Melissa Blanco Borelli, Esmee West-Agboola, and Mojisola Adebayo

Borelli, West-Agboola and Adebayo exchange letters reflecting on the potency of these plays for how we might live now.

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• Melissa to Esmee and Mojisola, Chicago, 10 July 2024
• Esmee to Melissa and Mojisola, London, 22 August 2024
• Mojisola to Melissa and Esmee, Berlin, 17 September 2024
• Melissa to Esmee and Mojisola, Chicago, 6 January 2025
• Esmee to Melissa and Mojisola, London, 10 February 2025
• Mojisola to Esmee and Melissa, Berlin, 26 February 2025

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Dear Esmee and Moj,

I have met both of you on separate occasions, but we have never experienced the delight of intimacy that letter writing offers. I hope this exercise will provide moments where we can model perhaps what Jennifer Nash describes as a Black feminist letter, i.e., a letter that ‘can be used to offer conceptions of loss that emphasize the ordinary and the non-spectacular, the quiet and the processual, and that thinks about loss and its complex circuits differently.’¹ In the context of these letters, I want to think about loss in terms of the inability of history to assuage the absences in historical records of Black life. Often, creative and critical endeavors become the means through which artists and scholars have rendered Black life, whole, resplendent, imaginative, innovative and, of course, full of ‘life.’ Branden Jacobs Jenkins’ An Octoroon is an example of such an offering.

I went to see An Octoroon at the Orange Tree Theatre in Richmond in 2017. I did not know who he was, but I was familiar with the original play. I remember coming across it as a graduate student: first in Joseph Roach’s City of the Dead and then in other sources on the nineteenth century genre of the melodrama and the mixed-race female figure. One of my research interests lies with the historical figure of the ‘mulatta’ particularly in the imaginaries of the Caribbean and the US. My first book focused on the mulatta in Cuba and made connections across the racialized gendered figure with a ‘figment of pigment’² in Havana and New Orleans. I sought to rewrite the idea of ‘the tragic mulatta’ by focusing on embodied forms of agency and identity formation. After focusing on Cuba for my monograph, I maintained an interest in the mulatta trope as it circulates globally. I have a forthcoming essay on a sixteenth century Spanish mixed-raced crossdressing surgeon. I have written about the ‘tragic mulatta’ in Hollywood dance films. And, I have short stories or vignettes lying around in coffee-stained notebooks where I imagine encounters across geographies and time with Black and mixed-raced women trying to make do as the world constantly tells them they cannot. I was fabulating before I knew what critical fabulation was. I am sure you both can relate. Anyway, this quick nod to Saidiya Hartman³ brings me back to BJJ’s An Octoroon.

An Octoroon ends with two enslaved Black women, Dido and Minnie, sitting in a moment of quiet reflection with one another. Here, they were practicing something akin to ‘freedom’… the ability to think and feel freely away from white supremacy and chattel slavery’s hypervigilance of Blackness. As the audience watches and listens to their anachronistic dialogue (they speak in vernacular from our historical moment while the play technically takes place in the nineteenth century) we are meant to feel as if we are intruding on a private moment. This scene is my favorite part of the play. BJJ gives these Black women a chance to indulge in a shared interiority, a powerful dramaturgical choice given the ways that Blackness and Black womanhood has always been constructed as readily available (vis-a-vis the historical rape of Black enslaved women) and/or exploitable, excessive and lacking gravitas.  After the play ended, the theatre offered a talk back and my colleagues and I decided to stay. One audience member, white, upper-middle class British man, commented that the last scene was so powerful and that it reminded him of Chekov. He wondered if the playwright might have been influenced by Chekov. I don’t know what came over me, but I loudly called out ‘no!’ Everyone turned to look at me. Well, now I had to respond given my passionate interruption. I said something about how we cannot assume universals in storytelling and that cultural specificity is an important frame to sit with as we watch plays. Two nubile Russian girls having a tête-a-tête in a meadow is not the same thing as two Black enslaved women stealing free moments with one another to gossip or laugh.

I realize that some theatre audiences use their own experiences with plays that belong to a certain canon to inform them how they experience this ‘new’ material. Perhaps this is why creators of colour must continue to innovate and push established plays and genres into uncomfortable, satirical, offensive, deconstructed and/or even fantastical directions. Otherwise, we risk reifying the power structures that do not allow us to see the revolutionary act of a quiet conversation between two Black women as something magical.

Melissa, Chicago, 10 July 2024

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Dear Melissa and Mojisola,

When I first saw An Octoroon in 2018, I found it difficult to engage with, let alone critique the presence of any dramaturgical intervention into Boucicault’s original text. But years later, reflecting on Coronavirus, #BLM 2020,  Brexit, years of Conservative government, Palestine, Ukraine, a fierce spectrum of performative allyship, and a 2024 flare up of UK right-wing-extremist (and terrorist) violence, I return to these texts asking, once again, about the role of theatre in a society characterised by a mantra of, ‘keep calm and carry on’, and cups of tea ‘for the shock.’ A society characterised by piercing silence, denial, casual trauma, hushed conflict, and underneath it all, the persistent need for marginalised worldmaking.

Alongside this, I’m reminded of the projected growth of the ‘Mixed-race’ British demographic across the coming decades; I feel the urgency for further ‘knowing’ what we mean when we discuss Black-Mixed-race British politics, and dramaturgies of Afro-Anglo Mixed-race gender expression.

Like you, Melissa, I take interest in the legacy of the historic ‘mulatta’ trope. I’m specifically curious about how the ‘tragic mulatta’ problematically re-emerges within the contemporary British consciousness, and how this is evident within performance and popular culture. In their very titles, both The Octoroon and An Octoroon boldly pursue the visibility of the ‘mulatta’ protagonist. So, by staging this play within UK borders, this trope is repositioned in dialogue with the context of a soon-to-be ‘Mixed Britain.’

Between 2018 and 2020, the British public witnessed a Black-Mixed race, arguably white-passing, ‘palatable’, African American cis-woman marry into the ultimate institution of British colonial supremacy. That was, before, shortly being forced to leave; Meghan Markle revealed being questioned about the shade of her expected child, as just one example of the racism experienced within the monarchy. Racial biases around Black-Mixed race ‘impurity’, contamination and legitimacy were all prevalent in her detailing of events.

Debate in the UK underestimates the extent to which the United States’ historic ‘one-drop rule’ ideology forms the foundations of British-white supremacist thinking – particularly, when it comes to Black-Mixed-race identity, and the right-wing equation of British racial purity to absolute whiteness. Within theatre, the insistence that these issues are exclusively American, often results in UK audiences permitting themselves personal distance from racial politics within performance. ‘British accountability’ continues to be a fuzzy notion. On that note, I find it very ‘on brand’ that when Boucicault first brought his play to the UK, the original ending of Zoe’s suicide was ‘adapted’ due to British audiences finding it ‘too tragic.’ Perhaps, the thought of the ‘beautiful’ woman, with such unbelievable proximity to white feminine legitimacy and racial purity, made the reality of anti-miscegenation, too confronting, too ‘close to the bone.’ Too ‘un-calm’ to carry on.

How does the British gaze now ‘see’, ‘understand’ or ‘interpret’ the racial-gendered essence of Black-mixed race feminine visibility? In both The Octoroon and An Octoroon, I’m drawn to the effect of ‘seeing’ the Mixed-race feminine as she has historically been melodramatised – as a fixed, tragic racial-gendered essence. What does making Zoe hyper-visible, and keeping her ‘shocking’ ending, do in the context of a ‘calm’ British audience who denies?

It was only a month after Markle’s marriage into the monarchy that this play took to the Dorfman at the National Theatre. It seems that while a 2018 staging of ‘Zoe’ pointed back towards the tragic mulatta within eighteenth/nineteenth century American borders, perhaps, it also foreshadowed something that was to be shortly witnessed just across the Thames… not so far away at all.

Esmee, London, 22 August 2024

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Dear Melissa, dear Esmee,

It’s good to get to know you in this way, through Branden Jacob-Jenkins’ audacious and absurd, melodramatic play on a play. Here we sit on a hillside, gently exchanging Black feminist theatre letters, recalling, as you did Melissa, Dido and Minnie’s quiet, private conversation, with an audience out there, listening in. I’ll take this as a cue to share a little with you about my story of mixedness and how I connect to The / An Octoroon.

I started life in a 1970s foster home, one of five Black children, me, a child of mixed Nigerian-Danish heritage, being ‘looked after’ by a white woman who was doing the job for the money. She used to say, ‘don’t call me Mummy, I can’t be your Mummy cos I’m not Black.’ I once asked my white birth Mum – ‘where’s my Black Mummy?’ It was all really weird. When I went to school and was taunted for being ‘half-caste’ I thought – I’m not half anything. I am fully Danish-Nigerian, Black, with a British passport. More importantly: 100% South London. It occurred to me from a very early age that if there was mixed-race then there was no such thing as race. And that child was right. Race is racist, a construction, a white lie, made up by an 18th century Swedish scientist named Carl Linnaeus. There is, in fact, barely any biological distinction between ‘races.’ The biggest difference between any of us is ear wax – some people have it brown and sticky, some have it yellow and crumbly. An East Asian friend once told me that her parents were worried because her ear wax was yellow and sticky and her hair was kinky. Yes, it’s absurd.

What I find so ridiculously brilliant about BJJ’s An Octoroon, is how it constantly plays with the illusion that is race. I can just imagine George in Act Two, staring deep into Zoe’s eyes, as she invites him to look closely and see her one dirty black drop of eye water, poison, swimming in seven pure white drops in her eyes, signaling her despair, though of course there is nothing there to see. The play plays with displays of grossly exaggerated feelings but nothing is written to make you just feel. You are supposed to laugh until you cry, laugh until you think. As the melancholy child I was, I must have looked like a classic little ‘tragic mulatta’, with black and white tears in my eyes. But, despite adults incessantly asking me if I was confused, telling me how hard (or how wonderful) it must be to be both (and nothing) and despite a girl getting up at the front of the geography class on my first day of secondary school, declaring, ‘right, from now on, it’s gonna be black people on this side and white people on that side – Moji (me) what side are you on?!’, I don’t know about you, Melissa and Esmee, but unlike Zoe, I did not feel tragic about being mixed-heritage, at all. I just thought it was really sad that people treated me and other Black people as though we were not fully human. Enter Bre’r Rabbit. The Black playwright dressed up as a bunny gets the last laugh in the end 😉

Perhaps the absurdity of race is what drew me to Ireland. According to the hit film, The Commitments, the Irish were ‘the blacks of Europe’. I was curious. Were the Irish a bit Black? I went to Ireland on a student Erasmus programme when I was 20 years young. That’s when I first read Irish playwright Dion Boucicault’s The Octoroon. I loved it. It seemed radical, for its time, because it exposed the irrationality of race. Its weakness was that it tried to get white people to feel sorry for someone who is a bit Black. Sympathy for the other gets us nowhere but back to ourselves. Is Zoe, Ireland? The Irish were also racially dehumanized (the first gorilla in London Zoo was named ‘Paddy’). I grew up in London with infamous signs which read: ‘no Blacks, no dogs, no Irish.’ But when I moved back to Ireland, years after my degree, I was met with every kind of racism, from abuse on the streets to stereotyping on the screen. As Noel Ignatiev argues, the Irish became white.⁴

Whiteness is a performance. It is invisible theatre. Like gender, it is a role people learn to play from the day they are born. In An Octoroon, it is not simply Zoe’s lack of melanin which enables her to pass as white, it’s the actions she performs: kicking Pete, demanding breakfast, using the ‘N’ word and being totally self-absorbed. Unless a white person has made themselves critically aware, they do not see that they are characters in a cast. They are on payroll. They benefit from a big business and unless they check their balance, they do not realise how much they are profiting, every day. That’s what white privilege means. Only when they acknowledge that they are players in a rigged game, actors in a race play, can they start to break the rules, change the plot. We don’t need to be melodramatic about it. It does not have to be tragic. We can even have a laugh about it, together.

Blackness is an art. Like Dido and Minnie, Melissa and Esmee, you, we, know how to switch parts, accents, moves, costumes – codes. The major difference between Blackness and whiteness, is not skin colour or ear wax, it is, as Foucault said, the social distribution of death. As a Black person, you are more likely to be enslaved, arrested, lynched (note the Irish name), imprisoned, killed or left to die than and by a white person. But none of us are stuck in a stage play. We can adapt, change, rewrite the script.

‘Theater is a space of infinite possibility’ says BJJ and so is the time we are in. Will America vote for a white supremacist misogynist President? Will the far right win more States in Germany? Will Palestinians continue to be victims of a genocide? Will we stand by as the homes of migrants are burned down in Britain and Ireland? Or will we decide to take this 21st Century racist plot in a new direction? It’s up to us.

In hope,

Mojisola

Berlin, 17 September 2024

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Dear Esmee and Moj,

I am moved by your comments, especially the ways in which you both navigate the violent ground of racialized categories that limit how we are read in the world given our embodied relationships to blackness. It is as if we are constructing an intimacy through our own vexed experiences with the white supremacy which engulfs us all. I wonder about how we can turn to what we do to endure, survive and most importantly, thrive despite the lifetime of eyerolls and exasperated sighs we have had to expel when asked that sickening question that many mixed-raced people get asked, ‘what are you?’

Recently, I was revisiting Sylvia Wynter’s writings in Black Metamorphosis where she insists on the radical practices of Black humanisation that the enslaved practiced on the plantations (and ultimately beyond them post-emancipation) across the Americas. Despite the atrocities of the plantocracy, Black creativity thrived: festivals, dance, music-making, jazz, blues, funerals, music-listening, revolts, carnivals, mutinies, maroonage. I wonder if Dido and Minnie’s quiet conversation in BJJ’s An Octoroon, if Moj of the Antarctic, and even Meghan Markle’s new Netflix series With Love, Meghan (which I am dying to watch, I must admit) are all examples of these radical practices of Black humanisation? Things that Black people do to insist on our right to exist and the dignity of that existence. It is not about proving this right but just taking it and practicing it daily. Nothing makes white supremacy angrier (and vengeful through institutional policies, juridical restrictions, and surveillance tactics) than Black livingness. The US is a prime example of how so many policies post-civil rights were literally curtailed or limited because Black people now would have access to them. US white supremacy would rather empty out a public pool for everyone’s use than to have a Black person step inside it. US white supremacy would rather saddle a generation with insane amounts of student loan debt (the majority of student loan debt here is carried by Black women) than allow university to be free for everyone. White supremacy would rather…. and the list can go on, ad nauseum. I don’t want to give too much space to whiteness. They take up so much already and it would be naïve to think I can live in a material world free from it; but I can co-create worlds with others of the Global Majority and white allies who want to imagine and then practice daily what this might look like.

A ritual for survival and livingness. Literature, plays, performance, choreographies, and critical provocations by the global majority offer possible examples. A great example is how in An Octoroon, Jacobs Jenkins places Dido and Minnie in but not really ‘in’ the action. In the original play, they were peripheral to the main plot. In this re-telling, they emerge as complex, humorous, and deeply aware figures, ultimately reshaping the play’s tone and conclusion. Their presence disrupts traditional tropes of slavery narratives while offering a form of embodied, black feminist survival. In other words, they are making the most of their livingness through humor, irony, wit, a detached awareness of their situation, and mockery of Zoe and George’s melodrama that happens around them. Their dialogue, contemporary African American vernacular, serves to highlight the break with the oppressive time of the plantation economies that denied their rights to humanity or to exist and have a good life. That they take a selfie at the end of the play.  They literally assert the (Black femme) Self that has been historically marginalized and denied and draw the play to its conclusion. This is perhaps the strongest act of rebellion by these two characters and removes the focus from the white melodrama to their Black assertion of agency. This is the power that Black cultural production by Black creatives does. It offers an opportunity to create alternative worlds and talk back to the oppressive histories that required Black disappearance. Dido and Minnie refuse and continue to live on their own terms.

As artist-scholars yourselves, how do you move through these spaces (as artist; as scholar) and, how do you understand these spaces in the works you make and the works you admire or critique? Where do you find the quiet hillside, like Dido and Minnie, to feel a semblance of presence, calm, and livingness? Or, is part of the work you do about stirring up and setting up a rallying cry for change? Can quiet contemplation be revolutionary? For whom? Why?

Melissa, Chicago, 6 January 2025

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Dear Melissa and Mojisola,

Within the exchange of our letters I do feel some essence of Dido and Minnie’s quiet hillside. I’m reminded also of whispered conversations across corridors with fellow Black/Black Mixed-race creatives, the side-eye we may exchange during meetings, the secret laughter we’ve let out from the privacy of homes, or even the notes we might have passed to each other in class when the teacher wasn’t looking. To me, it seems that wherever there is this theatre of whiteness trying to stay invisible, there is too an opposing current operating secretly under the surface, naming and knowing a different truth, and offering an alternative commentary – exclusive only to those who know how to tune into the channel.

Privacy is an integral strategy for the survival and joy of so many minoritarian positionalities globally. In the same breath, the work to make Black/Black Mixed-race issues visible within essentialist discourse on race must continue; this is not only vital for the understanding of varied experiences which are far more complicated than what is often reduced to a ‘crisis of belonging’, but for further understanding the currents of colourism which ripple the seas of intra-race politics. (So rarely can white scholars comment on the issues of institutional colourism to the same degree that they can racism.) In BJJ’s adaptation, the addition of the final hillside moment between Dido and Minnie facilitates a witnessing of this private channel of Blackness which commentates on whiteness. Yet Zoe does not access this channel.  She is left in the same figuration that she was in Boucicault’s original text; disempowered, racially uncritical and therefore entrapped by her positionality. Being that her plotline is for the most part the same, she is stuck in the time and space of Boucicault’s original writing; she remains the inevitably doomed tragic mulatta.

There is something precious within Black/Black Mixed-race private knowing – in the personalised, embodied knowing of what the world of racial binary does not know. Echoing your thoughts Mojisola, I have always considered my body, my heritage and my mind to be proof that the binarized, historically biological, logic of race was flawed. And therefore, in response to your questions Melissa, I revel in opportunities to find a quiet hillside and tap into the secrets that my existence might whisper. I’m reminded of Lorde’s Uses of the Erotic here being that this is ‘power which rises from our deepest and non-rational knowledge’^[i], through which, ‘we scrutinise all aspects of our existence.’⁵ The essentialist world is constantly telling Mixed-race folks what they are not. So, there is empowerment in ‘erotic’, private confrontations with our ways of knowing that transcend the historic ideologies of ‘colour lines’ and see the racial world for what it really is… I therefore wonder if and how a future adaptation of Boucicault’s original text, might choose to locate Zoe in some proximity to this private channel. How might she be reimagined as not being entirely tragically doomed, but as having some degree of racial agency that she exercises in private?

All of this to say, staging this moment of sisterhood between Dido and Minnie feels like a kind of personalised, private gift to the Black/Black Mixed gaze. I wonder if that white male audience member who compared the scene to Chekhov might realise that he had tried to access something that wasn’t his? That he was not only intruding on the tenderness of a private conversation between two characters, but the private commentary blossoming between Black/Black Mixed-race members of the audience and the play itself.

Esmee, London, 10 February 2025

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Greetings Esmee and Melissa,

Thank you so much for all you’ve shared and provoked in me. It feels endlessly good to be under/overstood, to not feel the need to explain my Black mixedness, as is so often demanded of us. It’s interesting how all three of us seem to relate much more to Dido and Minnie in An Octoroon, than to the mixed-heritage character, Zoe. Perhaps it’s because Zoe has not awakened to Black consciousness, she wants to die, but Dido and Minnie stand for Black life. However (sorry to put a downer on it), whatever moment of quiet Dido-and-Minnie like contemplation I was enjoying between us, is now gone. What a world has turned since we began this exchange. I feel like I fell off that hillside I was sitting on with you two. In my first letter I asked a list of questions including, ‘Will America vote for a white supremacist misogynist President?’ The answer to all my questions has turned out to be a horrifying – yes.

I look at the news and keep texting my friends, ‘what year are we in?’ Have we been transported back to Boucicault’s 19th Century?! We are witnessing an audacious, absurdist, melodramatic, racist American shit show on a scale that makes The / An Octoroon look ordinary. From Elon Musk’s Nazi salute at the inauguration of Trump, to said President’s pardoning of racist rioters who attempted a coup at the Capitol, his repeated threats to effectively colonize Greenland, Panama and Canada, deporting thousands of people of colour, cutting off aid to millions of people in the global South, putting an end to diversity, equity and inclusion practices, giving refuge to white South African Afrikaners on the basis of race and planning to ethnically ‘cleanse’ two million Palestinians to make way for ‘the Riviera of the Middle East’, AI imagined on ‘Truth’ Social, replete with a golden statue of the self-proclaimed ‘King’ himself, Netanyahu sunbathing topless and Musk eating hummus in the ‘Trump Gaza’ sun. You couldn’t write it.

As I reflect on The / An Octoroon, one image sticks most in my mind from the past few months: MAGA baseball capped Musk speaking at a seemingly spontaneous press conference in the Oval office, with the youngest of his 11 children, four year old X, sitting on Musk’s shoulders, dressed like a little businessman, as Trump looks on from his desk, smirking. What is being played out here? It is all made to look as if Musk is just a good dad casually taking his kid with him to work, when in reality it is a patriarchal pronatalist parade from the world’s richest capitalist, who argues that white people are being wiped out in the country of his (apartheid era) birth, South Africa and that the only hope for Germany is the AfD, the extremist far right political party and now the second strongest in Germany, less than a hundred years after Hitler was elected. The little boy, X, is a symbol. The stakes could not be higher. This is not just theatre. Mini Musk is a eugenicist’s mascot for the future of whiteness. Like the Terrebone plantation, it’s a family affair, a business where Black bodies pay the highest price, predicated on the unspoken pride that not one drop of the man child’s blood is Black. First came The Octoroon, then An Octoroon and now what? No Octoroon?

This cannot be the end. Here’s a challenge: what if you were to write a new play, starting at the exact place BJJ’s ended? What if, after taking the baton from Boucicault, BJJ passed the baton to you? What would your story be? Would you let Zoe live? Or does she poison herself because she believes she has poisonous blood? Does she, do we, have a chance to wake up from the fantasy of white supremacy? Will any of us ditch whiteness? Can we exist outside the performance of race? Can we exit the stage? What might the next installment of Zoe’s life (or death) look like? Could Zoe ever be part of Dido and Minnie’s powerful embrace? Could their friendship become a three, like Mojisola, Melissa and Esmee? Which words would you have Br’er Rabbit look deeply at the audience and say? And what does everyone start to sing, at the end, at the beginning?

I’m done. It’s time to write new big brash Black ‘n’ loud political plays for every conceivable stage. My next, resisters, is all about a young Palestinian woman named Iman, who has decided to resist the occupation by occupying her own toilet. She will not leave her seat. In this most private of spaces, a quiet dialogue ensues (welcome back Dido and Minnie) with her closest friend, Umi, through the locked door. We listen in solidarity as the friends discuss creative non-violent resistance and watch as Iman scribes the names of the aforementioned tyrants, on pieces of toilet paper on which she shall eventually wipe her brown arse. Resist sisters! It’s been fantastic rapping with you. Don’t stop now.

Justice and peace,

Mojisola, Berlin, 26 February 2025.

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Dr Melissa Blanco Borelli is a dance and performance studies scholar, choreographer, and cultural critic. She is an Associate Professor of Theatre and the Director of the Dance Program at Northwestern University. She has been on faculty at MIT, University of Surrey (UK), Royal Holloway, University of London (UK) and the University of Maryland, College Park. Research and publications move through and produce work that centers Blackness in Latin America, Black performance theory, critical theory, critical dance studies, academic performative writing, popular dance on screen, (Black) feminist (auto)ethnography, historiography, archives and archiving, and the digital humanities.

Esmee West-Agboola is a multidisciplinary creative, researcher and lecturer working at the intersection of race, gender studies and dramatic representation. Her practice explores intersectional identity through decolonial and futuristic approaches. Her PhD research specifically explores expressions of Black-Mixed-race femininities within British performance and public culture, exploring performance as a site of cultural intervention, repair, protest, joy, belonging and as affirmation for embodied knowledge. She has shared parts of her research at conferences such as International Federation of Theatre Research (IFTR) and Theatre and Performance Research Association (TAPRA). Esmee currently leads the BA Acting: Musical Theatre Programme at Royal Central School of Speech & Drama.

 Mojisola Adebayo is an award-winning theatre artist and academic (Queen Mary, University of London), creating internationally for 30 years, from Antarctica to Zimbabwe. Mojisola’s published and performed plays include Moj of the Antarctic, Muhammad Ali and Me, 48 Minutes for Palestine, I Stand Corrected, The Interrogation of Sandra Bland, Wind / Rush Generation(s), Family Tree and STARS. Books include Mojisola Adebayo: Plays One and Two, the co-written Black British Queer Plays and Practitioners and Agri/cultural Practices for Climate Justice. Mojisola’s latest play is resisters. Mojisola is a Theatre of the Oppressed practitioner currently co-developing theatre to improve sickle cell care.