Sunday, May 03, 2015

Big Family Fight!!!

We-the-people is family, yeah!

We play together, we eat, we share, we love...

...wey-hey, you should see them two, three 

drunk men hug-up and dance!

Then, suddenly! 

One Big Fight bruk out among some of the 

citizens!

Squabble!!

Adjectives getting pelt like bricks.

Plenty &^%$#@!!!! all over the Internet too.

And the rest o’ we-the-citizens cringing in the 

background.

It is elections time in Guyana! 

Tuesday, April 21, 2015

Freedom!!!

For days, people, I been chained to me bed.

I had numbers all 'round me, and don’t think I’s lying when I say they was like glass and mud. Crunch, slip-slide.

Yes, I been sitting on dis here bed, trapped by tax, while outside, the sea-wind been calling me to run out and play.

My mother spend TWO days on the Internet, this entire weekend, teaching me. All the while, she musta been thinking, "Where me get this dunce from?" I would do dem carculations wrong, and like a real Wrong-And-Strong, I would holler how incorrect she carculations was. 

As I tell my sis-in-law, By the time I was done with mummy, she was confused

In the background on Saturday afternoon, I hear my nephew calling in he high-pitch, 4-year-old voice, "Ga'modda, you not coming to lunch?"

My mother wait for me to calm down, for me to carculate the things on the carculator, and for me to bleat, "Yes, you’right."

She achieve the impossible.

Yesterday, I taste freedom!!!

People, I want to tell you, it taste like clean wide open space.

Wednesday, April 08, 2015

Me vs Ma.

I got to call Ma in a few minutes, every single day I does call she. I does to tell she the news here, and she does tell me about the weather in Florida, about she grandsons, if she plants in the garden grow one inch or two, if them earth-worms get fat and so on.

Sometimes, she does give me a thousand and one instructions.

“Maaaa, arghle barrrghhhle, Maaaaa, you not listenin’ to me…” is me usual protest.

Well, one time, I decide to win. But I know I got to be diplomatic, respectful.

I think carefully while she is talking.

Then I speak with care and consideration, in a voice soft like a gentle morning breeze, “Y’know, I really don’t like when People don’t listen to me.”

Ma respond quick as lightening. 

“I Am Not People.  I Am Your Mother.”


Heh.

Hehe.

Heh.

Sunday, March 29, 2015

Message as old as earth.

 Early one morning, coming home from my walk, I pick up a set o’ jasmine flowers that fall on the ground, put them in a bowl in me apartment.


The perfume, delicate as it be, remind me strong-strong, of a message from me big ol’ family home where I useta live…


Monday morning and we home is fragrant as if somebody sprinkle attar through the cracks in the creaky wood floor, ‘pon the walls, as if they spray it in the air.

White flowers here, there in we garden, and on the big plant in the Merican man yard, near we wall, parade out with the heavy rain, sending up messages I can’t hear, can’t read, yet I can sense them filling up me ears...

...me eyes...

...me thoughts…


Monday, March 16, 2015

Star-apple.

Is star-apple season again. 

Milky gel slide from me spoon and full me mouth with soft, jelly-sweetness.

If I had a piece o’ land, I would build a small house, tall and high on posts, and on the border of the land, one tree I know I must grow is a star-apple tree.

Even when star-apple ain’t in season, the tree would shelter me as I sit underneath on a bench, reading books and making notes.

When I ain’t reading and scribbling, I gon teach poor li’l chil’ren to read and write in the shade of the star-apple tree.

In the afternoon heat, when villages nap, and at nights when people settling down to sleep, I gon listen to the fusic of the leaves.  You might call it rustle, but I hear semi-demi quavers and quivers.

When them leaves grow old and fall down, I ain’t gon throw them out with disrespect.  I gon use them to cover weeds in me garden so I ain’t have to use no murdering poison.


Wednesday, March 04, 2015

Come for a walk with me.

Let's go straying, dear people!

Let we go straying into strange neighbourhoods as the sun is waking, 

and I gon tell you stories.

I gon tell you about 

them parrots cawing overhead, how they plotting to thief fruits, while kisskadee birds call kiss-ka-deeeee in a creamy-rich, high-pitch cry.

And back on earth, while a rooster holler coocaroocooo, 

I gon tell you about

houses,

history, 

ghosts, 

and cures in them grass-flowers that mammy teach me. I remember one or two.

Come along, nah?  

(Ooops, watch out for that small cow-pat!)

I gon take you to streets where leaky, colonial wood homes with earth-yard rub shoulder with new concrete, and in the driveway of a mid-seventies style, creaky home, is a gal waiting for a taxi to take she to work. I bet she got a story to tell.  In the no-curtain window of that home, outta the corner of you' eye, you might spy a shirtless, dark-skin young fella fiddling with a bird-cage. You gon hold me back from telling he to free the bird, right?

On another street, a security-guard in the shade of a building, belting out a wailing tune, out-of-tune, along with the radio, I bet she got a story too. If we wave to she, she gon wave back.

Let we go straying, people, in neighbourhoods by the sea.

Let we walk, yes, walk with me 'cause when you drive, that metal-thing we sit in is a barrier.

When you walk, breeze lick you' skin, misty rain tickle you' face, and a man on a bicycle with a blue, plastic raincoat gon mutter to you, Morning...meaning...Good Morning, and he gon give a puzzled look, but that is okay.

When you walk, you does feel like jumping and clicking you heels, and you gon do it, on the inside of you' head.






Saturday, February 14, 2015

50 shades of what?

Annie was telling me, “G., it is so hard to find a good man here. Drink rum and behave bad, dat is all they do.”

And I was telling Annie about a gal who meet a nice chap, and you know, women don’t seem to like nice chaps, they too boring, the gal say she ain’t want that man, he is too quiet, not forceful enough.  He must know how to arrrrrgue.

Annie say, “Y’see?  Everybody want a Christian Grey.”

I ain’t read the book, but I hear too much about he.  “Naaah, buddayyy, that ain’t my idea of a man.  That book sound like The Story of O.”

“Whaz that?” Annie ask. 

I say, “Whips and chains and abject degradation.  Like 92 weeks but horrible worse...”

“...Nine and a half weeks.”

“Them books is sickening, Annie, sick, sick, sick.  And the sad thing is, a lot o’ women gon now think that Christian Grey is the ultimate in romance.”

“Yeeahh, if you see them teens rushing to watch this film,” Annie say.

She mean teens overseas, I ain’t know if she is factually correct about this.  But I got a feeling young women here gon rush to watch it via pirated DVDs.

My mind wander off thinking about some women here stuck at home doing only housework.  I say, “Annie, somebody should write 50 shades of dust, the story of a woman shackled to she house, tortured by dust, whipped and lashed by the coconut broom.”

We talk about parodies then we get around to romantic characters in Real Literature. 

“Which book got your idea of what a man should be, Annie?”

“Darcy,” Annie say.  “Which book got yours?”

“I don’t know - quiet, deep thinker, kind, patient, but funny as heck and a li’l odd…”

“Nah, I don’t know any like that in any literature-book.”

After we solve the problems of the world, me and Annie say ‘bye for now. 

The converstation go ‘round in me head, and me thoughts take a turn for the worse. 


If Grey is the kind of man girls gon go for after they read the book or see the flim, they might as well give theyself to a taliban man...

...oh my gosh, I hope this don’t make Guyanese women start to think how their abusive men is now like Christian Grey, somebody should write, 50 Shades of Daaru-Boy, daaru for rum, or 50 Shades of Likka, meaning likker…