They say memories fade. However, some events leave echoes.
From backstreet poetry shows in Mombasa to high-energy festivals in Nairobi, trade expos to high-level conferences, I’ve learned that not all events are created equal.
Some of these may have ended with a smile, a nod of appreciation, and a cab home, while others lingered on, tucked in the folds of my mind to be mused upon whenever the fancy struck me.
I once attended a Sundown Acoustic and poetry Jam dubbed ‘Walking on A Dream’. Hosted in an industrial warehouse, I was intrigued when I received the invitation, delivered by hand to my doorstep.
The color of a bruised sky at sunset, with a cloud of smoke in the foreground, within which, in exquisite penmanship, was written, ‘You love another woman, and I love another man, and yet I shall love you forever, and you will love me; do you know that? Do you hear? Love me, love me all your life!’ The invitation card was a sensory hug.
Two weeks after marking my calendar, I stepped into the old industrial warehouse. Walking into the set, a few minutes after having my ticket scanned, the air was thick with incense and metaphor, as shadows beyond the fairy lights danced to the hum of verse. Warm drinks were served in clay cups, and everyone sat on floor cushions under the fairy lights.
Everything was right. The surprise performance by a sensational afro-pop artist who has gained popularity for fusing traditional folk melodies with modern tunes would have capped the night, were it not for the… well, let’s call it ‘tragedy’, that struck from the ghosts of my past.
“Love is over, Obi!”
A familiar voice purred by my shoulder.
“Oh, it’s you!” I exclaimed as realization flooded my mind.
“But the past is painfully dear to me. Know that you will always be so,” She went on as if we had been at this for a minute.
“I’m sorry, my lady, what is this?” I began in a hushed tone as the concertgoers milled around, waiting for the next set to begin.
“Let what might have been, come true for a minute,” she faltered, with a drawn smile, looking into my face joyfully.
I stepped back; there she was in a deep emerald cocktail gown that caught the light like a secret, the fabric clinging to her figure with effortless grace. Her hair was styled in cornrows, and she wore a hairnet of equal fancy as the gown.
Smiling at me, it felt like the entire room paused to inhale with her.
"Darce. How long has it been, six years?" I asked, calmly, battling the urge to scream!
(Confessions of a Serial Event-Goer will be published every week, telling the story of a reveler who is plagued by the ghosts of his past and the adventures he goes on whenever he attends an event. Above is an excerpt of the first chapter. Walk with us as the mystery unravels, and immerse yourself in a tale riddled with art, love, money, and betrayal.)
