The symbolism in taking fallen artists to the National Theatre for respect is quite literal. As a prodigy of the arts in my primary and secondary schools, participating in final competitions at the National Theatre, was a win, irrespective of the final position. Namasagali College, which under Father D. Grimes used to annually stage plays there was the envy of us highly artistic students. While watching any performances there, however sad they may be, is supposed to be entertaining, that is as far as it goes, in the past, and in words. The National Theatre is now a symbol of decay and a high mark of how far the mighty can fall. Grand shows and huge crowds are far between, I was there to watch Andrew Lloyd Webbers’ “The Phantom of the Opera,” highly talented performers, and a great performance they put on, but even then, the mould, the decay, and lingering fear of picking a bedbug on the way home, totally undermined the enjoyment. It starts at the gate, a run-down relic, to the potholed parking lot-a cash cow to whoever contracted to manage it, then to the poorly curated art gallery. The crowning mood killer is the reception and box office area, with no proper seats for waiting. Inside the theatre, a feeling that a curtain will fall or a theatre prop will break and injure an actor or spectator is always in the air. All these, paint a perfect and complete picture of the desolation Smaug. So when the departed lay cold in their gilded caskets with their turf on life support and the arts now a thing for beggars, it is a fitting send-off and mourning moment for what was and what may never again be. RIP Alex Mukulu