Y’know we does say, no rest for the wicked.
Well, tell me no, tell me what sins I do to deserve this punishment, and I gon rectify it.
But if I ain't do nothing wrong, ow, why, eh, why I got to get dragged from me heavenly dark, satin sleep?
I relish me sleep.
When I sleep, I does dream. I does dream books – chapter and verse; I does dream movies - romance, mystery, horror, Hollywood, Bollywood, Pollywood; I does dream cartoons; and I does dream that I travelling.
The best dream was the one when I did turn invisible, and I go to Buxton Village and beat up all them bandits, then I drive them mad, whispering in they ears, making them think I was the jumbie o’ all them people that them bandits did kill.
Whee-heee, what a la-la that dream was!
And too besides…if I ain’t get a good night sleep, the whole day next day I does be one terrible ‘Grumble Gyal’.
Yes, I relish me sleep.
Well now, three nights in a row, Saturday, Sunday, Monday the 2 a.m. bird come back.
Nah, nah, don’t tell me 2 a.m. is morning. Every self-respecting Guyanese know that 2 a.m. is night.
At 2 a.m. in the night the bird come back and start to sing. No, not sing. Holler.
“Peeee widi widi widi wee peewee wee wee.”
In the daytime is a beautiful song. Is the song like the songs o’ them nightingales in them fairy tales. Or like in that Oscar Wilde story when the bird did pierce he breast to let he blood run into the rose, to turn the rose blood red.
In the daytime is a song o’ pleasure pouring from the throat of a tiny, li’l brown bird; song o’ yellow sun and crystal rain; song o’ free peppers and fruits like what all birds should have.
But in the night, right outside me window, when mankind want to sleep? Bhaiya…brother…is a call for revenge.
To add insult to me wounded sleep, the bird decide to put a extra frill in he song.
“Peeee widi widi widi wee peewee wee wee…
Ah twee twee.”
I get charred with burning anger.
I should get a watergun, I start to think. Not like the round, see-through, lime-green one we had as children, them don’t have much shootability, the water does spurt low as if the spout have prostate [or, as we newspaperman did say, prostrate] problems.
I need one like what I see them selling at the Indian trade fair a couple o’ months ago, yyyyes, one like that, with a long, long, long cylinder that can shoot peeeuuuuwww right across to where the bird is.
I climb out o’ bed to glare at he. Was the most ludicrous sight to behold.
A li’l, li’l bird clinging slantwise to a electric wire next door, the wire run at a 45 degree angle, from the top roof to a lower roof.
The bird throw back he head, [I swear he shut he eyes], and he open he beak and long out he tongue and stretch out he vocal chords like is everybody business.
I slam the windows hard.
The bird fly away.
Ah. Silence settle like silk.
I swish off to sleep.
And then the rain come, pounding down like football fans hollering for they vindaloooo, oy oy oy.
No rest for the wicked, I tell you, No. Rest. For. The. Wicked.