Big Boss Man.

Big Boss Man, staff and security man been going to a community far from the city, across one river, out to sea, then down another river.

When I say river, I ain’t mean them li’l narrow ribbons that wind softly through green fields. I mean giant, brown South American water that stretch so wide, in some parts not even binoculars on one bank can help you see the other side.

The mode of transportation was a launch, but not any and every rusty affair that you see all over the place with peeling paint and wood seat that corn you bahind and roof that draw more heat than cool you down. Even though this was in them days when hardships was more regular than rocks, Big Boss was a Man with great wealth at he disposal, so you know he ain’t going nowhere without he comforts. Cushions, food, drinks been on hand for he.

Staff too pack they food. The place they going to was far, they wouldn’t get back home ‘til way after night fall. And like I say, this happen in the Seventies when hardship was more frequent than rocks. Shortages make it very necessary that, when you going long distances, you must walk with your own food, as we would say. Walk with enough to last you the whole day, plus.

Lunchtime make everybody belly rumble. They pull out whatever they wife or mother or gyal-friend pack for them.

Young security man open he ole-fashion tin food-carrier, one like what them rice farmers used to fetch they lunch with into the fields. The carrier got different sections for different food. Security man open the two containers of he carrier. The food smelling hat an’ nice…hot and tasty. He take a piece from first pan, dip it into second pan.

Before he could say Bismillah like Mulims do before they take they first bite, Big Boss Man say, “What do you have there, boy?”

The young security man say, “Chicken curry and roti.”

“How many do you have?” Big Boss man ask.

“Four roti, Sir.”

“Who cooked for you?”

“My wife, Sir.”

“Give it to me. Here, you eat this.”

Big Boss Man eat out…finish off…them four roti and all the curry chicken there and then.

Mr. Abdool tell we this story the night he take my mother to the airport, and I went along too.

My mother ask, “And what he give the young man to eat?”

“Fry rice,” Mr. Abdool say.

When my mother hear this she blow a hot puff. “But eh-ehhhh! Look at that man, eh? He nah care if the young man want to eat fry rice or not. He nah care if it got haram meat or not.” Haram meat is forbidden meat; it is meat that is not kosher (as the Jews would say). Not good, not blessed, the blood not drain-out properly.

“That is how that man did stay,” Mr. Abdool say. That is how that man was. “If I tell you more what I hear about that man, you gon cry.”

Yesterday morning, reading the papers, for no reason at all I remember the story of Big Boss Man. “Aiye, mummy, imagine what can happen to poor li’l countries that have role models and leaders like Big Boss Man.”

My mother stop reading she paper, stare into the distance. “Mm-hm,” she say and continue to read.

I stare back at me paper, trying to make head and tail of what I reading. The president of Guyana accuse the EU of bullying them African, Caribbean and Pacific countries into making some agreement or the other. I fling down the paper and leave the living-room to sweep the house, some things are just too hard to understand, especially in the pre-rain, sticky heat.