Thursday, March 06, 2014

Children of the Giant Sloth.

This is a story based on true-true scientific fact! It is the tale of how the Giant Sloth produce children that end up looking suspiciously like people. If you think I lie, come to Guyana and see for yourself.

First of all, lemme clarify…yes…there used to be Giant Sloths, fifteen feet tall! I know this because of the Giant Sloth that stand in we museum in Georgetown, living proof for all to see.

According to the tale, a man in recent times was digging up in we Mazaruni River. Suddenly, he come upon a huge-mongous thigh bone.

Well, as the medical students of the University of the West Indies used to sing at their concert, “The thigh bone is connected to the knee bone is connected to the leg bone.”  Upon further digging, the man, or maybe the people that he inform, find the rest of the bones. The bone diggers assemble everything according to the song.

And now, as I say, The Giant Sloth stand as living-proof in we museum.

What the science people don’t know though is why the Giant Sloth die out.

But I can tell you why.

I know because people who work in gardens does say that when a tree bear too much fruit at one go, it overburden itself and dead-out.

The Giant Sloth, eons ago, finding itself in this tropical paradise, been so excited, it went forth and multiply with vim and vigour, probably like a rabbit too. It had so many children, it didn’t know what to do, it overburden itself and dead-out.

Over time, evolution take place. Many, many of the sloth children started to look like people. They went forth and find chairs to rest in, (note, some call it ‘work’, but we all know, sloths don’t work) in utility places and so on and so forth.

If you think I lie, come with me to we telephone company.

The first sloth I encounter there sit on me application for a phone, couldn’t punch in the information into the pooter.

The second sloth, slow-slow, like molasses crawling in Siberia-snow, flick through a file. “I don’t know when you gon get the phone,” she drawl, eyes drooping with sleep, like she want to go and hibernate in the Mazaruni River with she ancestor. “You will just have to wait. Your application is being processed.”

I hope it ain’t a sloth that is hatching that application. Without a phone, I can’t get Internet.

So, Dear People, here me is, waiting, too sloth-like to have a proper revolution, to bear placards, shout, pelt and protest like what energetic people do on the news.

Thursday, January 23, 2014

Boxed off!

“Help, help, let me out, let me out,” a li’l voice call like Percy de Chick in de Caribbean Reader’s book for chil’ren.  [Aside: I useta think Percy de Chick was locked up in a’ outhouse, that is, a’ outside toilet, a latrine].

“Help, help!” This time, the voice is me, if you look good, you gon see me, caught between them boxes full o' books and other things here...

Friday, January 10, 2014

A sea of changes...

At age 13, I was a drunk fisherman. I stumble around the front of the classroom, tripsing over me feet, muttering outta the corner o’ me mouth then raising me voice, “The shea ish calling. The shea ish alwaysh calling…” The sea is calling, the sea is always calling.

We been acting roles in one-line skits...we had a creative English teacher who did believe that play-acting would increase we imagination.  Most times we act in groups, doing market scenes and other local activities, but that morning she say each student must choose a part to play alone.  I choose to be a drunk fisherman from a text book.  I musta been convincing…them girls, me classmates, ask me to act it again…and again…‘til I get fed up and sit me tail down in me chair and refuse to move.

But that line play on and on in me, year after year.  Most times, it go low, retreating into me far, far memory.  Then suddenly, it would wash up high, high, flouncing up, flinging down, foaming up again.  The shea ish calling, the shea ish alwaysh calling.

I did write this in 2007, when I couldn’t write because of some other commitment, and the need to write been pounding like wild tide.

And now, here me is again, restless, putting off editing manuscripts, writing again and zipping up de blog, for a huge, immense, other words...BIG, non-writing project. It require a tremendous amount of work, and I am tired like dray-cart horse with heavy load day in, day out. But it is very exciting - new groove, new moves.

Ahhh, change is good, well, ok, not all, but this one is niiiice, and when I can write about it, I gon share. 

Wednesday, January 01, 2014

Wishin' you 'appy-'appiness.

'appy 'andbag full o’ money

'appy pot'oles on your way to town

‘appy ‘ands to put the ‘appy egg into we ‘appy pot’ole full o’ water to boil the egg, throw in a couple o’ ‘appy onions too

‘appy ice-cream for dessert

‘appy eating

'appy 'iccups

‘appy ‘elicoptor to take you for a ride up-up 'igh - US$45 per hour, per person - six pairs o’ ‘appy eyes all in all

'appy 'ouses that you see as you fly

‘appy uncles

‘appy aunts

‘appy ants and even ‘appier anteaters

‘appy agouti

‘appy eels

‘appy iguana

Oh what ‘appiness if you could go to other ‘appy areas to see ‘appy elephants, ‘appy ‘ippopotamus, ‘appy octopus and all the creatures of the almost ‘appy earth and oceans.

Remember to play, it is essential to your ‘appy 'ealth

‘appy me, ‘appy you

‘appy ‘earts

‘appy ‘eads

‘appy ‘appiness everyone!

Friday, December 20, 2013

What does ‘family’ mean?

This time last year, I been with the fambly in Florida

Thinking about them, a wallopin’ longing hit me. I curse this migration-monster that haul them away from me.

People used to wail out they soul at we airport when the mass migration did just start. Them women used cry out as if somebody dead, and they holler, ‘'Ow son, me no know when me go see you again.” Fathers and brothers used to shed hot tears too.

Me and my cousins and siblings used to snicker and feel superior. We children had we parents and aunties and uncles and each other here, nobody ain’t going nowhere, not migrating, not my family.

But as circumstances change in this land, one by one we family…we blood…start to go too. One by one they drain away. Aunties, cousins, siblings, uncles…gone.

This longing make me think about what family mean to me.

It is more than shared memories and genes. I got people related to me that I would be shame to call ‘family’ because of the way they treat other people. That kinda person ain’t family, in my books.

Family is blood guiding, correcting. Family is worrying for each other. Is lecturing and nagging one another to do what we think is the right thing, and calling each other stubborn…oh, save me from these people I think, lemme get away far from them. But deep down I know I don’t want saving from them. And we encourage each other to do whatever we want to do anyway.

Family is blood thick with discussions…some disagreeable but you know that when them gritty words blow ‘way like dust you gon talk to one another with ease again.

It is blood flowing strong with affection; is all of we hanging on together when life start to crumble, when sickness and other problems tearing we down.

And yeah, is that weird humour that we believe outsiders can’t get and might even be shocked at because is irreverent.

Some folks tell me that friends can be like blood for them, and that is good. I got some friends who feel like family too. But I know friends ain’t enough for me. Used to be a time I live far from home and had scores of friends surrounding me yet I did crave to be with family.

Them countries that got the best of my family...them countries just don't know how they lucky.

Sunday, December 15, 2013

Would you eat this? Huh? Would you, huh, huh?

In we backyard, by the back bedroom, is a lush, tall tree.
And in that tree does grow a strange little fella and he pals.

When the red pod open in the tree, little black eyes peep at you. That's the time to pick and cook and eat. If you pick before them eyes you see, dire consequences gon fall pon you, death even, so the people say. So don't you dare, before them eyes appear.

‘Tis the ackee from Jamaica, a delicious, nutty little food.