What’s the story?

Two young men, Rahim and Azhar, meet at an Islington mosque while both approach crossroads in their lives. A teacher helping guide the next generation of the local Muslim community, Azhar is soon to enter into an arranged marriage and finds himself questioning what he really wants from life. An actor who was shunned by his family when his sexuality came to light, Rahim has stepped into the mosque hoping to find a way back to his faith, even as he wonders whether he will ever find that same sense of community with which he was raised.

Where is it playing?

We Can’t Be Friends plays a sold out run at Brixton House until September 12th 2026 as part of Housemates Festival 2026

More information and any additional ticket releases can be found on the theatre’s website

This review was written at the request of playwright Abir Mohammed, who kindly invited me to attend.

Spoiler-Free Thoughts

Some shows have a clear passion behind them, are created because those behind them have something that they needed to say. This is absolutely the case with Abir Mohammad’s We Can’t Be Friends, with the intersection of faith and identity a clear stirring emotions in the playwright. This bleeds nicely into both of his characters and lends a sense of authenticity to their respective struggles, which matches well with their general believability.

Mohammad’s dialogue is natural and easy to recognise, two young men shaped by their upbringing and still shoring up their identities more than they may be able to recognise. Their conversations also bounce authentically back and forth between subjects as the friendship deepens, which allows the script to introduce character development and backstory without interrupting the easy dynamic as it builds.

As out and mostly proud actor Rahim, Saqib Bashir brings a delightful awkwardness to the role, running smoothly through the character’s sometimes-rambling dialogue. Bashir delicately balances touches of stereotypical mannerisms with drifts into reservedness hinting, before we know the full story, towards past conflicts around his orientation. A sweet, boyish quality gradually gives way to a rich, emotional portrayal letting the audience progressively into an understanding of self that has existed at odds with the upbringing he still holds fondness for.

Opposite Bashir, Ayan Philip introduces devout Muslim Azhar with a firm sense of assured masculinity, giving his performance ample layers to peel away. What starts out as a confident and almost laddish demeanour devolves rapidly into a genuinely affectionate friendship with Rahim, and more gently and gradually into something deeper. As Azhar is increasingly faced with a conflict of faith and an internal debate around what it could mean for his future, Philip brings a consistent sensitivity to the work that grounds the character in a stark reality.

This isn’t to say that We Can’t Be Friends is all doom and gloom. In fact, Mohammad’s script has a great deal of humour and heart to it, which comes out in the easy banter of the pair’s happier moments, as well as in their asides to the audience. Wisely, we begin with Rahim addressing the audience as he reenters the mosque after over a decade, meaning that when it is Azhar’s turn to speak directly to us, we connect right away that he is facing a conflict of his own. These asides also allow a furthering of the pop culture references within the dialogue, letting us see how different these men’s interests are and how their home lives have shaped these differences.

In her direction, Melina Namdar makes strong use of the studio space, moving both actors around and across a raised section in the centre of her stage. With prayer central to the story, and no major set-pieces to aid transitions, Namdar and movement director Annie Boparai have created smooth, easily-followed moments to move from one beat to the next. Namdar brings a sense of intimacy to the production, moving her actors closer together or further apart as their connection deepens or hits moments of doubt, never overworking the performances and allowing them room to breathe even as she maintains this balance. Without giving it away, she and Boparai also pull together a pair of powerful moments in which boundaries are, quite literally, ripped away.

Given the limits of a studio space, lighting and sound are still interesting additions, from James Levy and Riwa Saab respectively. While subtle contributions are made throughout, Levy’s lighting is particularly effective in the plays final moments, where his command over what we can and can’t see is essential to the scene’s phenomenal phenomenal impact. Though also not bombastic or overpowering, Saab’s sound is also in constant and effective use, particularly with a modern day setting requiring that texts, calls and voice messaging are in continuous use.

As likeable in some places as it is heartbreaking in others, We Can’t Be Friends‘ greatest strength is in its ability to make an audience feel. I found myself genuinely holding my breath as Rahim and Azhar’s story came to a close, and Mohammad has beautifully captured essential but under-examined questions with real senses of both curiosity and lived experience. To see a packed space for such a deeply-felt show was a thrill, and watching something so beautiful an absolute joy.

What’s the verdict?

Authentic. Aspirational. Awesome.

⭐️ ⭐️ ⭐️ ⭐️ ⭐️

Richly felt and fully realised in its intentions, We Can’t Be Friends is that perfect blend of a play that explores an important subject and one which is genuinely fun to watch. With a creative team and cast of two who are all clearly invested in the story being told and recognising of its significance, Azhar and Rahim are not only easy to understand, but just as easy to truly feel a connection to. It’s hard not to root for them, and devastating to recognise how hard their journey to love could be.