バレエと黒さ：オユンカン・ブレイスウェイト＆カッサ・パンチョの対談

Would you cover up a murder for someone you loved? That’s the central question driving Oyinkan Braithwaite’s thrilling and darkly comedic novel My Sister, The Serial Killer. The novel opens with an urgent phone call; there’s been a murder, and someone must help clean it up. That someone is Korede, a nurse living in Lagos, Nigeria. It isn’t the first time Korede has received such a call. It’s the third time, now, that a man has been killed by her impulsive, charismatic and impossibly beautiful sister Ayoola, presumably in self-defence. Once would be a horrible accident. Twice, a terrible coincidence. But three? That makes a serial killer.

From November 26 to 29, audiences will have a chance to see a ballet adaptation of My Sister, the Serial Killer at Sadler’s Wells, staged by Cassa Pancho through her company Ballet Black. Founded in 2001 to address the dearth of professional Black and Asian ballet dancers in the UK, Ballet Black has redefined ballet – who performs it, how it looks and whom it represents. 

Below, Oyinkan Braithwaite and Cassa Pancho discuss their shared desire to expand how Black stories are told. 

Cassa Pancho: I read My Sister, The Serial Killer during the pandemic. I loved it. I hate traditional ballet stories where women are constantly saved by men or killing themselves because the man doesn’t like them. I am always on the lookout for something to turn into a ballet that doesn’t feel like a woman is at the hands of male violence. There are themes of that in the book, but it felt really funny, dark and very stageable. It just kept burning away in the back of my mind. 

Oyinkan Braithwaite: When I learned about what you wanted to do, I was immediately on board. Ballet Black felt like the right company, because it’s important to Ballet Black that people of colour see diversity on stage. My Sister, the Serial Killer is a very Black story. I had complete peace of mind as far as the format and the company it was being handed over to. 

OB: What do you think audiences have connected with most? 

CP: I sit in the audience of every show and I do hear them laugh at every murder.

OB: No sympathy!

CP: At all! I think they connect with the relationship of the sisters and Korede’s guilt that grows, particularly when she thinks she’s going to lose Tade. They find the murders – the rolling up of bodies in the sheets and chucking them in the river – funny, but those real human emotions are what audiences connect with most. How about the book? What do you hear from people when they read it?

OB: Definitely the sisterhood. A lot of people gift the book to their sisters. Readers were tired of seeing women as victims. One thing that makes me really happy, even though I didn’t set out with that objective, is when people say it’s their first introduction to a Nigeria they hadn’t known about before. It forces you to realise the power of the pen, which is intimidating, but it’s a wonderful privilege to be able to shine a light on your country in a positive way. 

“We don’t all look alike, but we have a shared Blackness. But it doesn’t mean we’re a monolith. Our histories are not the same” – Cassa Pancho

CP: It’s a similar thing to be able to take a story and to put it on stage with Black women as the leads and not the victims. After the murder of George Floyd, we were constantly being asked, “Can you come and tell us about all the racism you’ve experienced?” No one said, “Come tell us about ballet, or what it’s like as a dancer.” I would read interviews with Caucasian dancers, companies, directors and choreographers with no mention of diversity or race. That victim trauma tag always gets assigned to anyone of colour.

OB: I did an event last night and someone asked why my characters do these really hinky things but feel no shame. These characters came to me and didn’t tell me about their shame. I address some heavy themes in my work, but I like there to be joy, for it to be freeing. 

CP: Taking our stories back and telling them in the way that we want to is essential. We don’t all look alike, but we have a shared Blackness. But it doesn’t mean we’re a monolith. Our histories are not the same. You never hear one Caucasian person say something and [then] we say, “All white people are this”, but it continues to happen to us even though we don’t look and think alike. 

OB: With my new novel, I thought about portraying the fact that [in Nigeria] we have different tribes. When I go to America, they’re like, “Oh, do you speak Nigerian?” There’s no such thing as Nigerian because we’ve got many tribes, and each tribe has its own language and culture. Even within this one country, we don’t have the same background. The Black experience is in relation to the white man. Otherwise, there’s no other connection. 

CP: We’d often get asked, “When are you doing a ballet about slavery?” Why do I have to? Have you people not seen enough?

OB: It’s like the assumption of “Why don’t your characters have shame?” I wrote them that way because I can write whatever I want, about whatever I want. It doesn’t have to be social workers and maids. What about the queens? More queens, please. I want to have fun. There’s so much fun to be had and so many stories to be told. We’ve barely scratched the surface. I grew up between London and Nigeria. I know so much more about British history than I do about Nigerian history. I speak English and barely speak Yoruba. At some point, you realise people don’t see you as British, even though British is all you know. There are these conversations you have with yourself when you’re Black and trying to figure out your place. 

I wanted to be a ballerina at some point. I was in this class with seven-year-olds, really doing my best. My dream ended very abruptly. How is the industry now?

“It’s a wonderful privilege to be able to shine a light on your country in a positive way” – Oyinkan Braithwaite

CP: It’s getting better. There’s been more discussion, but it’s not great. Our school is still full of kids who come because they were in a school where they were the only Black kid [and heard] “You can’t have your hair in braids,” or “Your afro is too big.” I hear from adult women who didn’t pursue ballet because they were the only one, or made to feel like they shouldn’t be there. We’ve had kids whose parents have brought them to us, and they didn’t like themselves. They wanted to be blonde and blue-eyed like they see reflected everywhere. They didn’t like their curls, brown skin or brown eyes. Then they come to our school and they see that it’s everywhere, and then they start to not want to be blonde and blue-eyed.

OB: It’s not unique to ballet. I was writing white characters up until I was 18, because that’s all I was consuming. Then I had this epiphany of, this is so weird that you’re doing this, because you’re not white. These characters think and talk like you, so why do you feel like they need to be? 

CP: With our girls, there’s a choice. You can have your shoes and tights be in your own skin tone or you can have pink. Everybody wants pink when they’re in the baby class. When they get to about 10 or 11, they all start switching into the skin tone. I think that’s where awareness of what their place is in the world [starts]. When I started our ballet school in 2002, there were no brown shoes and tights, and there were very few brown dolls – brown anything – to be had. Now, my kids turn up [and] have backpacks and water bottles with brown ballerinas, brown shoes and tights. They have so many options now. 

When we created the brown shoes and tights, the amount of shit we got from people … we weren’t burning pink shoes and tights on big bonfires. We’re just saying these are options, like makeup. Matching your skin tone is not a big deal. It doesn’t take away anything else. The people that get outraged by that are so tiring. Like, I don’t think you even go to see ballet. I don’t think it matters to you that much. You just need to be upset. 

OB: I think they’re so beautiful. It’s about how seamless it is. People will be triggered by anything. 

CP: They sure will.

Shadows by Ballet Black is showing at Sadler’s Wells in London from 26-29 November 2025.

Would you cover up a murder for someone you loved? That’s the central question driving Oyinkan Braithwaite’s thrilling and darkly comedic novel My Sister, The Serial Killer. The novel opens with an urgent phone call; there’s been a murder, and someone must help clean it up. That someone is Korede, a nurse living in Lagos, Nigeria. It isn’t the first time Korede has received such a call. It’s the third time, now, that a man has been killed by her impulsive, charismatic and impossibly beautiful sister Ayoola, presumably in self-defence. Once would be a horrible accident. Twice, a terrible coincidence. But three? That makes a serial killer.

From November 26 to 29, audiences will have a chance to see a ballet adaptation of My Sister, the Serial Killer at Sadler’s Wells, staged by Cassa Pancho through her company Ballet Black. Founded in 2001 to address the dearth of professional Black and Asian ballet dancers in the UK, Ballet Black has redefined ballet – who performs it, how it looks and whom it represents. 

Below, Oyinkan Braithwaite and Cassa Pancho discuss their shared desire to expand how Black stories are told. 

Cassa Pancho: I read My Sister, The Serial Killer during the pandemic. I loved it. I hate traditional ballet stories where women are constantly saved by men or killing themselves because the man doesn’t like them. I am always on the lookout for something to turn into a ballet that doesn’t feel like a woman is at the hands of male violence. There are themes of that in the book, but it felt really funny, dark and very stageable. It just kept burning away in the back of my mind. 

Oyinkan Braithwaite: When I learned about what you wanted to do, I was immediately on board. Ballet Black felt like the right company, because it’s important to Ballet Black that people of colour see diversity on stage. My Sister, the Serial Killer is a very Black story. I had complete peace of mind as far as the format and the company it was being handed over to. 

OB: What do you think audiences have connected with most? 

CP: I sit in the audience of every show and I do hear them laugh at every murder.

OB: No sympathy!

CP: At all! I think they connect with the relationship of the sisters and Korede’s guilt that grows, particularly when she thinks she’s going to lose Tade. They find the murders – the rolling up of bodies in the sheets and chucking them in the river – funny, but those real human emotions are what audiences connect with most. How about the book? What do you hear from people when they read it?

OB: Definitely the sisterhood. A lot of people gift the book to their sisters. Readers were tired of seeing women as victims. One thing that makes me really happy, even though I didn’t set out with that objective, is when people say it’s their first introduction to a Nigeria they hadn’t known about before. It forces you to realise the power of the pen, which is intimidating, but it’s a wonderful privilege to be able to shine a light on your country in a positive way. 

“We don’t all look alike, but we have a shared Blackness. But it doesn’t mean we’re a monolith. Our histories are not the same” – Cassa Pancho

CP: It’s a similar thing to be able to take a story and to put it on stage with Black women as the leads and not the victims. After the murder of George Floyd, we were constantly being asked, “Can you come and tell us about all the racism you’ve experienced?” No one said, “Come tell us about ballet, or what it’s like as a dancer.” I would read interviews with Caucasian dancers, companies, directors and choreographers with no mention of diversity or race. That victim trauma tag always gets assigned to anyone of colour.

OB: I did an event last night and someone asked why my characters do these really hinky things but feel no shame. These characters came to me and didn’t tell me about their shame. I address some heavy themes in my work, but I like there to be joy, for it to be freeing. 

CP: Taking our stories back and telling them in the way that we want to is essential. We don’t all look alike, but we have a shared Blackness. But it doesn’t mean we’re a monolith. Our histories are not the same. You never hear one Caucasian person say something and [then] we say, “All white people are this”, but it continues to happen to us even though we don’t look and think alike. 

OB: With my new novel, I thought about portraying the fact that [in Nigeria] we have different tribes. When I go to America, they’re like, “Oh, do you speak Nigerian?” There’s no such thing as Nigerian because we’ve got many tribes, and each tribe has its own language and culture. Even within this one country, we don’t have the same background. The Black experience is in relation to the white man. Otherwise, there’s no other connection. 

CP: We’d often get asked, “When are you doing a ballet about slavery?” Why do I have to? Have you people not seen enough?

OB: It’s like the assumption of “Why don’t your characters have shame?” I wrote them that way because I can write whatever I want, about whatever I want. It doesn’t have to be social workers and maids. What about the queens? More queens, please. I want to have fun. There’s so much fun to be had and so many stories to be told. We’ve barely scratched the surface. I grew up between London and Nigeria. I know so much more about British history than I do about Nigerian history. I speak English and barely speak Yoruba. At some point, you realise people don’t see you as British, even though British is all you know. There are these conversations you have with yourself when you’re Black and trying to figure out your place. 

I wanted to be a ballerina at some point. I was in this class with seven-year-olds, really doing my best. My dream ended very abruptly. How is the industry now?

“It’s a wonderful privilege to be able to shine a light on your country in a positive way” – Oyinkan Braithwaite

CP: It’s getting better. There’s been more discussion, but it’s not great. Our school is still full of kids who come because they were in a school where they were the only Black kid [and heard] “You can’t have your hair in braids,” or “Your afro is too big.” I hear from adult women who didn’t pursue ballet because they were the only one, or made to feel like they shouldn’t be there. We’ve had kids whose parents have brought them to us, and they didn’t like themselves. They wanted to be blonde and blue-eyed like they see reflected everywhere. They didn’t like their curls, brown skin or brown eyes. Then they come to our school and they see that it’s everywhere, and then they start to not want to be blonde and blue-eyed.

OB: It’s not unique to ballet. I was writing white characters up until I was 18, because that’s all I was consuming. Then I had this epiphany of, this is so weird that you’re doing this, because you’re not white. These characters think and talk like you, so why do you feel like they need to be? 

CP: With our girls, there’s a choice. You can have your shoes and tights be in your own skin tone or you can have pink. Everybody wants pink when they’re in the baby class. When they get to about 10 or 11, they all start switching into the skin tone. I think that’s where awareness of what their place is in the world [starts]. When I started our ballet school in 2002, there were no brown shoes and tights, and there were very few brown dolls – brown anything – to be had. Now, my kids turn up [and] have backpacks and water bottles with brown ballerinas, brown shoes and tights. They have so many options now. 

When we created the brown shoes and tights, the amount of shit we got from people … we weren’t burning pink shoes and tights on big bonfires. We’re just saying these are options, like makeup. Matching your skin tone is not a big deal. It doesn’t take away anything else. The people that get outraged by that are so tiring. Like, I don’t think you even go to see ballet. I don’t think it matters to you that much. You just need to be upset. 

OB: I think they’re so beautiful. It’s about how seamless it is. People will be triggered by anything. 

CP: They sure will.

Shadows by Ballet Black is showing at Sadler’s Wells in London from 26-29 November 2025.