking in hushed tones.

Shadowy Figure (whispering, voice low and clipped)

They are gathering tonight. The time has come. Make sure your people are ready.

It pauses, listening for a moment. The wind picks up, rustling the trees. There’s a faint tension in the air as this figure’s words fall into silence, but it remains focused, calm.

Shadowy Figure (continuing)

Yes, everything is set. The trap is laid. Just wait for them to march in. They will never see it coming.

It ends the call quickly, slipping the phone back into where it came out from.

The scene shifts abruptly. A drunken villager, stumbling to pee, drunkenly notices and identifies this mysterious figure, still in the shadows, clutching a phone. His eyes squint in confusion as he watches it retreat, his mind sluggish with alcohol but his instincts alert. His face turns from confusion to dawning realization as he pieces together the secret.

Drunk Villager (mumbling to himself, stumbling forward)

Wait a minute… what was that? What was she doing? Who… who is she talking to?

He shakes his head, his thoughts clouded by the liquor, but the sense of dread begins to creep into his bones. With growing horror, he stumbles toward the gathering young men.

Drunk Villager (shouting, desperate)

Stop! They know! It’s a trap!

But the chants of the young men drown him out. They march forward, their war cries a rallying call to the uprising. The drunk, out of breath and slurring, stumbles after them, his warning lost in the din of their determination.

The scene grows chaotic. The camera shifts focus as the young men are ambushed by heavily armed forces. Gunfire erupts in the air, and the peaceful march turns into a violent struggle. The drunk, now frantically chasing the group, can do nothing but shout in vain as the massacre unfolds before him. The sounds of battle mix with the cries of the fallen, and the camera lingers on the last moments of the struggle before the scene fades out into darkness.

Scene 3: Discovery of the Woman’s Betrayal

The morning after the massacre. The village is somber, broken, as survivors gather. The drunk villager leads a search through the Woman’s usual haunt—the area where she often sits in her supposed madness. But she is not found there. She is gone—assignment well executed.

The villagers ransack the area, scouring the space for any clues. They search through the debris, their faces grim. The sense of urgency is palpable, as though the village itself is on the brink of collapse, desperate for answers.

Finally, the drunk villager stumbles across something peculiar—a tattered international passport. His hands shake as he picks it up and examines it. His breath catches in his throat when he reads the name: Nana Akuffor.

A murmur spreads through the crowd. The passport photograph catches their attention: the striking resemblance with Mama Oghenekevwe is breathtaking. But a closer look reveals a very tiny difference: on the impostor’s face, there is a set of short vertical lines—distinct tribal markings from the Dagbanba tribe of Ghana. The black mud she smears on her face was a decoy to cover the markings. The villagers exchange confused glances, disbelief settling in.

Drunk Villager (softly, eyes wide)

She’s not… she’s not Mama ‘Kevwe.

(The camera zooms in on the passport, holding the image of Nana Akuffor for a beat before fading out, leaving the villagers to ponder the betrayal that had been hidden right in their midst.)