The Quiet Cost of Belonging

I love the theatre. Always have. But for years, I’ve been the person who sees a poster, thinks, That looks brilliant, I should go, and then never actually books the ticket.

Last year, I kept telling myself I’d make time for the things I loved, but somehow, I never did. And then I’d see reviews, hear people talk about a show, and think, I missed it again.

Its a brand new year, so things can change right?

So when Sara recommended A Good House and I saw there were £15 tickets, I booked it immediately. No overthinking. Just a decision. And honestly? I’m so glad I did, because this play has been rattling around in my head ever since.

It’s a play about race, class, and that unspoken thing we all know but don’t always say: that belonging isn’t just about being somewhere. It’s about whether people let you feel like you belong.

Written by South African playwright Amy Jephta, A Good House follows Bonolo and her husband, Sihle, a Black couple who move into an upscale, mostly white neighborhood called Stillwater. They’ve worked hard for this house, this life. But their arrival, and the sudden appearance of a shack on a nearby plot unsettles their neighbours.

What unfolds is deeply uncomfortable.

Their white neighbours try, painfully, to be “polite.”

They dance around what they really want to say. They don’t want to sound prejudiced. But the bias is there, leaking out in these awkward, measured conversations that drip with something unspoken.

And Bonolo and Sihle? They don’t react the same way. She sees what’s happening. She calls it out. He, her husband, doesn’t want to fight. He just wants to enjoy what they’ve built. And so, they push and pull at each other.

There’s a moment that really got me. Sihle turns to Bonolo and says something like, It’s all very well for you, you’ve had a different life. You can afford to fight from the sidelines.

And I felt something tighten in my chest.

Because I know that feeling.

That conflict, when do you push back, and when do you just protect your peace? It’s one I’ve wrestled with in my own life. Some days, I think, Fine. I’ll play the game. I’ll be who you want me to be. And then, other days, I think, No. I don’t want to play your stupid game. I shouldn’t have to.

And that’s the thing, isn’t it?

There’s always a moment where the choice is right in front of you. Do you push back, or do you make peace? In the play, that moment arrives in the form of a signature. There’s something about a signature that makes a thing feel final. A quiet but permanent agreement.

At one point in the play, Bonolo is faced with a choice: whether or not to sign something. I won’t say what, but it’s a moment that stayed with me. It’s not just about what’s written on the page—it’s about what it means.

Signing isn’t just about agreement.

It’s about assimilation.

It’s about acknowledging an unwritten rule: If I do this, I get to stay. If I refuse, I risk making life harder for myself. It’s a contract, not just with the people handing you the paper, but with the entire structure that lets you in but never really welcomes you.

I wanted Bonolo to refuse. I wanted her to stand firm. But I also knew why she didn’t. And that’s what made it so painful. Because assimilation isn’t always about choice. Sometimes, it’s just about survival.

I went to see the play alone, which meant I had no one to dissect it with afterward, no post-theatre debate like I normally do with friends over a drink. But I didn’t need one to know the audience felt it too.

And I wasn’t the only one feeling it. You could sense it in the room.

Sitting in a mostly white audience, I could feel the tension in the room.

Every time the neighbours danced around their words, I could sense the collective breath-holding.

Were they uncomfortable?

Did they recognise themselves?

Did they leave reflecting on the ways they, too, participate in these quiet exclusions?

I don’t know.

But I do know this play has stayed with me. And maybe that’s what’s been sitting with me the most, not just the play itself, but what it’s made me think about in my own life.

Because recently, I’ve been questioning where I want to exist more deliberately. What spaces I want to show up in. Which ones I no longer feel like negotiating with. There’s something freeing in the idea of choosing spaces that don’t require me to fight for air.

Maybe that’s why this play unsettled me so much. Because it’s made me sit with a question I can’t ignore: where do I want to belong, and what am I willing to do (or not do) to stay there?

I’ve been thinking about this play for days now, and I still don’t have a clean resolution. But I don’t think it’s the kind of play that gives you answers. It just hands you something raw and says, Here. Sit with this.

And I’m sitting with it.

Because for me, A Good House isn’t just about South Africa.

It’s about everywhere. It’s about the spaces we exist in and the ways we negotiate our place within them.

It’s about what we sacrifice, consciously or unconsciously, to belong. And maybe, most of all, it’s about how belonging is never really ours to grant in the first place.