There isn’t enough whiskey, I thought as I stepped out of the cab. I’ve been drinking again, as the shadows keep following me. Yes, I’ve been looking at my future, and a bottle of whiskey is there.

The evening had laid a table of festivities, so I’d thought as I purchased my tickets to the theatre. Director Jay was staging ‘The Cracked Glass’ at the Kenya National Theatre. Famed for his thought-provoking monologues and rollercoaster of conflicts on stage, I planned to then proceed to NCAI for a night of debating contemporary art, poetry, and reds while enjoying snacks.

You could hear a pin drop in the packed theatre hall when the lights went out. Slowly, letting the audience stew in anticipation, the burgundy drapes parted to reveal a character on a stool. He was only the head and torso; a single stage light illuminated his deathly ashy face.

“I once met a traveller from an antique land.” He began in a tired, anguished voice. “He came up to me and started, ‘I have heard that the orphan girl, a meek and gentle creature, was once cut down from a halter hanging from a nail in the loft, so terrible were her sufferings from the caprice and everlasting nagging of this old woman, oh! Who was not bad-hearted but had become an insufferable tyrant through idleness!”

By the time the play was over, most of the audience were sniffling and mopping.

To escape her torture, the orphan girl had given her hand to an ill-natured buffoon, given to infamy, torrid affairs, and debauchery. As for mutual love, it did not exist, either in the bride or in him, despite her beauty.

‎Frequent fights took place between the husband and wife, but rumor had it that the buffoon did not beat his wife but was beaten by her, for she was a hot-tempered, bold, impatient woman, possessed of remarkable physical strength. As to the tragedy that befell the union, that’s a story for another day.

“Blues delight, the charms upon my soul,” I thought, putting on my headphones, as the car pulled out of the parking and sped towards Limuru Road.

Putting on my jacket as I stepped into the airy gallery, I was struck by the sheer openness of the space. The walls gleamed white, immaculate, like an untouched canvas. Light spilled from hidden fixtures in the ceiling, soft but deliberate, guiding my eyes to the artworks on the walls and sculptures prominently striding the floor.

Among the poets whose work made the centerpiece of the night's discussion was Edgar A. Poe. And as I read his famous poem, ‘Alone,’ I wondered what it was like to be in the company of one of the greatest literary minds in recent centuries.

Edgar’s work was not appreciated in his lifetime, and he only managed to receive recognition for one of his poems, ‘The Raven.’ He lived in abject poverty, in his sister-in-law’s house, and was found dead mysteriously in a ditch. The Pioneer of mystery writing, affecting the great wonder Sherlock Holmes among others, was his death a story of his life, and the elixir of his immortality?

On the canvas, the poem read;

‘... I could not bring

My passions from a common spring,

From the same source, I have not taken

My sorrow, I could not awaken

My heart to joy at the same tone,

And all I lov’d, I lov’d alone…’

“This poem kind of talks about someone I know,” the voice hit like a blast of cold, snuffing out every warmth in the room.