“Every night in the world” was advertised on social media, with a beating drum. In fact, it piqued my curiosity. This Saturday, October 1, the show took place, at nine o’clock, at the Institut français in Abidjan. It has produced an excellent impression on the coming public in great numbers. We loved and applauded this living painting, this show of the slam poet Placide Konan and the director Alain Serge Agnessan.
If I spill my guts on this show, let’s first encourage the organizers. Apart from human imperfections of details, the show was well staged and artistically presented. It wasn’t just a play, it was better: music, choreography, slam, a game of actors that explodes, like firecrackers, at a great height and even better it told a moving story. And what a story!
Raising the curtain. A young man strapped like a bum appears. Disheveled, disordered and refreshed with alcohol, he progresses through the night and begins to exude: he begins a long speech punctuated with powerful accents. We dwell on his clothing disorder, which wearies with its complexity. It rains a light on him. The rest of the decor, vexed, is hidden in the night. He bears on his forehead the aftermath of a love that will not come again. His name is Ferdinand. Akissi, her lover, turns and dances around him, in the void. He does not see her. He calls her, she hears her; but, he cannot see her. How to fill this sudden gap between a dead and a living? How to join, to the perfection of the hereafter and here? How to dissolve two drowned of different densities? On either side of the shore, two beings challenge each other, without ever getting along, really, or really touching each other. The human being is only loneliness. Separated, detached, disjointed, he does not reach the world. Neither does the world reach him. While time has stopped running on one, it takes away the other. It draws them together without ever uniting them, without breaking the isolation. Everyone reaches out to a dream they can’t reach. Disorder of the self, panic attack in front of his impotence; a clinician could find there a new pathological vein.
Placide, the mastodon n°1 of the slam. One of those monsters that Alain Tailly created in a few copies, plays the role of Ferdinand. He writes a poem to Akissi, a role brilliantly staged by the dancer and singer, Marcelle Kabran, his beloved whom he wants to bring back to life. Ah! This Akissi! Was she born on a Sunday or a Monday? What a ball of energy! Its use of space, the expressions of its body are worth verses. One understands the whirlwind of fire that eats its soul. Is it in order to extinguish this consuming fire that he drinks so much? He plans to put on paper a poem that will tear his beloved from the bowels of the afterlife. Vain quest for a man splendid isolated, like all poets and who begins the slow and inevitable shipwreck of the damned. In a dark setting where a dream piled up that slipped between her fingers. The excess, – and this is what makes the beauty of this spectacle -, is such that Akissi speaking to Ferdinand in a face-to-face no longer even knows that she is often unaware that she is an ethereal soul, that she is dead. His voice sounds like a sermon in a brothel. Ferdinand, I think, lies to himself. He doesn’t really want to bring Akissi back. He wants to save himself by writing. The scenography is in my mouth. I hear she generated by the same person who directed the show.
