Jordan E. Cooper’s ‘Ain’t No Mo’’ @ Soul Rep Theatre Company
—Rickey Wax
What happens when the U.S. government offers Black Americans a one-way ticket to Africa?
That’s the jumping-off point of Ain’t No Mo’, the razor-sharp, genre-defying, and emotionally explosive play by Fort Worth native Jordan E. Cooper—presented in its North Texas premiere by Soul Rep Theatre at the Kalita Humphreys Theater. First produced off-Broadway in 2019 and later making waves in its short but groundbreaking Broadway run in 2022, Ain’t No Mo’ was nominated for six Tony Awards and cemented Cooper’s status as a bold new voice in American theater.
At just 27, Cooper made history as the youngest Black American playwright ever produced on Broadway. Known for his biting wit, AfroFuturist imagination, and fearlessness in mixing satire with searing truths, Cooper has become a vital chronicler of Black identity and erasure, using theater as both scalpel and sledgehammer. With Ain’t No Mo’, he unleashes an evening of theatrical “carrying on,” as my auntie would say, with raucous humor, biting political commentary, and unflinching heart.
From the moment Juvenile blasts through the speakers (“Cash Money takin’ over for the 99 and the 2000s!”), we know this isn’t going to be a quiet night at the theater. Co-directed with precision by Guinea Bennett-Price and Ashley Oliver, the production never loses sight of the play’s emotional core amid its wild tonal shifts. What follows is a series of interconnected vignettes, part satire, part tragedy, part theatrical sermon, woven together by our flight attendant and spirit guide, Peaches—played with magnetic brilliance by Keeylan Singleton.
Peaches opens the show with a fiery prologue that’s part curtain speech, part drag-infused prophecy, inviting the audience onto Flight 1619, the final departure for Black Americans to return to the Motherland. Singleton’s Peaches struts and sermonizes with equal parts flair and fury, scanning boarding passes like she’s checking souls into salvation. Her presence alone is enough to anchor the show, but what Cooper has constructed is far richer and more layered than a single character arc—it’s a full-bodied reckoning with Black identity, cultural erasure, and what it means to stay in a country that keeps showing you the exit.
The first vignette drops us into a funeral—dated November 4, 2008—the night Barack Obama was elected president. But we’re not mourning a person, we’re laying to rest “Brother Righttocomplain.” Amid the wails, shrieks, and theatrical hollering that would make any COGIC televangelist proud (shout out to Pastor Freeman’s antics), the moment is deceptively joyful. It’s a reflection of the hope many felt—that maybe, just maybe, America had turned a corner. But like all good satire, Cooper twists the knife. This ain’t just hope—it’s hubris. And that’s exactly the kind of energy this play thrives in: the space between what we’re promised and what we’re left with.
From there, Peaches returns, breaking the fourth wall, texting mid-monologue, and laying out the surreal logistics of boarding a cultural exodus. Then we find ourselves in a clinic, where Trisha (Jori Jackson) waits to terminate a pregnancy. What begins as a lovers' quarrel spirals into a chilling, metaphysical confrontation. Damien, the father of her child (played by Djore Nance), appears with bloodied bullet holes in his back—a ghost, a memory, a martyr. Trisha doesn’t want to bring another Black child into a world that devours them. And Damien pleads for his legacy to live on.
The scene is devastating in its simplicity, powerfully acted, and rooted in real-life horror: the staggering Black maternal mortality rates, the trauma of systemic racism, the generational fear that even love can’t wash away. The waiting room, said to hold over 3 million people, isn’t literal—but it feels true. The stage becomes a metaphor for the impossible decisions many Black women must make, suspended between survival and hope.
Cooper flips the tone again with The Real Baby Mamas of the South Side, a hilarious, biting parody of reality TV culture that’s part Real Housewives, part trap opera. In this absurdist reunion special, four baby mamas yell, claw, and twerk for the cameras, only to slip into eloquent, Ivy League English the moment filming stops. Jori Jackson, Djore Nance, J. Davis Jones, and Tiana Shuntaé Alexander shine here, particularly in the arc of Rachonda (played by Jones), who announces she’s “transitioning”—not genders, but races. Yes, she’s going from white to Black. Transracial.
It’s laugh-out-loud funny and deeply uncomfortable. When Tracy (Alexander) finally explodes, calling out Rachonda’s appropriation, the laughter curdles. Cooper is making a clear statement about cultural theft and performative allyship. Rachonda’s tears center her victimhood, while refusing accountability—a textbook example of “white fragility,” a term coined by sociologist Robin DiAngelo to describe the defensive reactions white people often exhibit when confronted with racial discomfort. Here, it’s a weapon. A mask. And a critique.
We shift again to a Black family at the dinner table—a family that’s “made it.” Marie (Jackson), the eldest, argues against boarding the plane. Why leave a legacy her father worked so hard to build? The American Dream is within reach, she claims, as long as they keep their heads down. But when “Black” itself (portrayed powerfully and hauntingly by Coulter) bursts from the basement and declares, “Our people are dying... the ground is sinking... the blue is hiding itself from the sky,” we see how assimilation becomes survival—but never safety. The family tries to kill “Black,” not once, but several times. It’s darkly comic but all too real—how internalized racism and classism can pit us against ourselves.
Our final two vignettes occur inside a prison. Lakeisha (Jackson again) delivers a heart-wrenching monologue about the love she’s finally ready to give her daughter, now that she has a second chance. And then comes Blue (Whitney LaTrice Coulter), who looks in her bag and finds it feeling “light”: “I had my stuff. I was good. I had a boy. I had a baby. I had my smile.” Coulter’s performance is a masterclass—raw, vulnerable, and painfully human. She passionately demands the warden to get her stuff back. We watch a woman stripped of her dignity by the very system that claimed to “rehabilitate” her. This scene moved the audience to tears.
The set, designed by Scott Tatum, features a rotating platform and a symbolic archway. Children’s figures are frozen in the background, ghostly and silent—suggesting the generations suspended in limbo between memory and movement. Jasmine Woods’ costumes range from grounded realism to campy parody, and in the final scenes, her choice of pristine white on the prison characters signals new beginnings, peace, or maybe even the afterlife. Lighting designer Nicole Iannaccone crafts distinct emotional worlds: cool blue for grief, warm hues for family dinners, bold whites for clarity and transformation.
And then there’s Peaches. After scanning millions of tickets, after guiding others through the gate, she is finally ready to board. But her bag—Miss Bag—won’t budge. “The carrier of our entire story as a people,” Peaches says. And it won’t move. It’s too heavy. Must the plane take off without her?
The scene is devastating. Singleton lives in this moment. The image is a thesis: progress is real, but not all of us get on board. Peaches, who is Black and queer, is still the one left behind. She’s carried everyone else’s baggage—now her own history is too much. The message is clear: intersectionality matters. Marginalized folks within marginalized communities are too often the last called and first left.
Jordan E. Cooper’s language throughout is lyrical, laced with Black vernacular, spoken word, and the rhythm of the streets and the sanctuary. Ain’t No Mo’ is a play that sings, shouts, and sobs all at once. It’s a satire, a ritual, a warning, and a dream deferred. And in Soul Rep’s hands, it’s staged with the care, brilliance, and audacity it deserves.
Run, don’t walk, to see this show.
And bring a bag big enough to carry what it leaves you with.
WHEN: June 5-8, 2025
WHERE: Kalita Humphreys, 3636 Turtle Creek, Dallas
WEB: www.soulrep.org
