I got an enemy. I ain't know who the enemy is, but I dream 'bout a snake Saturday night.
Lemme tell you!
If you is Guyanese and you dream 'bout snake it mean you got a enemy, real or not!
Sunday morning bright and early I stumble out to the living room, announce to me mother, "I dream a snake."
I ain't know why I tell she this. I musta been looking for reassurance. Or I musta been trying to turn it into a joke. Deep down in me heart, y'see, I believe my dreams. Too many come true for me to ignore them. And anyway, like I always say, me is a Born Coward.
Right away me mother put down she newspapers. She face get tight tight, she eyes them full o' worries. She say, "You have an enemy!"
I sit down slow on the settee, half dramatic...half amuse. I want to giggle at this conversation...but still...
I say, "Yeh."
She say, "You ain't write anything that gon upset people?"
That is she worst fear. That I gon write things that upset people here, in Guyana.
I say, "Nah man." But I searching me mind, thinking, I ain't know...
"What you dream?" she ask.
"I dream that I been running in a yard with dark, tight-pack sand...trees on one side, a old house on the other side...and then I reach a place that had small, smooth rocks. In the midst of them rocks was a rope.
I hear a crick crack snapping sound...and the rope bruk in two...and the second half o' the rope turn into a snake, a two foot snake with a small, small face and thin, thin tail. Was a pale snake, sort o' light grey-brown, pale, pale with really light markings. The snake wriggle past me and disappear under the old house."
Me mother bright up. If you see the relief on she face! She say, "Oh, that sound like horsewhip snake. Is not a dangerous snake. Them boys in me school use to pick them up, swing them 'round 'til they get eye-turn and push them in they pocket to ker to school."
"To throw it on them girls."
I laugh and laugh.
And as I laugh I realise who the enemy was this bright Sunday morning.
The enemy was fear. Always stalking we, hiding in corners, ready to jump into we head, to plant all kind o' thoughts.
To get rid o' he, we had to laugh and pick he up and swing he 'round 'til he get dizzy, and fling he 'way.
After that, we Sunday turn into a wind chimes kinda day, light and clear and tinkling.