The Watchman - A Commentary

The ride to the main campus was blissful. I was in my feelings, and I had conveniently forgotten how, ten minutes earlier, I was sweating and saying, “At this point, I just want a refund,” because of logistics issues. But that was in the past now. I was on the bus, I was heading there, and the play had not started. That was all that mattered.

On the way, I looked out the window and saw a man sitting close to a stereo, eyes closed, dancing to the music. He looked happy, or high. But then I thought, probably both. Who said those two things cannot co-exist?

Wait, what was that? You want to hear about the play, not this? Fine, I’ll get to that.

When I arrived, the play hadn’t started yet. Someone was talking about CWC, and I thought it was really cool that this was its tenth anniversary. Before the actual play, creatives came on stage to perform. The dancer moved like the wind—fluid and controlled, exactly how I think I look when I dance (very funny, I know). Then the spoken word artist came on, and she was phenomenal.

And then, the singers.

They blew my mind and then got shot mid-performance. In my head, I just said, “Today na today.” Because at that point, it was clear: this was not going to be a safe, predictable performance.

All the opening acts set the tone. There was an undercurrent running through everything. Nigeria. Politics. Power.

Then the music shifted, and we were introduced to the cast. I liked them immediately. The energy was there, and you could already tell who was who without much effort—funny Uche, sassy Zainab, and the very familiar “government men” archetypes.

The static voice of a newscaster cut through:

“One year after the presidential election…”

And just like that, the play began.

What unfolded was a story rooted in power, politics, and the kind of quiet corruption that sits comfortably in living rooms. Chief Bamigboye and his circle of wealthy allies moved through conversations of control and indulgence, occasionally interrupted by family tensions and arguments. The play found its heartbeat in Akin the reluctant heir, the IJGB son who wanted nothing to do with politics, dismissing it as a “dirty game.” Yet, like many before him, he was already caught in a web he didn’t spin. A pre-arranged marriage, expectations he didn’t choose, and a father who would not take no for an answer.

That was until Kemi stepped in and, quite frankly, talked sense into him. We find out Akin studied journalism, which makes his detachment less about ignorance and more about avoidance. Then she asks the question that lingers long after it is said: “What is at the bottom? The truth, or the people who try to hide it?”

Kemi and her lines!

How do you hear that and still sit still?

The transitions between scenes were seamless, but the bar setting stood out the most. Red and neon lights washed over the stage, pulling us into a 90s Lagos nightlife. Ankara skirts, bold makeup, afros—the aesthetic was intentional, and it worked. When Kemi Abiodun took the mic, everything else seemed to pause. Her voice carried more than melody; it carried defiance.

“Government go tell police man make im do bad thing, im go talk ‘Yes Sir!’”

Then Zombie by Fela Kuti started playing. For a moment, the stage stopped being a school production and became something else entirely. The lighting, the movement, the energy—it was easily one of the strongest moments of the night. It felt like being transported to the Shrine. I screamed in delight.

At some point during all of this, I turned to the side to take in the faces of people witnessing what I can only describe as pure art and that was when I saw someone watching the Arsenal vs Manchester City mid-play. Back on stage, Folashade is introduced as Akin’s real love interest. Their scenes softened the tension briefly. He asks her to run away with him, run away ke? She grounds him quickly, reality is not fantasy, and she has responsibilities he cannot simply wish away.

Then the play sharpens again.

Dirty secrets are exposed: Chief Bello using his wife for money ritual, the rape of Anita. At this point, the play stops hinting and starts speaking plainly. The Watchman is introduced and begins to threaten the men in the papers. He is anonymous, observant, and disruptive.

Folashade is kidnapped (Chief Bamigboye is that you?). Later, we learn through Zainab that she is dead, poor Akin.

Tension builds.

The Chiefs begin to fracture under pressure. Then Akin confronts his father and reveals himself as the Watchman. When he pulls out the gun and kills him, it is sudden and completely unexpected. The police arrive and our characters freeze on stage.

For the first time, the newscaster appears physically on stage, calmly reporting the death of Chief Bamigboye and the arrest of his son, Akin. A clean, chilling close.

The production itself was strong. The stage direction, music choices, lighting, and overall coordination were clearly intentional. It was immersive, and the audience’s reactions proved that. The themes—power, politics, family secrets—felt uncomfortably close to home. At some point, it even reminded me of Prince of Monkeys by Nnamdi Ehirim (yes, that is a recommendation).

It wasn’t without flaws. There were moments where the timing of the sound lagged, personally I couldn’t help wishing I had sat closer to fully catch the actors’ facial expressions. But these didn’t take away from the overall impact.

After the play ended, the atmosphere softened. People hugged, laughter returned, congratulations filled the space. Then Kelebu by Rema started playing, and just like that, reality settled back in.

“Iperu students, please your bus is waiting for you”

My roommate and I didn’t need to say anything. We started walking quickly towards the bus, because no matter how powerful a performance is, missing your bus is still very much a real-life problem.

And if you weren’t there, I won’t say you missed it (you did like mad)

But next time, be there, so nobody has to tell you the story.