My mother's voice

This foreign flu is a taliban flu. It knock down mostly women and children. While nobody was looking, it sneak out and whop my poor mother too. Fortunately, she ain’t get hit hard, she is better than me.

But she voice…oh…she voice! It coarse and tough and hoarse. She sound like some o’ them women street vendors who sell cheap trendy clothes, shoes, kitchenwares and more on Water Street. If you go there lunchtime, you gon find them eating straight from they pot. In the pot is cook-up...rice and green plaintain and big chunks o’ beef and bora (string beans), bhagee (green leafy veggie), okro and black-eye peas boiled down with cokenut milk, big peppers and shallot.

These women don’t talk to one another. They shout. They don’t talk to they men. They shout. They don’t talk to they chil’ren. They shout. They shout morning, noon and night until they get permanently hoarse. But for all that, these vendors are very friendly. If you can’t find what you looking for, they gon run to another vendor friend who might be selling it. Or better yet, they shout to the friend.

When I tell people that my mother sound like these women, my mother give me a mean-mother glare. But I think that secretly she is amused.

Hm...I wonder if I should put my mother to sell my craft with all them cricket tourists buzzing about…?

Bad Things

Bad things been happening, me friends, bad, bad things in recent times.

There we was, me and me family, skipping along the road of life, tra-la-la, the few of we here in Guyana, the rest of family Abroad, sisters, brothers, chil’ren, aunties, uncles, cousins, going along different roads but at various points all roads kiss, and we embrace, and we sing tra-la-la together.

Suddenly, one o’ we cousins fall...bradaps...along a rocky trail full up with betrayal, perfidy, skullduggery. Everybody run to help she up, family and friends.

She mother and brother come from Abroad to help she deal with the legal matters; she and them stay here at we big ole home. Friends stay until late at nights. Tea simmer, tempers stew into the wee hours as we argue what to do. Tea pour, tears too, scalding.

And in the middle of all o’ that, the Foreign Flu fly in. The Foreign Flu knock me flat with fever, pain, ear infection. Other sordid details I gon leave out.

Now, family gone Abroad again, but now, the Foreign Flu drain me so dry I want to sleep and sleep and sleep. I feel like a shrivelled rubber band with no twang left.

Overheard

Outside the courthouse in town, one afternoon after work, two secretary-types been chatting.

Slender one with curly hair and shoes with spikey heels say, “He handsome but he is a dawg. He ain’t know how to talk to people.”

Plump one with long, swingy straight hair say, “He does want he secretary to fetch he jacket and briefcase while he walk in front like he is some star in a TV show.”

I look and look to see who they been talking about but the object of derision done drive away.

Town, Thursday afternoon

Mother and faithful sidekick turn north, towards the humongous sea turtle climbing out from the giant half of a cricket ball. Up to recent times the turtle been climbing out from half of a white egg. But now that World Cup Cricket coming the egg transform into half a cricket ball. Every time I see that turtle hatching from the cricket ball I giggle.

Thanks to Annette Arjoon from the Guyana Marine Turtle Conservation Society, we sea turtles staying alive...and thanks to she, we got that sea turtle statue on the huge pedestal, at the cross roads, in front of Hotel Le Meridien.

Mother and faithful sidekick turn left, a couple of feet past the hotel. “Look that man got a snake,” my mother exclaim. I couldn’t see, was on the other side of the road. Plus, three or four men block me view.

We go to buy drinking water; done, we turn around again, reach the group of men on the roadside just past the hotel. Now they on my side of the car. Two men been sitting near the trench on the roadside.

“Look the snake,” my mother exclaim.

Them two men sitting near the trench been holding a long rope. The rope thick and black with dark markings.

“Look, the snake,” I holler.

One of them men been holding tight the snake mouth and the snake middle; the other man been holding the snake tail. Must be a camoudie, a snake that does wrap around you, squeeze you, gulp you, burp you. This snake stretch out stiff, stiff, eyes shut.

“Don’t let it swallow you,” I tell them men. They laugh.

A couple of policemen in front of the hotel been standing, facing south, implacable, they ain’t bothering with snake, snake holders and lookers-on. They got to guard the hotel - all them Rio Meeting people staying there. “Booooo Chavez, thiefing Guyana land and putting it on your country map, booo,” I mutter as we go past the hotel. “I wonder what they gon do with the snake,” I worry.

“I don’t know," my mother say. “They might sell it to somebody who collect snakes. Or to somebody who want to make drum. Or somebody who want snake skin.”

“Ow, I feel sorry for it. Poor snake, I hope they ain’t kill it. We killing off we wild life recklessly. Either that, or we selling it Abroad. One day, when we ain’t got none, then we gon realise...”

We drive past buntings flapping in the wind, rows and rows from buildings to fence, from fence to buildings. We drive on roads smooth out, no more potholes. Plenty visitors coming to Guyana - conferences, cricket, the whole town looking festive, oh joy. Soon, Hindus gon celebrate Phagwah, the Festival of Colours, and the India trade Fair coming again, I hear.