Sometimes I does sit and wonder, how it is we Guyanese here does survive all them things we go through, fire burning down we buildings after every election, people getting beat up, stores barring up they doors, innocent people becoming targets for freedom blighters full o' hate and bullets...how?
How we does manage to hold on ‘til them fiery times turn to ashes and blow away from we calendar, and we flip to the new month to find days sweet like sugarcane, kissing we with sunshine and breeze? And plenty o' we keep on working, building, succeeding, how?
We ain’t got much outside entertainment, cinemas, cafes, art galleries, museums...all them beautiful things.
So is what? What is it that does make we keep on crafting we craft, lawing we laws, doctoring we patients, businessing we business?
I think I know is what.
We got each other.
And we does make each other laugh.
We sit in we verandas, put we feet up on the veranda rail, or on the li’l table, drink tea, eat cook-up and cripsy fried fish, dhal and roti and curry, fried bora and shrimps. And we does gyaff…talk, talk and more talk.
As we Guyanese does say, “If we don’t laugh, we gon cry.”
Now, we humour is a ticklish thing [pardon the pun]. We humour a li’l dark sometimes, and outsiders don’t get it.
We humour purple and cynical sometimes. Sometimes is indigo, when we really blue and frustrated. And other times, it black like storm clouds when we vexed, angry, helpless.
But just like them storm clouds rumbling, is so we rumbling with laugh. Because we here have the kind o' hope that li'l children does have. We hope, oh we so hope that after the storm, the sun gon come out, and we gon craft we craft, doctor the sick, and tend we garden.