Review: Limp Wrist & The Iron Fist (Brixton House)

Review by Lily Melhuish

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

If theatre is meant to make you feel something, Limp Wrist & The Iron Fist hits you square in the chest. Written and produced by Emmanuel Akwafo and directed by Nathanael Campbell, this bold new play is inspired by Akwafo’s own coming-out story and those of his friends. At its heart, it’s a reminder that laughter really is the best medicine, and that no matter how hard things get, we must keep pushing forward.

The opening scene is an assault on the senses: loud, bright, and gloriously chaotic. A remixed version of Bizet’s Habanera blares as the cast performs synchronised movements, a collision of ballet and hip-hop. It looks like pure spectacle, until it becomes clear this mayhem symbolises the characters sprinting for a bus as it drives away. It’s charming, assertive, and instantly signals that this production will turn expectations on its head. You will watch. You will listen. You will learn.

Stranded with time to kill, the group commit themselves to a full-blown drag ball reenactment while waiting for a bus that seems to be on permanent diversion. Armed with nothing but puffer coats and flexible hips, they perform for no one but themselves. They chant “We at the bus stop,” and the audience chants back with gusto. Later, the bus ride itself is so bonkers it feels hallucinatory, wildly silly and performative, and you hardly spare a thought for the poor fellow passengers because the joy is so infectious. 

From there, the energy never dips. The play dives headfirst into the trials and triumphs of being Black and gay in modern London, navigating faith, masculinity, and identity in a society that often silences you. Huge themes—racism, homophobia, religion, sexual assault—are tackled head-on, with no shame and noble sensibility. These conversations happen amongst friends, and that intimacy makes them hit harder. It’s oddly comforting to see a group challenge each other. Opinions aren’t excused under the safety net of friendship; this is a chosen family, and they need to know where they stand.

And yet, for all its playful chaos, the tension simmers. Jokes poke exposed nerves, and you sense the snap coming. When anger and frustration boil over, their night out slips away and the club becomes a distant memory. Each character gets their moment to shine, delivering monologues that feel ripped from lived experience. That shift is handled with care, and it’s what elevates this production beyond pure entertainment.

The performances are what make this chaos sing. Noah Thomas brings nuance to Nathaniel, a man searching for pride in his vulnerability, playful in nature but exhausted from defending himself. Prince Kundai as Monday drives the narrative with force, often frustrated by the others’ silences, mistaking self-defence for passiveness. His presence is commanding, a reminder of generational struggle that grounds the play’s exuberance. Romeo Mika gives Joseph a tender naivety as the baby of the group, the latest to come out. His climactic monologue is a gut punch, handled with such respect and weight that it embeds itself deep in your bones, a tonal shift that cements this production as something truly special. Completing the foursome, Tyler Orphé-Baker dances effortlessly between goofy joker and caring friend, his comedic timing impeccable and his charisma undeniable.

The script is laced with queer pop culture references and rhythmic wordplay, one inspired rhyme pairing “Wray & Nephew” with “Pray and Rescue” was a particular favourite of mine. Akwafo’s writing is bold and lyrical, sometimes teetering on the edge of poetic flamboyance. At moments, the dialogue feels almost too polished; these men conclude arguments with lines that sound like they belong in a manifesto rather than a messy night out. But that’s a minor quibble, it’s only because the writing is so strong that I think it could afford a bit of clumsiness at times, some natural human awkwardness. Beneath the eloquence is raw truth, and Akwafo isn’t afraid to leave the door ajar, letting us sit with unresolved questions about faith, masculinity, and identity.

Movement director Annie Lunnette Deakin-Foster keeps the stage alive with physicality that feels both precise and natural. The actors fling themselves across the small space, climbing scaffolding that doubles as a bus stop. The design choices amplify this energy: Amelia Jane Hankin’s set is stark yet flexible, Jahmiko Marshall’s lighting is bright and unapologetic, and Pierre Flasse’s sound design is loud and unforgiving. Together, with Nathanael Campbell's exceptional direction, they create a world that feels both celebratory and claustrophobic, a perfect reflection of the play’s themes.

One line lingers: “When you’re Black and gay, there are no balloons.” It’s a stark truth that resonates even as the stage explodes with color and laughter. Because this isn’t just a story about hardship, it’s about resilience, about carving out joy where the world offers none. By the end, you’ve been to the bus stop, the club, the Thames. You’ve felt the anticipation of a spontaneous night out, the kind that becomes legend. 

Hilarious and incredibly impactful, Limp Wrist & The Iron Fist is more than a play, it’s a celebration, a protest, and a party rolled into one. You leave with a grin, maybe a lump in your throat, and a renewed sense of why theatre matters.

Limp Wrist & The Iron Fist plays at Brixton House Theatre until 29th November. Tickets from www.brixtonhouse.co.uk 

Photos by Helen Murray