There are plays you watch, and there are plays you carry home. IYA ARIKE belongs firmly to the latter.
On premiere night, what unfolded on stage was not just theatre; it was life, distilled. It felt familiar in a way that unsettled many in the audience. Not because it was predictable, but because it was deeply personal. You could see it in the silence, in the way people leaned forward, in the burst of excitement, and in the quiet wiping of eyes. This was not just Iya Arike’s story. It was everyone’s story.
At the centre of that emotional universe stood Oluwaseun Odukoya (popularly known as Aunty Shine the Storyteller), whose performance did more than impress; it connected. She carried Iya Arike with a tenderness that felt lived-in, not performed. There was something deeply human in the way she shifted between strength and fragility, humour and pain. One moment, she was commanding the room; the next, she was reduced to a silence so heavy it said everything words could not.
What made her portrayal remarkable was not just skill, but truth. Her body language told stories before her voice arrived. Her pauses were deliberate, and her emotional transitions seamless. She understood the weight of the character—and more importantly, she respected it. Watching her felt like witnessing someone remember, not act.
But beyond the performance, the soul of IYA ARIKE lies in its message.
Speaking to the NTA crew after the show, the playwright, director, and producer, Om’Oba Jerry Adesewo, offered a perspective that immediately reframed the entire experience. For him, Iya Arike is not a single character.
“It is the story of my mother, your sister, my friend, your neighbour, and every woman out there who has experienced one or more of the issues raised in the play.”
That statement explains why the audience reacted the way it did. The play did not isolate its subject; it expanded it. It takes one woman’s journey and turns it into a collective mirror. The struggles, the sacrifices, the quiet resilience—these are not fictional constructs. They are lived realities, often ignored, sometimes forgotten.
The production asks a simple but piercing question: Do we truly see the women who hold everything together?
Iya Arike explores the emotional cost of being “strong”, the invisibility of sacrifice, and the quiet dignity with which many women endure. Yet, it does not drown in sorrow. There are moments of warmth, humour, and even joy—reminders that within hardship, life still finds a way to breathe.
Interestingly, the clarity of that storytelling extended into the casting itself. When asked about the process, Adesewo, who is also the FCT Chairman of the National Association of Nigerian Theatre Arts Practitioners, revealed that it was anything but conventional.
“I had no trouble casting Iya Arike,” he said—then quickly corrected himself with a knowing smile. “I had trouble casting Iya Arike because, even before writing the very first line, I had decided who would play that character.”
It was a decision rooted in certainty rather than convenience. And watching on stage, it is difficult to argue with that choice. “You’ll agree with me that I made no mistake,” he joked.
Indeed, he didn’t, because what Odukoya delivered was not just a performance—it was alignment. The writing, the vision, and the embodiment all met at a point where the character felt inevitable, as though no one else could have carried her story in quite the same way.
By the time the curtain fell, the applause was not just for artistic excellence—it was for recognition. For truth. For memory.
IYA ARIKE reminds us that theatre, at its best, is about encounter. It brings us face-to-face with the lives we overlook, the voices we silence, and the love we often take for granted.
And in doing so, it leaves behind something rare: not just admiration, but reflection. That is the magic called Iya Arike.