The Death of a Black Man

Alfred Fagon

• Publisher: Methuen Drama
• Year: 2021
• ISBN:
  9781350270152
• Edition: 1
• Topic: Media & Performing Arts
• Subtopic: Theatre Playwriting

At least I am my own boss. No regrets. I choose what I do. I am lucky It's 1973 and the West Indies have spectacularly beaten England at their own game, in their own backyard. Shakie, an 18-year-old super-savvy wheeler-dealer, is in his element – and not just because of the cricket. Life is good: his furniture business is making serious money and he owns a flat on the King's Road, the epicentre of everything that's cool. Moreover, his best friend Stumpie has come up with a plan to crack the booming music industry together - the possibilities are endless so when Shakie's ex-lover Jackie arrives at the Chelsea flat, the trio toast the future. The champagne is flowing and ambition is running sky high - but how far will they go, and who will they sacrifice, in their quest to be rich beyond their wildest dreams? The Death of a Black Man received its world premiere at Hampstead Theatre in 1975. This new edition is published to coincide with its return to Hampstead Theatre, 46 years on, in May 2021.

Act Two

When the lights come on, room is slightly untidy; empty bottles, shoes, coats, Stumpie’s silk scarf lying about. Stumpie and Shakie enter, slightly drunk. They have been out on the town all night. They are deep in discussion of business.

Shakie Man, I tell you music is not my scene.

Stumpie But man, with your influence you could help a lot of black people.

Shakie Not me. There is only two kinds of people in this world; buyers and sellers. Everybody buy and sell everybody else’s business.

Stumpie Well, then, why not buy and sell black people music. There is 300 million Africans. One hit record and you have got a million seller on your hands.

Shakie Man, that is a dream. Two hundred years too late! Down at King’s Road is the United Nations. They all come to the King’s Road – African, Indian, Japanese, even prince and princess, they are all freaks come to King’s Road to buy old clothes from Saturday to Saturday. Black musician actors including the rass clath black Americans line up like an army of studmen ready to pounce on Chelsea nightclub parties. How can you work like that? They let you down the minute they set eyes on a white mini skirt and the black women grab the first rich beatnik that come along.

Stumpie Man, you mad to rass clath! Don’t talk like that about black people. Real black people don’t go to Chelsea.

Shakie They look black enough for me, especially the Americans. I feel sorry for them, but I am not going to lend you five thousand pounds to give to charity.

Stumpie Charity? What the rass clath is this? There is plenty money involved in the deal for us.

Shakie Of course it is charity! The highest level any black singer will reach in England is a twenty pound a week chorus job in a West End production. The leading lady may be singing about black people’s blues, but the black faces always remain in the chorus line. The only profession black people do well is the oldest profession of them all – giving away cock and pussy for nothing. Take me for example. When I first started selling water down the King’s Road everybody think I was mad. But I wasn’t selling water, I was selling sympathy. That’s why rich people will always do business with me, they think I’ve got good intentions. White people think I will never get further than a barman in a discotheque down Chelsea. I watch everybody down King’s Road, black and white. They are the show piece of English middle-class beatnik society.

Stumpie Hippies!

Shakie No. Rass clath beatniks! The only successful business you will be able to do with middle-class beatniks is to sell them old clothes or African leftover junk. Middle-class people only have enough money to buy one cheap Christmas present at the end of the year, for their friends. If you really want to make money, you have to do business with rich people or poor people; poor people have to spend all their money on food or they will die of starvation. That’s why I am going to take a close look on how black people spend their money on food in Portobello Road and Shepherd Bush market. Rich people’s greatest love is leisure, and that’s where they spend most of their money. I want to be a man of leisure, so I sell big African monster chair to rich people for two hundred and fifty pounds each, and I can’t hope for a better life. I am happy to spend the rest of my life in Chelsea selling African chairs to the stockbrokers’ green belt in and around the home counties. Lick them rass clath Sobers!

Stumpie Man, Shakie, you are talking politics and running away from the issue.

Shakie Not politics, man, facts!

Stumpie How can you sit there and talk about blacks. Man, you are twice as bad as the freaks you talk about. You can’t blame black people for their downfall. At last me and a few others is trying to do something. Black people are not stupid. All we need is a little money. These are good musicians. They are not stupid.

Shakie Oh yeah? Then how come they never get further than the King’s Road?

Stumpie Who gets further than the King’s Road?

Shakie Black people!

Stumpie Those few freak black people down King’s Road are dead. Man, I am talking constructive business about constructive people. Look at the history of black people’s music. Doesn’t it make you sick?

Shakie No, I like dancing to it as much as any white beatnik.

Stumpie Man, you’re talking fuckery! Leave white people’s business alone and help a few black people.

I have the studio, the equipment . . . all we need is a little money for publicity and food until we get on our feet. These people are depending on me. I can’t let them down. The difference between you and me, Shakie, is that you cry with your eyes closed and I cry with mine wide open. Shakie, you’re a good businessman, I admit that, but I am also a businessman. Travel Europe and Africa, I see what’s happening to black people music. There is no big black bands in Europe, yet Europe is so close to Africa.

Shakie That’s exactly what I mean! But I bet you Europe is not short of black prostitutes, male and female. From Paris to Stockholm the black man is better known for his big prick. LICK THEM RASS CLATH SOBERS! I feel drunk. Pour me some champagne.

Stumpie pours two glasses of champagne.

Stumpie It’s true you talking, but I can’t give up. Boy, black people really can fuck!

Phone rings.

What time is it?

Shakie Five-thirty. I don’t understand it. Who could be phoning me at this time in the morning? Answer it, Stumpie, it could only be my father.

Stumpie Man, I don’t want to talk to your old man.

Shakie Jesus Christ what is this? I better answer it myself.

Picks up receiver, Stumpie gives him champagne.

Shakie Yes, what is? Oh, Brian! Yeah; man, I did say you could call me any time. Yeah, I understand. What is it? What! I will be right over. Sorry . . . yeah, it’s five-thirty in the morning. Okay. seven-thirty. I will be there. How many chairs arrive? . . . Ten? . . . What’s the going price if I take the lot? . . . Fifty each . . . I can only sell them for fifty-five. No, man. Knock it down to forty. I will take the lot . . . Okay. I ...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title Page
• Contents
• The Death of a Black Man
• Characters
• Act One
• Act Two
• Act Three
• Act Four
• Bloomsbury Methuen Drama Modern Plays
• Methuen Drama Contemporary Dramatists
• eCopyright