Now, I See is a theatre performance that sees two brothers reunite to honour the life of their sibling. Utilising music, movement and memory, the performance addresses the realities of grief; the sickle cell-related death of a sibling serves as the catalyst for bringing long-suppressed emotions bubbling to the surface. Kieron (Oliver Alvin-Wilson) and Dayo (Nnabiko Ejimofor), whilst grappling the loss of Adeyeye (Tendai Humphrey Sitima), must confront their personal grievances, accept their shared past and reconcile their long-standing estrangement.

Written and directed by Lanre Malaoulu, Now, I See is a deeply moving tale of mourning, loss, unresolved anguish, family and our ability – despite the odds – to heal. In many ways, it is a continuation of Samskara, Malaoulu’s critically acclaimed production – both in its fusion of physical theatre, text and dance, and in its subject matter. The audience witness the unique intersections of emotional trauma, vulnerability, ill-health, familial duty, regret and remembrance in this tender representation of Black brotherhood and masculinity.

The memory of the recently deceased brother, Adeyeye, is physically embodied on the stage through Tendai Humphrey Sitima. It would be easy to assume that Adeyeye’s presence haunts the stage, but it is more accurate to recognise that the memory of Adeyeye is a fully developed character. None of the interaction that ensues between Kieron and Dayo throughout the play is possible without the ‘absent-presence’ of their brother whom they struggle to grieve. A permanent fixture on the stage is the coffin-like vitrine filled with water, which Kieron and Dayo approach at the opening of the performance, but then largely avoid, as they honour and reminisce the legacy of their brother. The vitrine serves as a physical nod to the motif of water that underscores the performance.

The performance takes place, not in the same space as Adeyeye’s celebration of life, but in an indiscriminate, quiet room adjacent to it. Kieran frets about with arbitrary chores, hoping to evade any possibility of familial connection or addressing the ghosts from childhood that haunt him in the shadows. Dayo, keen to resolve deep-rooted issues with his older brother and heal, strives to bridge the gap between himself and his brother, and heal the wounds created by their familial rift. 

Movement and lighting are key devices deployed to transition to flashbacks. There are happy, playful memories played out in slow motion, hilarious choreographies to Usher’s Superstar and Little Mermaid’s Under the Sea. There are also emotionally challenging recollections of the resentment both Kieron and Dayo held towards Adeyeye for the ways his battles with sickle cell overshadowed their childhoods. The moments of comic relief interspersed across the play and the incorporation of popular music provide much-needed light respite, as the play grapples with many heavy themes.

A particularly successful moment from the performance combines physical theatre and monologue expertly. Kieron remembers a dream of a bird – at first beautifully coloured but then turned into a black crow – that pecks away at his stomach, which serves as a poignant metaphor for his inner turmoil. This inner turmoil is reproduced on stage through Nnabiko Ejimofor’s captivating physical theatre, representing both the bird and the feelings of unease articulated by Oliver Alvin-Wilson. Ejimofor’s pronounced non-locomotive movements are both entrancing and distressing; as Kieron’s dream descends into a nightmare and the pace of Alvin-Wilson’s speech quickens, Ejimfor’s movements become more erratic and disturbing.

Throughout the play, movement is utilised where words will not suffice. Whilst some may find the reliance on physical theatre and flashback overplayed, it felt like an effective way to relay the emotions fighting for release within two brothers who have always struggled to communicate openly and honestly about how their childhoods affected them and continue to haunt them in their adulthood. As the performance shifts between flashback and present-day, it becomes apparent that – for all three brothers – all their sweet memories turned sour and were plagued by recollections of pain: pain from abandonment, rejection and the realities of life with sickle cell.

As the performance progresses, the brothers learn to see each other truly, to transform their memories of pain into legacies of familial connection and stop themselves from drowning in their despair. Water, and its power to both heal and destroy, is referenced throughout the production. Kieron is irate that family members “want to see him drown”, both brothers pour libations for their deceased sibling and Dayo tastes a trickle of the redemptive power of water in the first half of the performance. If we were to ascribe elements to each sibling, Kieron would be fire: full of sadness that expresses itself as rage; Dayo would be air: mutable, flexible – both capable of pure happiness and immense sadness; and the memory of Adeyeye would be water: profound depth, changing feelings, and a symbol of the possibility of purification, rejuvenation and transformation.

In the final moments of the performance, the brothers let the water purify them, wash over them and cleanse all the past hurt away. Once they have finally been able to forgive themselves and forgive each other, the memory of Adeyeye leaves the stage, and Kieron and Dayo are left holding onto each other, breathing in sync, finally prepared to grieve, to reconcile and to start again. Though the reconciliation towards the end of the play happens quite quickly, Now, I See serves as a moving portrayal of grief, familial estrangement, forgiveness and healing. It is definitely worth watching.

Words by Adwoa Owusu-Barnieh