Excuse me while I...

Smell of fry fish sizzling in the morning coolness, is not yet six o’ clock. I wonder if is from them neighbours to the south-east, the house where children, all ages, frolic during school holidays.

Fresh fry fish. Something in me belly yapping, nibbling, drooling.

Energy been ripplin' in me again like water from a new-born spring since two days. I sweep up leaves in the yard, and clean bathrooms, do dishes, cook the rice, laugh loud…we got a ole lady visitor in we home now.

I want to jump, click me heels one hundred feet above the ground and catch some o’ that cripsy sizzle…

Window-shopping.

Coppo, brother’s friend, phone. Sooner than later we conversation bubble over the hottest tale of infidelity. Man cheat he wife out of property and marital harmony. The gyal he gone with, people say, is a gold-digger. She and she sisters marry, divorce, claim half, move on, searching for more wealthy men.

“It will serve him right when this girl digs everything out of his pocket and bank-account and leaves him with nothing,” Coppo say. “He is nothing but a cheating, conniving scamp.”

“And Coppo, them fellas say that she is a door-knob…”

“Door-knob?”

”Yeah. Every guy had a turn.”

“Whaaat! Where does she live, so I can have a turn too,” Coppo say in he dry, lazy drawl.

“Coppo! You will not!!!” I scold, jumping on to me Prude Soapbox. “Man, I don’t understand you men. As soon as a gyal flash she tail, you all want to bite. You all ain’t care if she dig your pockets dry, wreck your home, your health…”

“Girl, you know me better than that,” Coppo laugh, dry, amused. “I love to window-shop. But I am not buying, no way!”

Life in the fast lane...

My two days of debauchery done. Oh, such a wicked, wicked life I lead, hanging out with family and friends - a sweet ole grandma, my own ma, my cousin from Torawno, and two other girls. Then yesterday morning, I nearly get kicked out from a government office for being “armless”, that is, for not having sleeves on me blouse. After such revelry and fighting flu, weariness drag me by me brain and fling me down on the bed yesterday afternoon.

I lie like a drunk man lolling on grass parapet. The breeze pouring in from them east windows been soaking with rum. That is the only explanation for the drunkenness that take hold of me.

I really should get back to working on me craft and writing, I think. But the sky, heavy with blue and sun, pin me down. Whee whee, the wind whistle and drench likka all over me.

“So tired, so tired,” I argue with meself. “Damn it, so what if I rest? I need to rest. Ahhh, this bleddy breeze. Man, people all over the world working and look at me, lying here on a Friday afternoon, not doing one darn thing. Agh, so what if I ain’t get up and do something constructive? In the greater scheme of things, who am I?”

Yeah, whee whee, who are you, the breeze sing and drench me with more likka. Who are you, in the greater scheme of things?

I ain’t bother to argue.

Parent-Child.

“Oh Gawd, I feel so sick,” I mutter. This was Thursday night, the day after the doctor look and jook…x-ray, blood test…and declare all results normal, just a bad flu virus you caught, he say.

“Sick?” my mother sound worried, frightened, gentle.

“Ooeer.” Skin like ice, sweat like waterfall, kitchen turning dark, light switching off inside me head too.

I sit on the old kitchen chair, my mother hug me against she tummy. I want to curl up and be a baby again. Never wanted this in years of forever. My mother sometimes joke about how, one day, when me and cousin Nan was four and three years old, she try to hug the two of we but we push she away, we want to be independent. Now look at me, I want to be a baby again.

To avoid fainting, place head between knees, I remember. That ain’t help. Dry sobs, I can’t stop them, “I feel so sick, I feel so sick.” My mother rub me back. She is warm, full of healing, but I still want to faint. I must lie on the cold floor, put me feet up, I remember this too, if you feel faint, lie flat, elevate your feet.

I raise feet, rest them on side of kitchen table. I look utterly foolish. “I look foolish,” I say.

“Aw, to heck with that,” my mother say. She put a plate of biscuits and guava jam on me tummy. I lie and crunch. The faint begin to fade.

“Come drink this hot Ovaltine.”

“Nahhh. I want to stay here for the rest of me life.”

“Awright,” she say. “Stay there for the rest of your life while I go to the bathroom.”

“Okay.”

She step over me, past me, gone. I wait on the floor for the rest of me life until she return from the bathroom. Sip Ovaltine, clean teeth, bed. She hang me mosquito net.

“Thank you, thank you.”

“Tch. For what?” she ask.

“Everything.”

“Awww, stchusp.”

I close me eyes, remember something my mother did say...it ain’t matter how old she get, how old she children get, they gon always be she children. When she first tell me that I was a teen and it make me vex.

Now I wonder if I would be that way if I had children and they grow up. Sometimes, I try to be the parent with she and she protest. Big arguments!

Everyday, in between “You better watch your mouth with me, I’m your mother,” and “You never listen to me, I’m just a girl, a daughter, ha, double ha,” and “Mummy, you’re driving too fast, be patient,” and “Aww, Gigi, you are such a Nag,” (we argue in perfect English)…everyday, in between silly mother-daughter struggles, we insist on taking care of one another…sometimes we appreciate, sometimes resent because it feel so over-protective; other times, we take it for granted.

I close me eyes, thoughts rush in. Look at me, Big Fool, needing my mother like this. I wonder if this does happen to other people, if they need they mother, if men does feel like this, or they got they wives to comfort them?

Cool air wash in through the open window, through the net. Everything feel so simple, clean right now. Thank you, thank you. I curl up like a baby and sleep.

cough cuss cough

tired. but better, thank you all so very much.

well, at least the "3-times" jinx must be over and done now. samosas as reward for anybody who guess what i am talkin' about...

in the meantime, i am gone to read comments from "whine" post.

details of past week comin' soon. what a life.

A little whine.

Long, lazy weekend, reading books, hanging out with more family from Abroad, one from Noo Yawk, one from Torawno. Feelin’ real good, flu gone.

Then I wake this mornin’ with a cough that taste like ten garbage dump. I take Buckley’s Cough Mixture. Tastes awful and it works, the ad say. Awful? Is witch brew, camphor and ice. Now, ISP throwing tantrum.

Red, red whine…

Brown Dawg's day (Part 2)

It was everything I used to imagine and more. All kinda delights under them stands. Bones. Pieces o’ meat. Rice. When they say every dawg must have his day...let me tell you...I Brown Dawg had my Day!

To be honest, I didn’t go in there that day to make world news cricket. But the excitement been too much for me. And instead of keeping a low profile I run on to the field. A giant, green toilet!

The next thing I know, I was getting chased this way, that way, around the boundary. Why I didn’t just leave with dignity instead of getting my tail chased I just don’t know.

“Cricket’s funniest moment,” them British commentators holler on radios. The crowd scream, laugh.

Shame, how I shame! As I run this side, that side, I glimpse a cricketer, a Windies fella, sitting on the field, he had a look of utmost disgust on he face. More shame!

In the end, them grounds men corner me, shoo me to the exit. I turn for one last look. A grounds man been running on to the field with a spade. Somebody shout something about “pooper scooper.” The grounds man with the spade grin. The crowd clap and cheer.

Now, every cricket season, them other dawgs does cuss me. “No other dawg can have his day,” they does grumble. “All because of you, security tight, tight.”

Shame does creep from me heart and spread all over me face. I does hang me head and woof softly to them, “Man look, we can’t give up. We got to keep on trying.”

Brown Dawg's day (Part 1)

Ever since I Brown Dawg get abandoned, I does hang around Bourda Cricket Ground when they get a match. I does stand outside like a common beggar with them other dawgs, sniffing and salivating. We discuss the Food non-stop...curry beef and roti, rice and peas with cokenut milk falling from spectators’ spoons. Fry chicken. Bones. Woyyy!

And we does talk about how to get in. Once upon a time any lucky dawg coulda sneak in. Once, I Brown Dawg was that lucky dawg!

Was a heck of a day, that day, March 1, 1998. No rain. Imagine. The sky been crisp, clear, as if it been rinsed in Reckitt and Colman laundry blue. Clouds been fat and soft, you coulda just “loll off” as we does say, and gnaw your beef bone.

That day, them trees north of the ground had more non-paying spectators than they coulda ever hold. One tree limb break as I trot by. Boys fall like over-ripe fruits, if you see colours, red shirt, orange, blue, green, purple. Not a soul get hurt though, them boys had more bounce than any ball. They scurry up the tree again. Them vendors send up food and drinks tied up with string, them boys send down cash. Business as usual.

Anyway, guess what! I break away from the pack and! I find a gate into the ground that them other dawgs ain’t see. I skulk, skulk, hide between ankles and baskets. Somebody say, “Boy, a big-time, international rock ‘n’ roll singer is here to watch cricket.”

Suddenly, hoiy, hoiy, hoiy, the crowd inside roar, whistle whistle blow, more roaring and drums going brrraadada. “Four, four,” people everywhere shouting and stamping.

Nobody watching me. I slip inside more silent than a piece of stew chicken plopsing to the ground. Another terrible roar. Whistle roar brrraadadada. I nearly jump outta my skin and bolt in fright. But ohhhh boy, that curry, fry chicken, chowmein, cookup smell was overpowering; I been so hungry my back been asking my belly questions. No way I would leave!

Brown Dawg again!

Yesterday morning, in the middle of chaos...me impersonating Madonna, vacuum cleaner impersonating microphone and guitar...the phone ring. Switch off vacuum cleaner, turn down radio.

“Girl, we had so much fun at cricket on Sunday,” Annie say on the other end of phone.

“But we lose bad. Sri Lanka cream we. I know we woulda lose, but not so bad.”

“Never mind that. We had Fun. Was one big, happy crowd, my brother supporting Sri Lanka, the crowd booing he, and in the end, everybody cheering Sri Lanka. We didn’t care who win or who lose. Was a great day!”

Was a sacred day. Windies playing World Cup cricket at we brand new stadium at Providence! All who did never pray before, bend and kneel on Sunday. Some pray for a miracle - for West Indies to win. Some pray that Sri Lanka don’t beat we too bad. Some pray that rain don’t fall. Some pray that rain fall and save we Windies team from disgrace.

Sold out, the newspaper headline holler. If you ain’t got a ticket don’t bother to go. I didn’t get a ticket.

“Rain gon pour,” I tell my mother. “Ow, I proper feel sorry for them spectators. The whole flippin’ year they been looking forward to this day.” I decide not to wash clothes. Every time I wash clothes, rain does fall. This is true. I wasn’t looking for excuse to be lazy.

I switch on the tee vee to ketch the match. Pfft. Blackout. I run to the charge-up radio that my second big brother did send from Merica after we bad flood. Emergency radio, he did say. I crank and crank and crank, sweat pour from me like rain, the radio charge up.

Power come back on. I switch on the tee vee. Me jaw drop.

The hind part of Brown Dawg been disappearing through a gate at we brand new stadium, somebody shooshing Brown Dawg out. “That dawg,” the commentator announce, “has somehow managed to make it into every match...” Me and my mother laugh ‘til we weep. Brown Dawg did it again. The last time I did see Brown Dawg was at we old cricket stadium, Bourda, in the ‘90’s.

I ask Annie about Brown Dawg. “Yes, I think he do a wee or a poo on the field,” she say. “You shoulda hear the crowd!”

I heart you, Brown Dawg.

Dear Readers, Brown Dawg want to tell you he story in he own words, he ask me if he can blog it here. Ow, I begging you, give Brown Dawg a chance, nah?

The green thing in my teeth

Clang clang clang, Saturday at twilight we gate clang. We just finish eating...green beans and mushrooms cook with tomato sauce and garlic and chunks o’ nutty bread. And tea, of course. I peep through the dining room window.

“Neighbour and Exotic Gyal neighbour out there.” I run downstairs to them.

Neighbour bring Quality Street chocolates and Exotic Gyal bring plants. I introduce them, they never meet before…Exotic Gyal is new to the neighbourhood. I want to smile big smiles but a fretful thought take control of me. I got green bean in my teeth. I know it, I just know it.

Me and neighbours gyaff…chat…but the green thing in my teeth start to grow big, big, bigger; if I smile wide it gon say rude things to me neighbours, it gon shame me. I know it, I just know it.

Exotic Gyal’s knee-high li’l son approach the gate. He is a beautiful chile, a delicate blend of East meet West; he daddy is from Big Country Abroad. The li’l chile does fascinate me, such a frail elf with he mummy big 'n' glorious almond-shape eyes. Don’t let that fragile look fool you, my mother say, he is a tough li’l fella.

Now, the li’l chile staring through the gate. He looking at the green thing in my teeth. I know it, I just know it.

I thank Neighbour for them chocolates and she leave.

“My husband wants to meet you,” Exotic Gyal say. She and he been reading my blog for a while and they figure out who I am. Busted. The green thing in my teeth laugh. Please go, please go, I beg the green thing in my teeth, you shaming me.

“You look like Eric Clapton,” I tell the husband. I can’t say too much, the green thing in my teeth is snickering, sprawling itself out to the world.

Eric Clapton compliment me on my writing. “Thank you,” I say. The green thing in my teeth wave. Oh the shame, the eternal shame.

When I go upstairs I grimace to my mother. “You see any green thing in my teeth?” I ask. I don’t know why I didn’t go to the mirror in the first place.

“Yes,” she say. “Right there, on you bottom teeth, left side.”

“Noooo,” I holler and run to the mirror. There ain’t no green thing, the wicked, nasty thing done disappear.

But I know it been there. I know it, I just know it.