We sat down for an exclusive interview with Chelsea Bondzanga whose new show Wiggy runs 2-3rd June at Theatre Peckham. Set in a chalet somewhere in the depths of alpine Europe, WIGGY is an afro-surrealist thriller about intersectionality, survival and mysteriously disappearing braids.
WIGGY is described as an “afro-surrealist thriller”— how did you land on that genre blend, and what does afro-surrealism allow you to explore that traditional realism might not?
In retrospect, my first exposure to afrosurrealism was Malorie Blackman’s ‘Nought and Crosses’ but Jordan Peele’s Get Out was when I recognised what it was and became a fan. Watching it was like “why the hell is this so good”? Taking inspiration from a lived experience we recognise as almost otherworldly? Seeing how that manifested in a creative way was exciting. It was affirming. Our lives sometimes don’t feel entirely rooted in a stable ‘reality’ and I felt that more intensely during drama school; which inspired the play. As a Black woman having to suddenly navigate this very rich, very white space, there were a lot of moments where I found myself uncomfortable by how distorted my ‘reality’ had become which all felt very afro-surreal in nature. At times ridiculous, at times frightening. It only made sense to lean into the genre, especially as I’d been toying with the idea of creating a story around mysteriously disappearing braids for a while. I was hungry to push this concept further which is how the genres came to blend together. Afrosurrealism is boundless. It can be dramatic, allegorical or sometimes super on the nose but it is always entertaining. That is the only rule.
Karine, your protagonist, finds herself isolated in an unfamiliar space — both socially and geographically. How much of her experience is rooted in your own reflections on identity, belonging, and code-switching?
I went to a drama school that was overwhelmingly white and upper class. I was the only person of colour in my year. It was the first time I truly had to confront the power of wealth and access. These were people that travelled a lot, that skied a lot. People with parents who took them to theatre as children, who could quote Chaucer on a whim. They had a language for the arts I wasn’t familiar with. And whilst I was partially exposed to this disparity during my undergrad, it was only in drama school, with people who shared my passions that I felt the need to keep up with their tempo. There’s a completely different tempo in these spaces; like a merry-go-a-round you keep trying to get onto. The industry has the same tempo.
I’m not a huge code-switcher, my vernacular is all mixed up but I probably policed myself in the beginning. I find it more isolating to be inauthentic. I’ve left that life behind, the industry is already intense. A lot of “realising” happened after graduating. Karine starts her journey a lot stronger than I did. Although she experiences the same isolation at the chalet, her familial duty is what keeps her afloat against the battle of losing her head and sense of self.
WIGGY features a portrait of the mysterious hiker Wiggy Koch — how did you come up with this figure, and what does he symbolise in the story’s deeper themes of survival and power?
Wiggy Koch is based on a real person, ‘Willi Huber’. He was a former SS officer who was a political prisoner after WWII and then in the 50s settled in New Zealand and discovered a
prominent ski area in the country. Though he admitted it himself, it was three years before he died, he was already hailed a hero at this point. It was crazy to read! I questioned the strength of legacy and memory. At what point can it be altered? At what point is it immortalised? His accomplishments had almost erased his past. And this was because he concealed a part of his identity so another part could carry on living, could even thrive comfortably. It’s survival. The play questions how far would one go to survive? And that also means, what do you have to kill to do that? Wiggy is a character that holds a lot of power in his legacy, and it’s ultimately the things he wants to protect the most. There is also something there about white supremacy. They survive off this fear of erasure, of losing a legacy. It’s delusional. If you can shed a murderous past, you can literally do anything.
For Karine, she does not have that power. A murderous past will change the course of her future. The effects will be felt for generations. And not in news articles or the renaming of statues, but in something more systematically damaging. That is why she fights so hard. This trip could be life-changing. There are no redos.
Hair, particularly disappearing braids, is a key part of the play’s tension. What role does hair play in your storytelling, and how does it connect to themes of control and autonomy?
When first creating this play, the thought of ‘wouldn’t it be weird if her braids disappeared and nobody knows why?’ popped into my head and then it grew from there. Black women’s hair is politicised without us even putting a caveat to it. The way our hair is, the way our hair moves,
the way we style it, there is always an importance over how it looks. That control dates back to centuries of conditioning, so what does it mean to lose that power? How do you keep going? These were the many questions that I tried to explore deeper in the play.
To me, the disappearing braids symbolise losing pieces of yourself unknowingly and the confusion that follows. Not knowing why as well as not knowing what to do to regain your autonomy. At first, Karine is very anxious about her loose braids being found- it’s serious
(realistically, who cares). Over time our hair has become an extension of ourselves and a reflection of our personhood. It was insightful to play with what it means for them to be forcibly taken.
You’ve mentioned being inspired by creators like Octavia Butler and Atlanta—how do these influences show up in your writing, particularly in balancing humour, horror, and social critique?
Octavia Butler is a master at crafting worlds that feel incredibly real; her stories always feel vividly tactile and lived in. I’m especially in awe of how unafraid she is of critiquing her characters. In many of her book series like the Xenogenesis series or the Parable series, she will introduce a character in the first novel, who you quickly grow to love and understand and then will chart the lives of their offspring in the following novel who will have another perception
of their parents, usually a traumatised version. Through this, Butler taught me that you can never be too precious about your characters and the worlds you build. Nobody is infallible. With my protagonist Karine, I was eager to dig into her flaws and explore what it means to use someone and take advantage of people seeking approvable.
To me, Atlanta is the epitome of great afro-surrealism because of how the show balances social critique and comedy. There’s so many moments where the show is simultaneously funny and scary. Socially, these emotions are perceived as binaries but they often weirdly exist in cohesion. It remains a huge inspiration in all my work. South Korean films are the same, Memories of Murder or most notably Parasite. Whether it’s murderous energy or slapstick comedy they manage to maintain the stakes. I’m also hugely inspired by that. In WIGGY, I wanted the humour to cut right through the horror, testing the tension and amping up the eeriness. And it’s not about balance, it’s about intention and where these reactions or emotions come from. Our bodies react in unpredictable ways when confronted by stress, confusion or the need to survive. It makes sense for horror and comedy to co-exist.
As both writer and performer, how do you manage stepping into Karine’s world night after night — and has the live audience response changed your understanding of the character or the play?
At this point in time, we haven’t done a live show yet, we’re currently in the midst of rehearsals. I’ve found it very hard to leave ‘the writer’ at the door. It’s funny, you believe that you have an intimate understanding of all these characters but once a set of actors enter the space and explore these entities through their own lens, you quickly realise maybe you know less than you thought? You can’t impose your interpretation of the story because it remains to be an interpretation. And that’s the magic of theatre. You can’t be bored when you have the joy of always discovering new things. It’s about getting in the room, playing around and seeing what happens.
For example, with Dillon he’s a bit of a fan favourite. We had an intimate rehearsed reading of an earlier draft of the play at The Cockpit Theatre’s ‘New Stuff’ night in October 2024 and I recall him receiving so much positive feedback from our audience, which I wasn’t expecting. People really connected with him and loved that despite his occasional areshole disposition, there is a wall of vulnerability behind his nonchalant facade and it’s been wonderful seeing him slowly being brought to life in the rehearsal room. It’s like I’m getting to know him all over again. As a writer-performer, you have to welcome exploration and be open to accept. It’s not just about what it means to you anymore but what it can mean for others. You know how they say it takes a village to raise a child… you give birth to a story, a community nurtures it and then we let it fly.