I walk to the sea yesterday, Sunday morning, just to see what I could see. The sun had a hangover and didn’t even peep out through she curtains at the usual wake up time, so it was a shady, grey walk.
I hop the few steps up to the top of the seawall. I look and smell and feel…feel the warm ‘n’ cool salt air trembling by. From the road I get a faint whiff of carbon. They should pass a law - every car, truck, jeep, cow, cat that poops too much carbon must clean up theyself, I grumble.
The tide was low, waves swipsing, swipsing slow to shore, to patches o’ smooth, hard sand that look like glazed, dark chocolate on cake.
Nothing new, nothing new, regular Sunday Hindu bathers with they giant water lily leaves, fruits and incense in the brown sea; a single white bird skimming over the tiny, li’l frothy, frills of waves; bird and frills looking like one.
I pass a man walking with a woman. The man lean and keen, slim ‘n’ trim with clean dark skin, white teeth laughing.
Hey! He look like. No. It can’t be. No way.
Just two inches from me I coulda reach out and touch and…no way is not him.
He gone past, talking, laughing.
I stand and stare at he back. I look down at a fella in a brown hood sweater, jog-walking on the road side o’ the wall. He looking at me looking at the man. He dark face, big eyes know that I know that he know.
I point and ask, “That fella. He look like Eddy Grant. Was him?” Eddy Grant, Guyana-International singer.
The fella nod, one nod, he so cool and me so excited like a fool.
Darn, I think, I coulda just reach out and say, “Hey Eddy, what’s a star like you doin’ in a dull place like this? What make you bring Mick Jagger here, and what make him come back one time, two times and more? Hey Eddy, I love your songs Joanna and Baby come back. And my sister is your biggest fan, she would bop to Electric Avenue any ol’ time…I swear I did hear it on CNN one day. And oh, Eddy, anytime you want more voices to add to the copyright fight here, ask me. But Eddy, what’s a big star like you doin’ in a li’l place like this?”
But I didn’t even say keh.
I head on east, remembering how a successful Jamaican artist did say to he business friend, he hope Guyana never get too developed, and the business friend say quietly, “I know what you mean, me too.”
I know what they mean, they hope that we get economic growth but they don’t want to see huge, horrid buildings sprouting; they hope we keep the rustic charm.
Now the sun wake, she peep out. Just underneath, the little frills of waves fluttering like white-gold wings, fripsing, fripsing to shore, heading for the platinum pool o’ water.
Sometimes I does go to the sea just to see what I can see.