Title: Zubar Da Hawaye
Genre: Play
Author: Eziwho Emenike Azunwo
Year of Publication: 2025
Publisher: Covenant Daystar Publishers, Port Harcourt. Nigeria
Pagination: (Number of pages) 60 pages
Reviewer: Ikenna-Obi Nneka Chigozie
Introduction
Eziwho Emenike Azunwo’s Zubar da Hawaye (Spilling of Tears) is a work of drama that does more than tell a tragic story—it stages the anguish, paralysis, and resilience of communities caught in the violent grip of political abandonment. Set in a rural Nigerian village that quickly descends from festive calm to horrific destruction, the play offers a piercing exploration of loss, memory, and the desperate search for justice in the face of state failure and insurgent brutality. In this work, Azunwo positions the stage as both a site of mourning and a platform for protest, where the intimate sorrow of one family transforms into the collective rage of a forgotten people.
The play begins in a tone of celebration, as villagers gather to observe a cultural feast. Amid the festive preparations, Uren, the protagonist and narrator, steps forward with a warning wrapped in poetic foreboding: “This is a very happy story I want to tell you… One that ends with tears… the unspeakable reality that befalls us and cripples our spirits” (p. 10). These opening lines foretell the unraveling of a world built on kinship and tradition, and prepare the audience for a journey marked by trauma and testimony.
As the narrative unfolds, the characters confront not only physical violence but existential threat. Mr. Salami, the village elder, emerges as a moral figure whose refusal to abandon his home speaks volumes about attachment to land and ancestry. When urged to flee, he responds with conviction: “A man who runs from defending his own land will live—and die—a slave to guilt” (p. 43). His words reflect the central tension of the play: whether to resist or retreat, to stay rooted or survive elsewhere.
This choice is made more tragic by the indifference of the state. In a pivotal scene, the village head and Salami travel to appeal for protection from a local military commander. Their plea is met with stunning apathy. “We don’t have all it takes to face these people,” Commander Ibrahim says bluntly. “Protect yourselves” (pp. 35–36). The commander’s refusal to offer aid illustrates the structural collapse of governance and the abandonment of rural lives to the mercy of violence.
Yet it is in the character of Uren, the daughter who survives the massacre of her family, that the emotional core and political force of the play crystallize. Her final monologue is not merely a cry of grief, but a manifesto of rage and remembrance. “I watched my father soaked in his own blood… I saw my brother fall like a log of wood… I know their kind has caused many villages the same pain they have caused me” (p. 59). In this moment, Uren becomes a symbol of the young, dispossessed generation—those who carry the burden of survival and the demand for justice.
Stylistically, Zubar da Hawaye draws on the rich resources of African performance traditions. Its seamless blend of Hausa and English, the rhythmic presence of drummers and flutists, and its communal stage composition all point to Azunwo’s grounding in indigenous aesthetics. These performative elements do more than decorate the play—they function as cultural anchors, reaffirming identity even as the characters face cultural erasure.
Importantly, Azunwo’s own framing of the play underscores its urgency and purpose. In his Author’s Note, he writes, “This is not just a dramatization of violence—it is a mirror held up to society, reflecting the neglected cries of the innocent and the deadly consequences of indifference” (p. 5). The mirror that Zubar da Hawaye holds is unflinching. It reflects not only what has been done to a people but what silence allows to continue.
In the tradition of Nigerian political theatre—reminiscent of dramatists such as Femi Osofisan, Bode Sowande, and Tess Onwueme—Azunwo’s work stands out for its deep emotional resonance and fierce moral clarity. It calls attention to the human cost of conflict, the failures of power, and the courage that still blooms amid ruin. Above all, it affirms the role of drama not merely as art but as witness: a way of keeping memory alive and naming the pain that history might otherwise bury.
Plot Structure
Eziwho Emenike Azunwo’s Zubar da Hawaye (Spilling of Tears) is a work of drama that does more than tell a tragic story—it stages the anguish, paralysis, and resilience of communities caught in the violent grip of political abandonment. Set in a rural Nigerian village that quickly descends from festive calm to horrific destruction, the play offers a piercing exploration of loss, memory, and the desperate search for justice in the face of state failure and insurgent brutality. In this work, Azunwo positions the stage as both a site of mourning and a platform for protest, where the intimate sorrow of one family transforms into the collective rage of a forgotten people.
The play begins in a tone of celebration, as villagers gather to observe a cultural feast. Amid the festive preparations, Uren, the protagonist and narrator, steps forward with a warning wrapped in poetic foreboding: “This is a very happy story I want to tell you… One that ends with tears… the unspeakable reality that befalls us and cripples our spirits” (p. 10). These opening lines foretell the unraveling of a world built on kinship and tradition, and prepare the audience for a journey marked by trauma and testimony.
As the narrative unfolds, the characters confront not only physical violence but existential threat. Mr. Salami, the village elder, emerges as a moral figure whose refusal to abandon his home speaks volumes about attachment to land and ancestry. When urged to flee, he responds with conviction: “A man who runs from defending his own land will live—and die—a slave to guilt” (p. 43). His words reflect the central tension of the play: whether to resist or retreat, to stay rooted or survive elsewhere.
This choice is made more tragic by the indifference of the state. In a pivotal scene, the village head and Salami travel to appeal for protection from a local military commander. Their plea is met with stunning apathy. “We don’t have all it takes to face these people,” Commander Ibrahim says bluntly. “Protect yourselves” (pp. 35–36). The commander’s refusal to offer aid illustrates the structural collapse of governance and the abandonment of rural lives to the mercy of violence.
Yet it is in the character of Uren, the daughter who survives the massacre of her family, that the emotional core and political force of the play crystallize. Her final monologue is not merely a cry of grief, but a manifesto of rage and remembrance. “I watched my father soaked in his own blood… I saw my brother fall like a log of wood… I know their kind has caused many villages the same pain they have caused me” (p. 59). In this moment, Uren becomes a symbol of the young, dispossessed generation—those who carry the burden of survival and the demand for justice.
Stylistically, Zubar da Hawaye draws on the rich resources of African performance traditions. Its seamless blend of Hausa and English, the rhythmic presence of drummers and flutists, and its communal stage composition all point to Azunwo’s grounding in indigenous aesthetics. These performative elements do more than decorate the play—they function as cultural anchors, reaffirming identity even as the characters face cultural erasure.
Importantly, Azunwo’s own framing of the play underscores its urgency and purpose. In his Author’s Note, he writes, “This is not just a dramatization of violence—it is a mirror held up to society, reflecting the neglected cries of the innocent and the deadly consequences of indifference” (p. 5). The mirror that Zubar da Hawaye holds is unflinching. It reflects not only what has been done to a people but what silence allows to continue.
In the tradition of Nigerian political theatre—reminiscent of dramatists such as Femi Osofisan, Bode Sowande, and Tess Onwueme—Azunwo’s work stands out for its deep emotional resonance and fierce moral clarity. It calls attention to the human cost of conflict, the failures of power, and the courage that still blooms amid ruin. Above all, it affirms the role of drama not merely as art but as witness: a way of keeping memory alive and naming the pain that history might otherwise bury.
Character and characterization
In Zubar da Hawaye, Eziwho Emenike Azunwo constructs a compelling array of characters who function as both emotional conduits and symbolic representations of a nation contending with the harsh realities of violence, displacement, and governmental neglect. Each figure—whether central or peripheral—adds dimension to a narrative woven with themes of communal endurance and institutional breakdown. Through vivid dialogue, poignant monologues, and powerfully charged scenes, Azunwo does not simply create fictional personas; he renders characters that reflect the lived realities and collective psyche of contemporary Nigerian society.
Uren – The Voice of Memory and Resistance
Role: Protagonist, survivor, narrator
Function: Emotional core and moral compass of the play
Uren stands at the heart of the play as both witness and voice. From the beginning, she addresses the audience directly, breaking the fourth wall and foreshadowing the tragedy to come:
“This is a very happy story I want to tell you… One that ends with tears… the unspeakable reality that befalls us and cripples our spirits.” (p. 10)
Her growth from an innocent, poetic girl to a traumatized but defiant survivor is a central arc in the play’s dramatic structure. After witnessing the massacre of her entire family, her final monologue becomes a rallying cry for justice:
“I watched my father soaked in his own blood… I saw my brother fall like a log of wood… I know their kind has caused many villages the same pain they have caused me.” (p. 59)
Uren embodies the emotional aftermath of violence and the fierce resilience of youth. She is both the daughter of her father and the new voice of her broken generation.
Mr. Salami – The Pillar of Dignity and Defiance
Role: Father, farmer, community elder
Function: Moral symbol of home, tradition, and defiance
Salami is introduced as a man of wisdom and familial pride. His reverence for family is shown early on:
“The most expensive worth in the world… is nothing but the assembling of family at a table.” (p. 12)
Yet he is also a tragic figure, stubbornly rooted in the land even as violence closes in. When advised to flee, he responds:
“A man who runs from defending his own land will live—and die—a slave to guilt.” (p. 43)
His death is not just physical but symbolic: the killing of tradition, protection, and male guardianship. Through Salami, Azunwo explores the painful cost of dignity in an undignified world.
Mrs. Salami – The Silent Strength of Womanhood
Role: Mother, wife, emotional anchor
Function: Symbol of maternal courage and collective suffering
Mrs. Salami represents the women who often bear the psychological burden of conflict. Despite her fears, she refuses to abandon her husband:
“Yes, I know it's not an easy decision. But this is our home… Even if we run away… what happens to those who aren’t fortunate enough to have relatives ready to help them out?” (p. 41)
Her character collapses physically during the attack—wetting herself in fear—but her moral stance remains strong to the end:
“It will never be well with you… never…” (p. 53)
Even as she faces death, she defies her killers with words that assert moral superiority. Her death is brutal, yet it amplifies the pain and courage of womanhood in war.
Ahmad – Symbol of Lost Potential
Role: Son of Salami, young defender
Function: Representation of youth, hope, and sacrifice
Ahmad appears briefly but powerfully in the narrative. He is the first to physically resist the invaders, a brave act that costs him his life:
“Ahmad jumps up to defend her, but one of the men slashes his back… Ahmad collapses in a pool of his blood.” (p. 51)
His murder is especially poignant, representing the destruction of a generation that might have inherited the land, traditions, and leadership of their fathers.
The Village Head – A Leader Torn Between Hope and Helplessness
Role: Community leader
Function: Representation of compromised authority and the struggle for unity
The Village Head oscillates between optimism and despair. In one scene, he encourages the villagers:
“We must not relax… we are here to find a way to protect ourselves from the senseless violence taking over the land.” (p. 26)
However, his reliance on the state undermines his authority. He is questioned by other men:
“Are you with us or against us?” (p. 24)
This character reflects the failure of leadership in rural Nigeria, caught between diplomacy and grassroots mobilization.
Commander Ibrahim – Embodiment of State Apathy
Role: Military authority
Function: Critique of government indifference and systemic collapse
Commander Ibrahim’s character is chilling in his detachment and disregard for rural lives. When asked for help, he casually responds:
“We don’t have all it takes to face these people... protect yourselves.” (p. 36)
His dismissal and arrogance reflect the institutional failure that fuels vigilantism and the loss of faith in governance.
The Head Man – The Face of Terror
Role: Leader of the attackers
Function: Personification of extremism and ideological violence
The Head Man speaks with religious fanaticism and terrifying calm:
“By the command of the Almighty, I rule this land, and I will burn it to the ground.” (p. 54)
He is not given a personal name, which suggests that he is not an individual but an embodiment of systemic terror—dehumanized and dehumanizing. His interactions with the Salami family are brutal and symbolic of wider violence across Nigeria’s Middle Belt and Northern regions.
Sani, Joe, and Their Wives – The Chorus of Community
Roles: Relatives and fellow villagers
Function: Reflect communal fear, debate, and division
These supporting characters represent the broader village experience. Sani urges Salami to leave:
“Brother, you're strong, but I still beg you—come with us, please.” (p. 41)
Joe's wife captures the emotional toll:
“God be with you…” (p. 45)
Their dialogue provides a Greek chorus-like commentary on the events, voicing the uncertainty, fear, and conflicting opinions that define communities in crisis.
Through careful characterization, Eziwho Emenike Azunwo transforms Zubar da Hawaye from a local tragedy into a national allegory. Each character embodies a different facet of Nigeria’s ongoing struggle with rural violence, ineffective governance, and the erosion of community life. Whether it's Uren’s poetic rage, Salami’s tragic pride, or the commander’s cold indifference, the characters in Zubar da Hawaye are deeply human, painfully real, and dramatically unforgettable.
Thematic Concerns
Eziwho Emenike Azunwo’s Zubar da Hawaye (Spilling of Tears) offers a compelling and emotionally charged dramatization of the lived experiences in contemporary Nigeria. Through its layered narrative, the play unveils the devastating consequences of rural insecurity, widespread disenchantment with government institutions, and the harsh realities of survival. Grounded in social realism, it amplifies the voices of marginalized communities whose anguish often goes unheard. Azunwo skillfully weaves together poignant dialogue, evocative symbolism, and lyrical monologues to examine a range of interconnected themes that transcend the boundaries of fiction.
Violence and Insecurity
The most dominant theme in Zubar da Hawaye is the pervasive violence that haunts rural communities. The play mirrors the grim reality of communal attacks, often linked to religious extremism and ethnic tension. Azunwo dramatizes how ordinary families are trapped in a cycle of terror, their homes no longer sanctuaries but potential slaughterhouses.
“Fear has become our dearest companion… as everyone awaits survival or death with each new minute.” (p. 20)
This line from Uren encapsulates the omnipresent fear that defines the villagers’ lives. The attack on the Salami household—where a father, mother, and son are brutally murdered—stands as a microcosm of larger national crises.
“I watched my father soaked in his own blood… I saw my brother fall like a log of wood…” (p. 59)
The graphic imagery reinforces the psychological impact of violence and its dehumanizing effects.
Institutional Failure and Government Neglect
The play critically examines the failures of state institutions to protect vulnerable populations. When Salami and the Village Head approach Commander Ibrahim for help, they are met with indifference and cowardice. The commander’s reaction is emblematic of systemic collapse:
“We don’t have all it takes to face these people... protect yourselves.” (p. 36)
This official disengagement leaves citizens to their own devices, prompting feelings of betrayal and abandonment. The Commander’s refusal is not just a logistical failure—it is a moral one.
“School can always wait but staying alive first is the most precious thing…” (p. 36)
This line, though pragmatic, highlights a worldview where education, development, and dignity are sacrificed at the altar of bare survival.
Communal Solidarity and Resistance
In contrast to the failings of the state, the villagers attempt to build a system of mutual protection. Salami proposes a local defense mechanism:
“We prepare ourselves now—form a local watch and security team. Each family and household must participate.” (p. 27)
Though armed only with cutlasses, sticks, and locally-made guns, the community's willingness to organize underscores the enduring spirit of collective survival.
Even in the face of devastating loss, the villagers find unity through shared grief and anger. In the final act, Uren’s monologue catalyzes the village’s transformation from passive victims to potential resisters:
“I think we’ve endured enough. It’s time to meet the devil face to face—in hell.” (p. 60)
The villagers respond with chants and war songs, symbolizing a communal awakening and a refusal to be silenced any longer.
Female Strength and Suffering
Azunwo portrays women as both bearers of suffering and reservoirs of resilience. Mrs. Salami, despite her terror, chooses to remain with her husband rather than flee to safety:
“Yes, I know it's not an easy decision. But this is our home… Even if we run away… what happens to those who aren’t fortunate enough to have relatives ready to help them out?” (p. 41)
Her decision reflects the sacrifices that women make to preserve family and community. Uren, too, emerges as a voice of conscience and defiance. Her transformation from a playful girl to a grieving warrior amplifies the theme of female agency in the aftermath of tragedy.
“Survival is not cowardice—it is instinct.” (p. 60)
This line reframes survival itself as an act of courage, especially for those left behind.
The Power of Memory and Testimony
Uren’s narration and monologues serve as a testimonial framework through which memory becomes a political and dramatic act. She bears witness to violence not only for catharsis but to hold power accountable.
“They say the world only burns when the fire reaches our doorsteps… But what happens when the flames… jump into our lane?” (p. 59)
By vocalizing her pain, Uren ensures the dead are not forgotten. Her act of speaking names the violence, challenges silence, and calls for reckoning.
The Collapse of Moral Authority
Beyond physical violence, the play explores moral decay—especially in leadership. Commander Ibrahim mocks the villagers’ desperation and fears for his own life above all:
“The more you stand here to talk… the more you are risking being a dead man… please, leave now…” (p. 39)
Even the Village Head, though more empathetic, struggles with indecision and is suspected of being complicit or weak:
“Are you with us or against us?” (p. 24)
Azunwo thus interrogates leadership at all levels—how courage and cowardice coexist within the same hierarchy.
Faith, Fanaticism, and Religious Irony
Religion, a central cultural element in Nigerian life, is depicted in both sincere and sinister lights. Joe’s mealtime prayer reflects the community’s spiritual hope:
“The Guardian of our lives… the Protector of our destiny… the Life Giver and the Provider of our graces…” (p. 13)
But the attackers pervert this same faith, using religious language to justify mass murder:
“By the command of the Almighty, I rule this land, and I will burn it to the ground.” (p. 54)
This contrast exposes how religion can serve both as a tool of peace and a weapon of extremism, depending on the wielder.
Themes as Testimonies of a Nation in Crisis
The thematic concerns of Zubar da Hawaye reflect Nigeria’s socio-political landscape, especially the brutal reality of unprotected rural life, rising terrorism, and collective trauma. Yet, amid the despair, the play affirms the possibility of resistance, dignity, and survival. Through carefully crafted characters and emotionally rich language, Azunwo elevates the personal to the political, the local to the universal. As Uren declares:
“We must never forget the blood that soaks our soil. We must never grow too comfortable to speak.” (p. 5 – Author’s Note)
In this, the play becomes not just theatre—but a civic duty and cultural archive.
Conclusion
Eziwho Emenike Azunwo’s Zubar da Hawaye (Spilling of Tears) stands as a profoundly moving and politically charged dramatic work that transcends the stage to function as a lamentation, a mirror, and a rallying cry. At once personal and collective, the play chronicles the unraveling of a rural community gripped by violence, neglected by state power, and ultimately driven to its own moral crossroads. In dramatizing the brutal impact of insurgency and governmental failure on ordinary lives, Azunwo crafts a narrative that captures the psychological, emotional, and cultural fractures of a nation in crisis.
The tragic fate of the Salami household—father, mother, and son murdered in cold blood—serves not only as a turning point in the play’s plot but as a symbolic rupture in the fabric of communal identity and familial safety. Their deaths echo beyond the stage, representing the countless unspoken atrocities that have haunted the Nigerian landscape. Yet, in the aftermath of devastation, it is Uren—daughter, survivor, and emerging voice of the oppressed—who transforms grief into defiance. Her final words, spoken through tears, resonate with a powerful resolve:
“I fear what will happen now that we’ve been pushed to the edge… I think we’ve endured enough. It’s time to meet the devil face to face—in hell.” (pp. 59–60)
With these lines, Uren not only captures the collective trauma of her village but articulates a pivotal shift—from mourning to mobilization. She becomes the vessel through which memory is preserved, injustice is named, and resistance is born.
Thematically, Zubar da Hawaye is a rich and layered work, engaging with urgent issues such as the collapse of institutional protection, the psychological toll of conflict, the moral ambiguity of self-defense, and the resilience of women and youth. Commander Ibrahim’s callous dismissal—
“We don’t have all it takes to face these people… protect yourselves” (p. 36)—
lays bare the emptiness of state authority, while the villagers’ decision to form self-organized defenses gestures toward an alternative model of communal agency and solidarity.
Azunwo’s dramaturgy draws deeply from the aesthetics of indigenous performance, weaving together Hausa and English language, traditional drumming, communal rituals, and spiritual symbolism to ground the narrative in lived cultural experience. In doing so, he aligns with the legacy of African dramatists like Wole Soyinka and Tess Onwueme, for whom theatre is not merely artistic expression but a vessel of cultural memory, political critique, and social transformation.
In its totality, Zubar da Hawaye offers no easy answers, nor does it romanticize resistance. Instead, it offers something more enduring: a call to remember, to speak, and to act. It insists that the tears of the oppressed must not be hidden beneath the surface of silence, that the ghosts of the fallen must not fade unspoken into the soil. Through this work, Azunwo affirms the enduring power of theatre to confront injustice, elevate marginalized voices, and preserve the dignity of the forgotten.
Ultimately, Zubar da Hawaye emerges not only as a tragedy of a people but as a triumph of artistic courage—a drama that demands we reckon with our collective fails while daring us to envision healing, even if that path begins in the valley of tears.
References
Azunwo, E. E. (2025). Zubar da Hawaye [Spilling of Tears]. Port Harcourt, Nigeria: Covenant Daystar Publishers.
Osofisan, F. (2001). Insidious treasons: Drama in a postcolonial state. Ibadan, Nigeria: Opon Ifa Readers.
Onwueme, T. D. (2009). Tell it to women: An epic drama for women. Detroit, MI: Wayne State University Press.
Soyinka, W. (1976). Myth, literature and the African world. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
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