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The Guardian - UK
The Guardian - UK
Entertainment
David Jays

Peanut Butter and Blueberries review – politics complicates student romance

 Humera Syed and Usaamah Ibraheem Hussain in Peanut Butter and Blueberries at Kiln theatre.
‘We just tell our mums and get married’ … Humera Syed and Usaamah Ibraheem Hussain in Peanut Butter and Blueberries at Kiln theatre. Photograph: Oluwatosin Daniju

The title? It’s a sandwich filling. In Suhaiymah Manzoor-Khan’s first full-length play, boy woos girl with his signature sarnie: a blend of sweet and crunchy that suits this arrestingly unexpected romance.

They meet at uni in London. Hafsah from Bradford does gender studies and Bilal from Brum struggles with South Asia studies (“Bane of my bleeding life”). They clock each other at a seminar: she scoffs that “he’s one of those Bilals that’s let white people call him Billy”, while he notes she “talks a mile a minute when it comes to colonialism”. Soon he finds excuses to chat: catching feelings in the library, diving into his reading list (“1980s Pakistan was on a mad one”).

Hafsah (a glinting Humera Syed) is unsparing in judgment, sceptical in owlish specs, her headscarf a sweep of kingfisher blue. Bilal (cheeky Usaamah Ibraheem Hussain) is a soft boy acting hard. Some of the obstacles on the path to love involve quirks of character or long-held secrets, others the intolerable pressures bearing down on the growing relationship. Frivolous doesn’t seem an option for these young British Muslims: theirs can’t simply be private choices that shut out the world.

There are other ways this two-hander doesn’t play out via romcom rules. In a theatre culture that skews secular, Manzoor-Khan writes from faith: the characters are practising Muslims aiming to live with intention. “How’s it bringing me closer to God?” wonders Hafsah about her choices, while a declaration of love is followed by: “It’s not complicated – we just tell our mums and get married.”

There’s as much direct address as dialogue: perhaps too much, as the characters narrate their thoughts rather than test them with each other. Manzoor-Khan is a poet so it’s no surprise her text carries salt and darting lyricism. But she’s also an activist, unpicking Islamophobia. Public paranoia and the heavy-handed Prevent strategy shape the action.

The actors can’t touch, so in Sammena Hussain’s engagingly performed production they work to charge the space between them – an over-the-shoulder glance, a tender moment in a rainstorm. Between scenes, they often run in circles – in opposite directions then joyously in sync, a moment that lifts the heaviness of the world.

• At Kiln theatre, London, until 31 August

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