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‘My Africa’ still rings true today

Athol Fugard is, perhaps arguably, the most important playwright of our times. He’s certainly the most celebrated, having received awards the world round. His powerful work “My Children! My Africa!,” delving into South Africa’s legislature enforced Apartheid, is currently being presented in a top-notch production by Nevada Conservatory Theater.

Director Clarence Gilyard moves his actors around the stage in a brilliant sort of dance, like boxers circling in the ring; the space between them a visual representation of their battleground and forced separation. But, the choice to present it in the round does a disservice to both actors and audience as characters take turns wandering and turning in an effort to leave no one out.

Words become knowledge, knowledge becomes a powerful tool in man’s arsenal. This is what Mr. Anela Myalatya (Stephon Pettway), affectionately called Mr. M., tries to convey as his prized student, Thami Mbikwana (Maurice Palmer), falls prey to mob mentality, to those who think the teacher’s ways of fighting for equality and freedom are outdated. Mr. M. brings in Isabel Dyson (Theresa Moriarty), a white girl, to join forces with Thami as proof that working together the two sides can conquer.

Pettway delivers a highly energized, powerful performance. Each phrase and sentence he utters comes from deep within, written on his face, and contained in every fiber of his body. When he delivers a soliloquy, revealing his view of hope as a dangerous animal, we swear he’s capable of sweating on cue. We’re aware of his love for his country (My Africa!) and its future (My Children!) not just because he says so, but because it shows in every inflection and movement.

Moriarty begins with the exuberance of the naïve schoolgirl, not quite understanding the issues but believing in Mr. M. Her transitions to the pain and hurt of loss are smoothly done. The spinning round and round to include all patrons during her monologues made us a tad dizzy, but the motivations of her emotions were always evident. When she wonders how, or if, she failed, we feel and understand her confusion, yet her decision to fight on is apparent.

Palmer is the weak link only because he hasn’t learned to take on the mantle of a character from head to toe, to use the full instrument at his disposal. His acting method is vocal and facial. That is not to say he isn’t effective, he is. But an inner tension is missing, we don’t see the mixed emotions of anger and sadness, his struggle to reconcile them, because his body language never alters.

Production values do not disappoint. Roxy Mojica’s simple representational set, coupled with Elizabeth Kline’s lights perfectly balance and complement one another, taking us from location to location with swift ease.

The dialects take a bit getting used to, but they’re consistent and bring authenticity to the production; don’t allow them to keep you away. As we face renewed rounds of racial battles in our own country, this play is as important today as when it debuted in 1989.

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