And I’m the Queen of Sheba


In the spectacular far reaches of remote Australia lies a debt-ridden, drought-exhausted cattle station.

Station owner, Alma, a robust seventy-nine-year-old, refuses to relinquish her property despite the cattle long gone and the bank threatening seizure.

Out of the blue a wealthy stranger appears bearing gifts. Alma spies a plan of salvation. Hope is now on her horizon and prosperity is in the air. However, a thunderous storm from her past is now rolling her way.

And I’m the Queen of Sheba probes the impact of war, invasion and displacement for Second World War victims and First Nations people.

Using magical realism, humour and pathos, playwright Kate Wyvill explores the human need for safety and a place to belong.

  • comedy, contemporary, drama, first nations, historical, linear, magical realism, multimedia, political, situational, theatre for social comment
  • 90
  • 4 total
  • 1 female identifying, 3 male identifying
  • women, war, survival, resilience, religion, regional/remote/rural, refugees, reconciliation, political/social, moral dilemma, loyalty, loss, identity, history, grief, first nations, fear, environment, cultural difference, climate change, belonging, australian history
  • 18+
  • racially charged language, ethnically charged language
  • yes
  • young adult, adult, teen
  • Australian Plays Transform


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Male | 60+ | under 3 minutes
Starts on page 73

EXTRACT: Just a drive? It was sixteen hours of hell. Beggin’ me. Beggin’ me to turn back. Sayin’ he’d be a good boy. Askin’ me to stop. Screamin’ and cryin’. Writhin’ around like a cut snake. I thought he was goin’ to jump out. Had to lock the doors. He’s pullin’ on the handle so hard, came right off in his hand. Buttin’ his head against the windows. Then exhausted falls asleep. What a relief. Bit of peace. Then his eyes snap open and it starts all over again. Please Uncle Frank. Please. Don’t you love me? What have I done wrong? Please Frank. Sobbing for his dead Daddy. Broke me heart it did. Every mile north, another shattered piece of me left by the side of the road. The longest journey of me life. I should’ve seen the writin’ on the wall then. By the time we got to the home he’d gone all quiet and there was this look in his eye. I tried to shake his hand, say goodbye like, he refused, put his hand behind his back and just bore into my eyes with that look …cold. Dead. Sometimes on my trip into town I’d catch a lad looking at me with that same look, probably just me imaginings but did think maybe, was it him? I wonder if he’d stayed where we’d be now?

Psychological abuse

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