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"THE WOMEN OF OWU is a rare thing, a work of beauty, exciting and original beyond any expectations. The play and the production are, simply, superb." The play is on at The Theatre until Saturday evening and seats are still available (Box Office 642350)    GEORGE HUMMER reviews the play. A group of women, the only spoils of a devastating war, sit and mourn for their dead and for their own shattered lives. The victors, detached and arrogant, meet somewhere to decide the fate of those women. It is Euripides’ The Trojan Women seamlessly transferred to Yorubaland, Nigeria, for The Women of Owu. In Femi Osofisan’s hands, what might have been a simple transference produces reverberations that power the play. Iraq? Troy? Kosovo? Yorubaland? In a controlled, powerful, convincing, beautiful drama, Collective Artistes present us with the broken mirror images of ancient, past, and contemporary history. The mating of Greek tragedy and African history is a masterstroke, and the telling of the story in the hands of this cast is clear and uncluttered. The plot is very simple, the dispersal of the women to their conquerors, to become servants, or concubines or slaves. Director Chuck Mike and his choreographer have rehearsed the actors in the rhythms and movements of Nigerian dance and song, and from somewhere the actors have learned the difficult trick of maintaining dramatic tension. The audience never escapes from the palms of their hands. The result is a drama in which the ritualistic and the naturalistic work in tandem to total effect. Though gods rant and quarrel like market traders, the mortal women combine in sinuous choral speaking accompanied by soft drums and rattles, and the tragedy sings itself into one’s head. In a cast that genuinely justifies the term ensemble, there are still standouts. In the Hecuba part, Tosan Edremoda Ugbeye plays Erelu with regal breadth. Restraining herself from seeking sympathy from the audience, she acts with horror in her eyes, beyond any understanding of what has happened. Her faith in the gods is shattered forever. ‘We were always alone, we just did not know,’ she says. Even her compassion is a victim of the war, now that mourning will achieve nothing. As foil to her, Tunde Euba gives us Gesinde, the messenger of the conquerors who is the perpetual foot soldier, carrying out his orders, preserving his own life when death is a commonplace. He is amusing, getting genuine laughs, and chilling. He would be capable of cracking a joke while turning on the gas taps at Auschwitz. As Adumaadan, the only Owu woman left with a living male child, Hazel Holder moves the audience to and beyond tears. Her motherly sensitivity still intact, she is crushed with the others into the wreckage of Owu. The match between her acting and the writing produced true brilliance, and her slow, heartbroken exit was itself heartbreaking. There are fine cameos from Rex Obano as the artist-turned conqueror, Okunade, bestriding the stage like a colossus, and Louisa Eyo as the mother goddess, Lawumi, fly-whisking morality away to give space for petulance. ‘Better than the original’ is a plug too far, but The Women of Owu is a rare thing, a work of beauty, exciting and, oddly, original beyond any expectations. The play and the production are, simply, superb.