I
created the first version of 'Will
I still carry water when I am a dead woman?'
in 2011 in Lagos. I crawled along the ground with water kegs tied to
my ankles. The piece was inspired by the daily task of carrying
water at my cousin's house. I observed how this particular work was
largely something that me and my female cousins performed. This is
not to say that men do not do this task.
The
performance on April 18 built upon this work but was performed with a
group of women walking through the streets of Lagos, again hauling
water kegs. While the piece poses questions about the work of women,
it is also about labor and the politics of change. How much is
enough? What is the tipping point in a society where people struggle
to meet basic needs? When do people have an opportunity to rest,
reflect, envision, imagine, and enact another way of being? I am
particularly interested in the role of women in these dialogues.
The
costumes refer to traditional masquerades but with an Afrofuturisic
touch. Here, I am thinking about the Egungun masquerade which women
are not
allowed to perform. Masquerades are quite powerful for both
community and performer. The masked dancer is allowed to go
anywhere; they are protected. People are not allowed to even touch
them. There are men who holds sticks, the cane men (and use them) if
you attempt to get too close. 'Will
I still carry water when I am a dead woman?'
draws from this tradition by allowing women to occupy a sacred and
dynamic space within the public environment. But in this case, there
is a constant movement between or perhaps confusion about the sacred
and the profane as we perform the arduous (if not impossible) task of
hauling water kegs through the city.
