“Being Black is a journey marked by resilience; being Black and queer is a journey marked by an unyielding defiance against both racism and homophobia.”
Growing up Black, queer, and from the ends wasn’t just tough – it was war. Every time I left the house in South East London’s Thamesmead, I walked onto a battlefield. My name is Emmanuel Akwafo, and this is my story it’s messy, raw, and unfiltered.
But let’s be clear, the battlefield doesn’t end outside my front door. It follows me onto the stage, into auditions, into every so-called “opportunity” in an industry that insists on telling me who I am, instead of letting me show them.
Being Black and queer isn’t just about embracing yourself. It’s about surviving a world that punishes you for being visible. Add to that a Christian household where queerness wasn’t just questioned but condemned, and suddenly “liberation” in one of the most “progressive” countries feels like a cruel joke.
And then, when you dare to step into the industry, you’re not celebrated for your resilience you’re typecast for it. Black and queer? Suddenly you’re always the sidekick, the comic relief, the trauma porn, the sassy best friend. Never the main character. Never allowed to exist in fullness, softness, or complexity.
The message is clear, you can exist here, but only if you play small. Only if you stay in the box we built for you.
When I came out to my parents at 16, I thought the hardest part was over. Instead, I was dragged to church for “conversion therapy” sessions, or as they like to tell me time and time again “pray the gay away” as if my queerness was a stain that could be scrubbed away. At the same time, I was carrying the weight of sexual assault at boarding school in Ghana, A 10-year-old forced into silence and pain, my childhood torn from me, my innocence stolen, and adulthood thrust upon me far too soon.
Those scars shaped me, but they also armed me. They gave me a lens through which I now tell stories. Stories the industry doesn’t want to tell. Stories of Black queer lives that don’t fit their mould. Stories that refuse to shrink. My survival? That’s my superpower. And I wield it every time I step on stage or put pen to paper. As a playwright and actor, I’ve seen firsthand how the industry polices our narratives. Black queer characters are flattened into caricatures, and when we fight to write ourselves fully, we’re told those stories are “niche,” “risky,” or “not commercially viable.” That’s why my latest play, Limp Wrist and the Iron Fist, matters. It’s not just a story it’s resistance. It’s a mirror held up to the chaos, beauty, and resilience of Black queer friendships in London. It’s a rejection of the idea that we only exist to prop up someone else’s storyline.
This play isn’t about being a sidekick. It’s about being the protagonist in all our messy, glorious complexity. How can we ever be embraced by the world if we don’t first embrace ourselves? Too long we’ve sought validation from an industry that only sees us in fragments.
But being Black and queer means carrying both rage and defiance and still choosing to stand in our truth. We are not side notes. We are not stereotypes. We are main characters. And it’s about time the industry recognised that. Limp Wrist and the Iron Fist run from 6th – 29th November 2025 at Brixton House, London. This production is more than theatre it’s a demand to see Black queer lives in their fullness.
I’m also crowdfunding to bring other black work to life, covering costs, marketing, and community outreach so our stories reach beyond the stage. Even if you can’t donate, sharing the campaign amplifies voices too often silenced.
This is our time. Our stories are not niche. Our existence is not optional. And we will not stay in the boxes we’ve been forced into.
Because being Black and queer is already a battle, let’s make sure it’s one we win.
Get your tickets. Support the campaign. Share the story.
NEED TO KNOW: Limp Wrist and the Iron Fist plays at Brixton House from 6-29 Nov 2025 – Crowdfunding link
