In post-Obama America, the government is providing Blacks with one-way flights home to Africa. Black hilarity (both the racial and humor kind) ensues thanks to probably the funniest and most energetic cast I have ever seen on Broadway performing a series of often gasp-worthy sketches. "The Real Baby Mamas of the South Side" skewers "transracial identity" as nimbly as Bravo, and the drag queen (Jordan E. Cooper, also the playwright) who checks people in for the last flight slays with her bejeweled scanner but nobody shakes the Belasco theater quite like the twerking African American earth mother (Ebony Marshall-Oliver) who has been kept in the cellar by the black bougees. Just imagine Clarence Thomas and Candace Owens being forced to confront Aretha Franklin and you'll get the picture.
Ain't No Mo's satire bites just as hard: a young man who begs his girlfriend not to get an abortion turns out to be a gunned-down-by-the-police ghost, and the bag of black culture as overstuffed as the museum in Washington isn't allowed to board the flight.
As a white gay man, I LOVED this show. I'm just not sure how I should pronounce the title when highly recommending it to my friends.
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