ANTÔNIO: Good morning!
ANTÔNIO continues to get himself ready to leave. ANDRÉ remains silent.
ANTÔNIO: Big night, uh?
ANDRÉ is still trying to catch his breath at the front door. ANTÔNIO stops.
ANTÔNIO: What happened, Cousin?
ANDRÉ (jumpy): Are you going out this early in the morning?
ANTÔNIO: I’m off to college. It’s the first day of the prep course for that opening for Diplomats with High Levels of Melanin at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. Have you forgotten about it? Check the chessboard, I’ve made a move.
ANTÔNIO is ready to leave the flat and is about to pick up his coursework folders from the sofa.
ANDRÉ: Don’t even think about it, Antônio!
ANTÔNIO (surprised): What do you mean?
ANDRÉ: Don’t even think about leaving. We’re never leaving this flat! Ever again!
ANTÔNIO (picking up his folders, goes to the front door): I don’t want to be late for my first day. I don’t have the time to deal with you right now. Do you know what? Drink plenty of water, so this hangover, or whatever this is, it’ll be over soon.
ANDRÉ (getting in ANTÔNIO’s way): No . . . You’re not going anywhere. From now on, you can’t leave this flat ever again.
ANTÔNIO: What the hell, André? Get out of my way. I have places to be, people to see. This is not the time, nor the place, for your jokes!
ANDRÉ: Antônio, I’m not joking!
ANTÔNIO (moving ANDRÉ swiftly out of the way): Stop it! I really think you shouldn’t be wasting your time and energy on nights out: binge drinking, spending the little money you earn working at that internet café to buy alcohol. Alcohol dehydrates you, André. Invest your money wisely in more concrete . . . more tangible things. Tangibility, André! Your law school, for instance. Might be due to these night binges that your tuition is yet to be paid!
ANTÔNIO walks toward the front door.
ANDRÉ: They released a Provisional Act!
ANTÔNIO decides not to leave. Pause.
ANTÔNIO: What do you mean?
ANDRÉ: They released it, yeah! A Provisional Act! We can’t leave any more!
ANTÔNIO: Leave where?
ANDRÉ: The flat! We’re trapped here!
ANTÔNIO: Are you tripping?
ANDRÉ: No! (bringing his mouth close to ANTÔNIO’s face) I didn’t even drink last night!
ANTÔNIO: What did you do the whole night, then?
ANDRÉ: Me? I just ran! I ran from them, Cousin! I ran, and I ran, and I ran!
ANTÔNIO (interrupting): From whom, man?
ANDRÉ: The police!
ANTÔNIO (irritated): What have you done now, André?!
ANDRÉ: The government released a Provisional Act! All citizens with High Levels of Melanin who are caught idle on the streets, as from today, are to be captured and sent back to Africa.
Pause.
ANTÔNIO: I think I’ll just have to put you in one of those clinics. Dear God! Worst of all is that you don’t even have health insurance. I told your mother—Get him health insurance. This city is very dangerous, something might happen to him and André may need medical assistance!—Okay, now . . . (Draws his health insurance ID from his pocket and places it on the table) Take it! Take my ID card, pretend that you’re me, and get yourself checked into the best clinic in town. They won’t suspect the ID isn’t yours . . . We have the same last name. We’ve done that before!
ANTÔNIO exits, closing the door behind him. Pause. ANTÔNIO returns, opening the door slowly. He looks at ANDRÉ and, calmly, sits on the sofa.
ANTÔNIO (patient): What is really happening here, Cousin?
ANDRÉ: We can’t leave the flat, Antônio!
ANTÔNIO: I know that. What I’m still left wondering is what did you take last night, besides alcohol?
ANDRÉ: Listen, this Provisional Act was released midnight, last night. I was at the pub with the guys from the internet café . . .
ANTÔNIO (interrupting): Where?
ANDRÉ: A pub that we usually go to. I didn’t even get to drink my first pint . . . The police showed up with a letter, a copy of this Provisional Act . . . Signed by the president. They were kind at first, and asked me to go with them to a police station.
ANTÔNIO: Police station?
ANDRÉ: At the police station, I had a conversation with a social worker who gave me a brochure with African countries; options for places where I could be sent to. She said the process of returning to Africa would be super democratic. Yeah, right . . . and I could even choose the country. She advised me to choose the country where my family came from, assuming I knew . . .
ANTÔNIO: And which one did you choose?
ANDRÉ: None! Since when do we have any idea of what our heritage is? I had no idea what to say . . .
ANTÔNIO (interested): And then?
ANDRÉ (frightened): She pressured me!
Cue lights. Back light shadowing ANDRÉ’s figure. Cue sound. Police Station.
SOCIAL WORKER: How come you don’t know where your enslaved great-grandparents came from? You have an obligation to know your own roots. It’s a cultural matter! My name, for example, is Garcia. Therefore, I know for sure that my ancestors came from Spain.
ANDRÉ: Why don’t you just go there then? Why don’t you go back to live with your Spanish relatives?
SOCIAL WORKER: Because the Provisional Act is very clear, my dear! Very clear in its wording: “as an act of reparation for the error made by the Portuguese colonisers at the time, and continued by the Brazilian Empire and the Brazilian Republic; an error that generated four centuries of unpaid work carried out by a population unjustly transferred from their native lands to Brazilian lands; citizens with traits and characteristics that resemble, even remotely, any kind of African ancestry, from today, 13 May 2023, should be captured and deported to their African countries. In order to make reparations for this very serious mistake made by the Union, this act foresees the return of these citizens, and their descendants, to their African lands as an urgent matter.”
Cue lights. Preset.
ANTÔNIO: Was it really written down like that?
ANDRÉ: Yes. I kept quiet. Out of nowhere, she decided to suggest a country at random.
Cue lights. Back light shadowing ANDRÉ’s figure.
SOCIAL WORKER (pondering): Then . . . I think I should send you off to . . . Namibia!
ANDRÉ (desperate): No! Not Namibia! That was a country colonised by Germans. Nothing against the Germans, but I don’t speak German! For God’s sake! Don’t do this to me!
ANDRÉ enters a kind of trance.
Cue lights. Preset.
ANDRÉ: I can’t speak German! You know I can’t! I tried to learn the language! But it didn’t work! I couldn’t do it! I didn’t want to do it! I don’t know how to do it! I can’t go to Namibia! I cannot speak German!
ANTÔNIO (hugs ANDRÉ): Calm down, André!
ANDRÉ: I don’t want to, Antônio! I don’t want to!
ANTÔNIO (frightened): But how can this be? Dear Lord! We are in the year 2023. Quite recently, we’ve had a president with High Levels of Melanin elected for two terms in the United States, forging strong alliances with Brazil! What kind of Provisional Act is this? Completely unconstitutional! (Looks at his watch) I’m late! I’ll call and tell them I’ll be late.
ANDRÉ (suddenly, more clear-headed): It won’t work!
ANTÔNIO: Why?
ANDRÉ: All telephone lines, mobile or landlines, belonging to those with High Levels of Melanin have been disconnected . . . Cut off! We’ve lost our communications!
ANTÔNIO tries the telephone.
ANTÔNIO: Not connecting! Dear God, you forgot to pay the bill again, didn’t you?
ANDRÉ: Don’t leave the flat!
Pause.
ANTÔNIO: They should be showing something about it on TV! (ANTÔNIO turns on the TV. Nothing happens.) André, did you not pay the cable TV either? I gave you the money for it. What did you do with the money?
ANDRÉ: I paid it! (ANDRÉ looks at his mobile phone, covered by a white phone case. Finds the payment invoice.) Here’s the proof. All cable TV packages have also been disconnected for everyone with High Levels of Melanin. And there’s no point in watching the free channels. (Whispering) The free channels don’t talk about it!
ANTÔNIO tunes in to a TV channel, on which can be seen a daytime TV show.
TV PRESENTER (over-the-top nice): Hello! Is the fur of your beautiful little poodle turning dark? (Very sad) Don’t you dare let that happen. (Suddenly cheerful) Here at our show, Morning Clarity, you’ll find tips that are going to help you keep your dog’s fur even whiter. It’s the whiteness of their fur that makes them even more beautiful. Pearl-white fur is a must nowadays. It’s almost a basic need! Take note, everyone: dogs with white fur are a sign of cleanliness, dogs with dark fur (Serious) are a sign of filth. (Excited) We’ll exterminate the darkness once and for all!
ANTÔNIO turns off the TV, interrupting.
ANTÔNIO: But how come they aren’t talking about it? Why? What other way are we supposed to learn about it?
ANDRÉ: That’s exactly their plan, Antônio! They want to catch us by surprise! Captured! Don’t you get it?
Pause.
ANTÔNIO: And how did you manage to escape that social worker?
ANDRÉ: When I said I didn’t speak German . . . Everyone laughed so much. They found it funny, weird. To be completely honest, they didn’t even know people spoke German in Namibia.
ANTÔNIO: German was one of Namibia’s official languages for a long time! Until 1990. Or ’91?
ANDRÉ: A bunch of stupid people, Antônio. It caught them by surprise! They started laughing . . . They laughed so much. Then . . . they just went mental. (Sounds of laughter in the background) They laughed so hard . . . at me, or whatever it was . . . it made me nervous. It felt like a nightmare. I said to myself: it can’t be real, dear God! What’s going on? What are they laughing at? At whom? Why?
ANTÔNIO: So what did you do?
ANDRÉ: I realised that I was the only sane person in there! So I took advantage of their euphoria . . . (almost crying) and I fled.
ANDRÉ starts running facing the audience. He runs without moving forward.
ANDRÉ: I ran! I fled! And I ran! And when I was already out on the streets, I could hear the screams of people with High Levels of Melanin being captured. (Sounds of desperate cries from several people, and sounds of gunfire.) It was crazy, Cousin! They were shooting to scare most of the rioters. But I ran . . . I ran and I ran! I was running so fast . . . so fast and so desperate . . . that I don’t think they could even see me . . . They didn’t even see me! They did not see me!
Cue sound. Cries and gunfire sounds stop. ANDRÉ stops running.
ANDRÉ (catching his breath): Weird, uh? They didn’t see me, Cousin! So I managed to get here . . . (Looking at each corner of the flat) where I feel most safe.
Pause. ANTÔNIO paces, frightened.
ANTÔNIO (worried): André, you’re scaring me. If this is true, then they can come here at any time and arrest us. They . . . they are going to get here!
ANTÔNIO checks if the door is locked.
ANDRÉ: No, they won’t!
ANTÔNIO (askance): What do you mean? You just told me that people with High Levels of Melanin are being deported . . . (Taken aback, annoyed) André, are you pulling my leg? You’re making me late . . .
ANDRÉ (interrupting): They cannot come into our homes. It’s against the law. It would be characterised as Domicile invasion. Article 150 of our Criminal Code. It would be a crime! The government cannot commit crimes. (Glances at the door) So they cannot and will not come here.
ANTÔNIO (in disbelief): André, I’m going to my prep course for Diplomats with High Levels of Melanin. Now, if you'll excuse me! I cannot keep wasting my time like this! I have things to do!
ANTÔNIO leaves, slamming the door.
ANDRÉ takes a flask of vodka out of his suit pocket, takes a sip, and puts it back in. He sits on the sofa, distressed. He looks at the chessboard and makes a move.
Suddenly ANTÔNIO is back, scared. He locks the door behind him, and locks the security bolt.
ANDRÉ (calm): I made my move. Now it’s your turn.
ANTÔNIO, scared, goes to the fridge, drinks a glass of water. He sits on the sofa, trying to calm down.
ANTÔNIO: When the lift reached the ground floor, I could see through that little glass window at the door. They were taking our concierge, Seu João, by force. I stayed in the lift, pushing our floor button, and came straight back home.
ANDRÉ: It’s your turn to play, Antônio. C’mon. Play!
ANTÔNIO tries to make a move, but can’t. He gives up, and stands up to put the sofa in front of their main door, to barricade it and avoid the possible invasion of their captors.
ANDRÉ: Don’t you worry! They can’t come in here. We’re protected. It’s Domicile Invasion. Article 150. They can’t come up here. They can’t invade our homes. As I said, it would be a crime.
ANTÔNIO (catching his breath): And is it not a crime to be sent, forcibly, back to Africa?
ANDRÉ: No! Now it’s been written, it’s the law. Provisional, but it’s still the law! Until it’s properly judged by the Senate, at least, it must be put into practice.
ANTÔNIO (sad): They took Seu João . . .
ANDRÉ: Poor guy. (Looks at his watch) And by now, our mothers must also have been captured. (Cue sound. Street market vendors shouting out their offers.) They’re the easiest target. Now, try to picture it: these ladies go to the market to buy chayote or parsnip and end up going back to Africa.
ANTÔNIO (sad): My mother . . .
Cue light—A police officer meets an elderly mother.
POLICE OFFICER I: We’re from the Police Department. Come! You have to accompany us, Madam!
ELDERLY MOTHER: Accompany you? Where to, my dear?
POLICE OFFICER I: To Africa.
ELDERLY MOTHER (surprised): Where?!
Cue sound. Street market noises and musical soundscape.
