The verbal texture in this play is so rich, varied, original. It beautifully trespasses on history with something that combines myth, religions and superstitions, notions of a far off glorified fecund monarchical Africa difficult to imagine in an ex French colony. Césaire explores the harmful patterns we inherit, the universality of power’s allure, the desperation to speed up the process of rebuilding a society devastated (and which continues to be devastated) by the impact of colonialism. Christophe is a tragic hero who really does abhor the spit of his white oppressors, though his refusal to accept that he has inflicted the same sweat and labour on his own people damns him. The comic commingles in this play with lightning strikes of tragedy, and song breaks through many times as Césaire reimagines what the chorus can do, how to express the collective suffering of a civilisation reduced to rubble. Césaire harks back to Shakespeare, and to his classical predecessors with a heavy corpse the final image of the play. Christophe’s fragmented language mirrors Othello’s, and his inability to cope with unjustified jealousy (this time aimed at a white colonial power, not a white woman) are just as tragic. The beauty of Africa before it’s corruption by the West is palpable as a pipe dream, as an unreal mirage reflected in the increasingly unreal form of this play that eventually drifts into hallucination. This is a play about coming to terms with the awfulness of history, it’s implacable intrusion on the present, and the exhaustion of those who, doomed to recreate it, try desperately to resist it anyway.