Beyoncé Has 600 Instagram Followers
A short play, part one
Illustration by Madeline Horwath, originally published in the New Yorker ‘Shouts and Murmurs’.
Living in Georgia—the Black South—and being born in 2007, Beyoncé has always been a part of my life. Beginning high school, as social media began playing an increasingly pivotal part in life and social survival, questions surrounding celebrity-worship and parasocial relationships began to pervade my imagination. Namely, when RENAISSANCE released, I remember my first thought being, how silly is it that grown adults are acting this way over this fellow grown woman whom they do not know? What are they escaping from, I thought? Maybe capitalism? Maybe the harsh realities of the real world? Okay. Fair enough. But then, I remembered why I found them so ridiculous in the first place. My peers, who were acting just like these adults, were naive like me, and still largely untouched by the concerns of the real world. This idol worship transcended age and circumstances. So what was the deal with all these unimpeachable idols, these appointed beacons of culture and perfection? What would happen to us, collectively, if these beacons were blown out, made “regular” like us? Who’d be our idols then? What would happen if Beyoncé had only 600 Instagram followers? This is the beginning of a play that begins to attempt to ask that question.
To be published weekly.
SETTING: We are in the beating, thumping heart of the picturesque South. Maybe Georgia, maybe Virginia. Wherever it is, it’s somewhere that, upon seeing it, evokes only the positive parts. The marigolds, the humming rivers, the forever in-seasoness of everything. Everything, even the animals, the trees, alike the fruit that the trees bear, the honeysuckle. Everything. We are in a place of fruitful introspection and tranquility. A place that bears fruit that feeds not the part of us that we call ‘hunger’, but the part of us that we call our ‘soul’. Nothing bad ever happens here. Sure, bad things take place in this place. Certainly. But only in the same way that bad things take place under God. There is murder and there is the unspeakable. Certainly. But these things do not ‘happen’ here, in that sense. They happen in the same way that although these same things technically take place under God, we say that God does not cause them to happen. Humans do. Evil do. It is said that evil is not under God’s jurisdiction, only Good. In that same sense, evil does not happen here, only Good. Evil can only ever exist here insofar as it trespasses upon the inherent goodness of the place. The sky smells of marigolds, and renewal. This is where we are. However, we will not get to actually see any of this. Because this play takes place in darkness. In bare, dark spaces illuminated by artificial light. Light from screens and lightbulbs. Light manufactured and controlled not by God or by Goodness, but by Man. That is where this play takes place.
AT RISE: Artificial light comes up on a living room. Perhaps four little lamps emanating tungsten light sit on four corners of a rug in the living room. Nɪʏᴀ, a sixteen-year old girl, is standing and singing, vigorously and desperately, to her mother, Eᴠᴇ, who is sitting on their pink couch, at once perplexed and amused.
NOTE: A slash (/) indicates where the next speech begins.
SCENE 1NIYA C'MON ON NOW BABY IT'S YOU-OOH-OOH-OOH!
EVE (silence.)
NIYA YOU-OOH-OOH-OOH!
EVE (silence.)
NIYA MOM! YOU-OOH-OOH-OOH!
EVE I don’t know what you’re talking about.
NIYA Mom. I’m literally going to kill myself.
EVE Niya. What-what is this? What are you doing?
NIYA I’m fucking singing Beyonce Mom!/ Why
EVE /Stop it with the vulgarities, Niya! I’m serious.
NIYA I’m sorry. It’s just, it’s Beyonce! You remember what you say! “It’s just so hard not to curse when talking about her!”
EVE (silence.)
NIYA MOM WHAT DID I DO WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO ME?
EVE Honey, I swear to you, on my soul, I’m not trying to “do anything to you” right now. I am genuinely confused, sweetheart. I don't know who “Beyonkay” is.
NIYA Beyonce, mom! “Say!” As in “say my name, say my name”.
EVE You want me to say your name?
NIYA No!
EVE I’m sorry, Niya. I mean, I don’t know what to say to you right now.
Beat
NIYA Hold up..
EVE Yes?
NIYA (pointedly) They don’t love you like I love you.
Pause
EVE I love you too, honey.
NIYA /AGHHHHHHHH!!!
EVE /I’m sorry!!
Nɪʏᴀ exits.
SCENE 2Lights go down on the living room, and rise, stage right, on Nɪʏᴀ’s bedroom. Her room is lit similarly, but the light is purple. Perhaps from a lava lamp, purple light bulbs, or LED lights. There’s a collage of 4 by 4 photo prints on her wall. Various RnB/Hip-Hop artists and pop culture, specifically Black pop-culture, paraphernalia. The room is generally messy, but not a dump. A typical teenage-girl room. Nɪʏᴀ ravages through her room like a wild beast searching for some holy prey. She nearly breaks her dresser looking through it, and by the end of her search her floor is barely, if at all, visible, due to the clothes that she has uncarefully thrown on it. She quickly and frantically pulls out her phone. A ring. A ring. A ring. The ringing stops abruptly.
NIYA Sydney!!!!
SYDNEY (from the phone)
What’s up girl?!
NIYA (dancing along)
SMACK IT, SMACK IT IN THE WHAT?
SYDNEY What?
NIYA SYDNEY! In the WHAT?
SYDNEY NIYA! WHAT!
Nɪʏᴀ begins to uncontrollably laugh. Anxiously, ludicrously, like on the verge of a nervous breakdown.
SYDNEY Niya! Niya!
She continues laughing.
SYDNEY NIYA! WHAT’S WRONG?
NIYA (in between laughs)
I think..I think I need you. To come over, Sydney.
SYDNEY Niya, I’m not even in the state right now. You know this? We just talked, girl?
She continues laughing.
NIYA (amidst laughter)
Oh. Right.
SYDNEY I need you to tell me what’s wrong Niya.
She continues laughing.
SYDNEY Niya. Inhale twice, and exhale.
Nɪʏᴀ tries. Sloppily. Amidst laughter.
SYDNEY Inhale sharply, Niya.
She does. Over and over. Slowly, she stops laughing. Silence.
SYDNEY Are you okay?
NIYA I don’t think so.
SYDNEY Can you tell me what’s wrong?
Pause.
NIYA Do you know. Who. Beyonce is?
SYDNEY No. I do. not.
Nɪʏᴀ giggles a bit, but catches herself. She inhales twice, then exhales.
NIYA Okay. Then no, I am not okay.
SYDNEY And why do you say that?
Nɪʏᴀ ignores this, and grabs her phone. She swipes and types for a bit. Then, silence.
SYDNEY Niya.
NIYA (silence.)
SYDNEY Niya?
NIYA Oh my god.
SYDNEY Niya, what?
Nɪʏᴀ does some more typing and swiping.
NIYA Look at what I just sent you.
Pause.
NIYA You looking, girl?
SYDNEY Yeah?
NIYA And do you know her? Have you ever seen that woman?
A beat.
SYDNEY No.
Nɪʏᴀ hangs up the phone abruptly, and fearfully, and throws it somewhere. She sits for a while, then stands, then sits again, then stands again. The phone rings. She grabs it and powers it off. She looks around. Looking for something, anything. Suddenly, she notices her collage. She runs to it. She stands still for a little while, transfixed on one. She rips it off the wall.
NIYA MOOOOMMMMMM!!!!!
Eᴠᴇ enters.
EVE Niya! What’s wrong?
NIYA (putting the album cover up to Eᴠᴇ’s face.)
Why the fuck is Grandma wearing Beyonce’s transparent-diamond-top and blue jeans?!
To be continued..
pure brilliance