A few days later, another role comes up. This one in a pilot episode of a soap opera that, according to the producer, is to be the Nollywood version of
Friends. I am brought in to play a white guy who has recently moved to the main character’s neighborhood. There is the possibility of a recurring role, so I am particularly excited on the first day of shooting.
The production company office is empty when I arrive. I knock on a few doors, but no one is there. Back outside, I find the director on his cell phone, frantically calling all the actors who are supposed to already be shooting scenes. He sees me and apologizes, but says that I will have to wait a few minutes for the actors in my scene to show up. Minutes turn into hours, and the necessary cast members do not assemble until well into the afternoon, at which point the director sits everyone down for a lecture on how to behave properly in a professional setting. One by one he admonishes them for their tardiness. I sit in a corner, comfortable knowing that I had been on time. But then he is speaking to me.
“Isn’t that right, William?”
“Isn’t what right?”
“A professional actor does not chew gum during a meeting,” he says. Everyone is looking at me. “Is that how they do it in America? Do the famous actors sit there chomping on a piece of gum while the director speaks?”
“Um, I really wouldn’t --"
"No, they don’t,” he says. My face and neck are very hot all of the sudden, and I hang my head, trying not to move my jaw.
Admonishments done with, we all walk to a local soccer stadium to shoot a few scenes. Within minutes a guard appears and kicks us out for not having permission to film there. Then it’s on to a grocery store, its aisles crowded with shoppers just out from work. Two shots take three hours. Finally it is time for my scene, set in a tacky gift shop whose owner is ready to close.
Two actresses are to spot me as the potentially wealthy new neighbor and chat me up. I am supposed to become indignant and unleash a self-righteous diatribe about the money-grubbing proclivities of Nigerian women, then storm out of the store. Despite the questionable merit of the writing, I am thrilled to be able to test out my acting chops. My last meaty role had been in a poorly attended college production of a Steve Martin play.
The thirteen hours of waiting are finally over. The scene begins, and the first actress gets one line off. Then the power goes out.
Outside on the street, the actors and crew laugh and pass around bottles of spiked pineapple juice. No one seems frustrated. Even the director is smiling and sipping a drink. They are used to the delays, the frustrations, the prickling heat. I stand to the side, upset that the whole miserable day had come to nothing. I realize that if I am going to make it in Nollywood, I have to adapt. So I take a deep breath and rejoin the group. They pass me a bottle and I take a sip of the bitter drink, then press the cool bottle to my forehead.
