The magic tree.

Wrap me in a straight-jacket, throw me in a padded cell and call me mad, I gon believe you.

Tell me that sweet-face, pious Malaika does walk Sherriff Street on Friday nights, looking for man customers. I gon believe you.

Your mammy was a man?

I believe you.

Tell me anything, eh-neee-thing, I gon believe you.

But nah tell me…do not tell me…trees does walk. Not even Enid Blyton can convince me.

Yesterday Fazaal tell my mother, and my mother repeat it me.

One day Fazaal and another fella been working in a lovely tree-full garden, in a village on the East Bank.

Suddenly, a tree start to move.

No, not move as if wind blowing through.

No, not move as if jinns or jumbies or any other invisible spirit climbing up and down them limbs.

The tree move from left to right…or maybe it was right to left…from this part of the ground to that. Yes, the tree move like human going from here to there. And when Fazaal and he working pal go to check, not a soul been there.

Like I say, tell me anything. But I begging you, nah tell me…do not tell me…trees does walk.

Especially when me mouth is full o’ tea.

The story of the man-spirit.

I got a story to tell that you might say is so tall, you might want to throw salt on it and make it shrivel up like slug.

But no matter how much salt you throw on this here story, it ain’t gon shrivel. Because, although this story is about a short, short, li’l, li’l man-spirit, he don’t go away that easy.

People does call he baccoo.

Nobody ain’t know where baccoo come from originally, some say Suriname because everybody here know for a fact that them Dutch masters did bring the wickedest spirits to the Caribbean during slavery times. Whoever bring he, wherever he come from, the li’l man is here to stay.

Nobody ain’t ever see he. But everybody know what he look like. He is, as I say, a short, short, li’l, li’l man. A few variations declare he got a long, long beard. Neighbour, after I phone to describe the latest baccoo incident [which you gon hear about], laugh and say that baccoo look like a lepricorn. Don’t ask me how she know. She never see a baccoo. And for all the years that she live in England, Ireland, Scotland, she never see a lepricorn either.

Some people swear they hear baccoo. According to me big brother who know plenty folks in Plaisance Village, years ago young Melissa claim she hear baccoo. Every, single, bless-ehd, early morning. Melissa hear baccoo whistling as he pass through Plaisance. Melissa never see he but she, like all who hear he, tremble with fear.

Nobody I know ever own a baccoo. But some would swear ‘til cow jump over moon that they know somebody who know somebody who…!

The owner of a baccoo does keep he in a bottle and feed he milk and bananas. That is the absolutely only thing he does eat and drink. If you treat he well, he gon do anything for you.

Although nobody never see a baccoo, the fame...or rather, the infamy of this short, short, li’l, li’l man spread to various parts of the Caribbean.

When me big brother was a student at college in England, a Grenada classmate used to pester he to get a baccoo for he. Mr. Grenada didn’t care how much this thing cost, He Want A Baccoo. Finally, Ajohda, a Guyanese fellow in the class tell Mr. Grenada, “Man, baccoo is really expensive and tiresome to keep. He does want gallons of milk and pounds and pounds of bananas. He is never satisfied. All when you sleeping, in the dead of night, he does wake you up to feed he.” That put a’ end to Mr. Grenada desire to own a baccoo.

I ain’t know what it is about tertiary institution students and baccoo. Even Mala classmates at the advanced, enlightened university in Treeneedad did want baccoo too, Mala tell a bunch of we one night at a dinner.

“My classmates always asking me about this short, short, li’l, li’l man…” Mala say. She spread out she fingers stiff, stiff ‘til she palm vibrate one foot above the floor, demonstrating the shortness and power of baccoo. “Every time I come home for holidays, they would ask me to carry back one for them.” Law students approach she too.

I don’t know why people want to own baccoo. But I know some people put them to wicked use. Baccoo does pelt stones at humans and house-tops, if you got a zinc roof, all you hear the whole flippin’ night is plang-plang. And baccoo does move things in your house. Plenty terrified folks in the country-side confirm this. They hear plang-plang on they roof top, even in the day, some o’ them say. They can’t see who is pelting. So it must be a baccoo. As for them furnitures moving whole night!

If somebody got a grudge against you, you better watch out, you better start to cry, it ain’t no Santa on your roof-top. It is a baccoo that the person with grudge send to take care of you. And I don’t mean take care in a nice sense.

Well now, I ain’t know who got a grudge against who, I ain’t know who baccoo is taking care of in the village of Buxton…but baccoo make the news there.

First, the news say that work slow down in the village of Buxton.

Some weeks ago, in the village of Buxton, police and soldiers go to clear the backlands. In these backlands, bandits and other animals hide amongst tall trees and thick bush. I ain’t know, I only repeating what I hear. People from Buxton talk in secret to friends who live outside of Buxton. They say bandits walk bold and brave in they village; night-time, you can hear them practicing. Whole night, you hear, badow, pow, pow, badow. In the morning, you see trees with targets and bullet shells on the ground. Them bandits pay li’l boys to warn them when police come then they run to hide in the bush. So, after the big murder in January, police and soldiers go with machines to clear the Buxton backlands. They work vigorously, furiously, steadfastly. Bandits gon can’t hide there no more.

Then lo and behold, the news air one night recently that work in the village of Buxton slow down. The news ain’t say why. The news say that the police and soldiers slow down they work. The news show pictures of silent machines, waiting in the sun.

The news continue. People in the village of Buxton say that baccoo is pelting people who stay late on the streets. Even them soldiers and police come in for a stoning.

Yesterday, gyaffing with me big brother on the phone, I tell he the news. We both decide, bandits is the new baccoo.

Believe what you want to believe. As we does say, take half, leave half.

What a la-la!

A truth...or maybe it ain’t a truth, maybe we just fooling weselves...whatever it is, truth or pretend-truth, it creep up on me like sleepy sun in a waking-up sky. Soon after it dawn, I go ‘round checking emotional pulses.

“Annie, you ain’t scared?”

“Of course, G, everybody feel scared but you can’t stop living because o’ that.”

Auntie M. suck she teeth, she say she got too much other things to do than to worry.

“Yasmeen, you afraid?”

“No y’know, I just make duah and leave everything in the hands of Allah.”

Same thing my mother say, make duah, that is, pray.

Everybody I ask, they say similar things. What’s the point of letting fear paralyse you?

The truth, or pretend-truth, shine a li’l light in me after Annie report to me about she night on the town.

Two Fridays ago, Annie flit from café to club to hang-out bar ‘til dunno-what o’ clock with a group o’ friends. Everything been in sync for Annie - hair, nails, skin and delectable li’l dress. Oooh la-la, boys hover ‘round Annie like blue sakee birds in we yellow-flower tree.

“Plenty people been out?” I ask Annie.

“Yes, they had lotsa people.”

“Huh, so much for everybody being scared,” I say.

This long week-end was a la-la of a holiday. I won’t lie, activities did shorten here and there for security reasons, but people carry on. Me and my ma been to family gatherings; some people had Easter Parade, other folks fly kites; National Park ram-jam with picnics. Even visitors from Abroad wasn’t filling up with fear - my mother cousin bring he friend from California and they tour; them fellas who perform on America’s Got Talent, Robert Hatcher with the heart-stopping Brian Lara smile, and The Calypso Tumblers, they been reveling in we park.

The confusion I come to is this - something new growing in we the people. It bright like glee but still fragile, like me baby dill in we rusty, bruk-uh-down wheel-barrow; it so very tender, one heavy storm can lash it into the ground.

People learning to live despite the threats of badness, despite the thought that any minute, Fine Man and he pack can savage again.

Either we learning to live, or we really foolish...naïve, them doom-sayers like to grumph; we ain’t know as yet, we should stay home, paste weself on the floor to hide, don’t come out to play.

Kites singing in a sunny sky as I write.

Four for the price of one.

I thought I did hit jackpot when I come up with my deal, selling three rumours for the price of one. But some other people “first” me, as we does say.

They come up with FOUR holidays in one weekend. Four different public holidays, nationwide, starting today.

Today is Youman Nabi, or as some call it, Mawlid al-Nabi, a Muslim celebration. Tomorrow is Good Friday, everybody know this one. Saturday is Phagwah for Hindus. On Sunday I bet plenty people gon spend they time washing off they Saturday abir from they skin to go kite-flying on Easter Monday, but even more folks gon be busy fixing up they kites and preparing picnics.

I know when I am defeated. I flee. But not in disarray. I gon come back with a bigger idea, just wait and see…

Rumours.

Yesterday Mrs. Naseer email me a rumour so stale that the normally fresh, green mould on it been crumbling to grey dust. I discard it without glancing at it, but a few words did fly into me eye - Fineman phone President, hiss threats.

Truth to tell, I does nibble on the odd rumour that come my way but I don’t chew on it too much. A li’l bite, then spit out quick. Because, no matter how they nice ‘n’ juicy, rumours always leave a bitter aftertaste, stink like aloe vera. And too besides, rumour ain’t a truth; they might be as visible as the Rock o’ Gibraltar but they just as unyielding. They refuse to show the insides and many sides of a story.

But yesterday, I get a’ idea.

I gon sell rumours. I gon get Filthy, Stinking Rich because people here thrive on rumours like how we need air, water, food.

I compiling a list of different kinds this very minute:

Hot ‘n’ Spicy - rumours that make you fling back your head, shet your eyes, clap your hands and laugh weyyyy heyyyy

Sharp Tak [Talk] - rumours that crack like whip and attack people [if you so inclined to hurt others]

Back Stabs – rumours that people like my cousin ex-husband gon buy

Sweet ‘n’ Juicy – rumours that you swallow glug glug glug without stopping to breathe, you just can’t get enough, yet even as you swallow, more pouring out for you to share. Hm, this remind of that pot o’ porridge in the old foreign folk tale…a girl thief the magic pot from she neighbour, and the porridge boil and boil, run over and wouldn’t stop boiling because the girl ain’t know the magic word to make it stop

Bullseye – rumours that red and hard like the sweetie with that same name, folks use to enjoy it long ago, you can’t bite it, you keep it in your mouth for days and it still ain’t melt.

In search of rumours to sell, I ain’t have to worry about quality. We got the bestest Rumour-Makers In The World. They can take fire that you light in the day and turn it into blood-sucking ole higue spinning she fire at night. Some Rumour-Makers can turn the good you do into evil so bad that even Shaitan…the devil…shiver with delight in hot, hot hell.

As for quantity, no worries there either. Rumour-Makers here can change forty into fifty in half a second. Besides, this ain’t a labour-intensive job; people who ain’t got nothing to do can make rumours without leaving they homes.

I can call the bizniz Idle Hands.

Rumours, Rumours, come get your Rumours here, going cheap, three for the price of one, to celebrate the opening of new bizniz.

Thread.

Sometimes we life run like one unending seam, same colour, same strand, same stitch, not varying in size. Then suddenly the thread snap and...

...depending on how you look at it, that small break create one annoying interruption or a delightful variation in the pattern.


For about six months after we replace we leaky ole fridge, we keep it under we house. My mother vacilliate between repairing it, or giving it away. Finally she say, give it away.

“Fazal,” I ask we gardener, “you know anybody who want that leaky ole thing?” Fazal eye get a gleam. I ask he, “You want the fridge?”

Fazal can fix the unfixable. One Sunday morning he help my mother to clear out we shed. More things went back into that shed than leave, I got to tell you. The shed does house plenty iron monsters that only a parent who been through World War 2 and extreme shortages can explain what them monsters gon be useful for one day. Fazal ask for one; he kerry it home, fix that rusty ole machine, shine it, and now he using it to build-up he home. Fazal say he gon repair the fridge and sell it.

Yesterday, because sun shine nice an’ hot, Fazal and a cart man come for the fridge. Bah. Humbug. I had things to do. My mother been busy cleaning hassar…fish…she ain’t going downstairs for nothing. Somebody had to move the car in case the fridge crash down on it. Somebody went downstairs to move the car. Rain start a drizzle.

The cart man had the dark skin of them Madras people, a tribe from India. But to the Madras appearance cart man add he very own peculiarities. He head been big, he nose start straight and end with a bulb-roundness, and he short legs look like stringy, dark sticks poking out from knee-length pants.

He three li’l girls, age five to twelve, come for the adventure. Like father, like daughters, they feet been bare in the fine-drizzle rain. Similarities end there. Them girls had pretty faces, shiny-wet dark eyes and shy, giggly-smiles. And the straggliest hair I ever see. Since Gawd make several mornings, they long hair never see comb, I bet.

“Wheh de horse and dray cart deh?” I ask. Where is the horse and dray cart? Naturally, it gon be a tall horse and a big cart.

Cart man point to the gate…

…to a donkey and a li’l, li’l cart. The cart been so small that, later on, as I describe it to my mother, I swear that it been six inches by five inches. My mother accuse me of exaggerating but she should be the last one to talk, everybody know how she can make tales grow. Anyway, as I was saying, the cart been tiny. And that ain’t all. It look as frail as Methuselah bones. I stare in amazement. This miracle I got to see, how that li’l cart gon hold that big fridge.

I park we car on the roadside. Cart man unhitch the donkey and push the cart under the house, close to the fridge. Two minutes later, them fellas got the fridge on the cart. And in just that short time, donkey who been chomping on delicious, wet grass, relishing this taste of freedom, make a decision.

He ain’t going nowhere.

Donkey, like man afraid of marriage, refuse to get hitch. Donkey raise up, twist he rump this side, that side. They can’t get donkey to put he bahind where it should go, into the harness. Donkey behave like every self-respecting Guyana donkey. Stubban…stubborn!

Across the road, workmen re-building a house, stop. A electricity company repairman in he van stop. I stop to watch. Was like a scene from Sleeping Beauty when she fall asleep, and action freeze, except here, only cart man and he 12-year old daughter been moving.

Rain drizzling more thick, look like heavy mist, they got to get home with the fridge before the rain come down more fast.

Finally, they move the harness towards the donkey bahind. The twelve year old daughter help she father to tie donkey while them two li’l ones watch me with open stares, shy smiles. Big daughter musta think she was really big; she hop on to the back of the cart, holding the fridge, looking at me for approval. No, I say. You sit right deh, she father order, and point to the seat in front. Father and daughters hop on. And blow me down in that cool breeze and shimmy-rain…donkey move off as if he was fetching feather.

Across the road work start again, I drive the car into we yard, the electricity man drive off.

One almost-hedonistic moment in the tropics.

From what we newspapers say, I gather that every Tom and he cat want to live Abroad, in a cold land, shivering they tail off. Now look, even we country behaving as if she want to be a foreign place. From early o’ clock this morning, when the sun shoulda put on she tropical-est dan-dan, she brightest yellow frock, she cloak-up in a dark gown and hide from we.

I suck me teeth with vexation, shube me feet into me long boots. I make sure I give them a good shake out first though. Every time I put on them boots I does hear my mother warning. Shake out them boots before you put them on, scorpion and santapee like hide in them.

And every time I shake out them boots, I does belt out that song that that wutliss (wicked) ole gardener use to sing. Gardie use to work for Auntie Baba when we was teens. He was a short, dry-up, li’l piece of a’ East Indian. But you think that stop he? As soon as he spy a young woman in the yard he use to sing, scorpion sting me, I feeling I gon dead, darlin' if you love me come lie down in me bed. That ole flirt had more gumption than Don Juan. One day he tell curvy cousin Z something wicked. She lash he with some peppery language, any strong man woulda quail from the heat. But if I remember right, from what Z tell me, the ole so and so chuckle.

I klomp down them back steps in me long black boots, rain falling so hard it talking he own language, sploogle-oogle from spouts, from the sloping zinc roof that shelter we back steps, splaka-laka onto concrete. Klomp, klomp in me boots, cover with umbrella, I wash garbage bin and compost bucket. Then I get a bright idea. I gon wash some clothes in the rain spouting down. Beat that for green living, Al Gore.

Plonk huge wash basin on a high wood stool, soap up me clothes with the magic blue soap, wash, rinse, hang them on the line under the house. Brolly and boots done get abandoned. This morning rain is soft and cool. Not hard and cold like foreign rain. Ya bore you skin like needle, my mother does say about foreign rain. Now, I soaking to the skin. And I get a’ even more bright idea. I gon bathe in de lush tropical rain, for decency sake I can wear a long, super-size tee shirt.

But, as with all closet hedonists, the moment pass. I creep upstairs, consoling meself, when everybody migrate I gon get the whole place to meself. Go my people, go.

Been a long time...

Day before the big murders my computer die. Salt air corrode it, low voltage strangle it.

Don’t know what or who corrode them murderers.

On Saturday, January 26, I wake up and before I could even say La Illaha, the phone ring. Too early for regular how-de-do’s. I hate when the phone ring this soon, before 6 o’ clock. Is bad news, I can feel the badness of it all like I does know when rain coming.

Mrs. Nizam on the phone, telling me.

I had no words.

Just a grief I had trying to tear itself out from somewhere that I bury it. A howl want to claw out from the pit of me belly but I had no sound. And all the while I seeing them li’l chil’ren and parents who get shoot up. The li’l girl face resting on she mother hip, and she mother lying sideways on the settee. Images from tee vee and newspapers flashing in me eyes while I go about me daily chores.

According to the surface explanation of everything, a sociopath, also known as Fine Man, orchestrate the killings. [Fine Man. Such a’ ironic name for so much stink oozing from a walking corpse. Fine. Excellent. Top quality. But ‘fine’ in we lingua mean scrawly, skinny. Almost connoting deprived.] Fine Man get furious because he pregnant girlfriend, Ms. Taneesha Morgan, gone missing. Fine Man phone the police and threaten blood if she don’t turn up.

I tell Annie that Ms. Morgan must be some blasted raving beauty, some freakin’ Helen of Troy, for Fine Man to go so berserk about she disappearance.

“No,” Annie say. “She is the face that launched a thousand guns.”

The glorious Ms. Morgan didn’t turn up, only rumours circulate about she phoning she mother. Fine Man phone a newspaper and threaten horror, he gon create history.

Despair push me down to the ground and rage burn me. I know how people Abroad does react to bad news here. This is a danger zone, they believe, and they refuse to do business with we; commerce suffer. In the midst of all that, more bad news hit. Ole lady dear to me, in a far-off land, had a massive stroke; I can’t be there in person for them who I love.

Suddenly, deep in the heart of February, them killers hit again, this time in Bartica, a river island. More people get kill, fathers, husbands, brothers, sons.

I thought a lot about death and dying, about the different ways we die, not just the physical self. For as many years we live, we can die one hundred thousand times. We courage die. We mind die. We passion, we hate, we love. We ideas, we dreams, we hope, we let them die, we let other people kill them. Fine Man and all them who scheme with he, they done dead in all the ways a man can die. Only left for they bodies to go now. I never want to be like them, not even if I live a million years.

I rediscover hope in D. H. Lawrence poem, The Ship of Death. He write about the apple falling from the tree, the rotten self, falling, dying. But this ain’t the end; when the apple fall to earth, it bring seeds, and from the seeds newness burst. But we got to let the old self go, bury it, only then the new gon grow. Send the old into that journey of oblivion, then the new self gon emerge, strange and lovely, D. H. Lawrence write; only then the frail new me can step out into her house again, filling the heart with peace.

I don’t know if this is what happen to me old fearful self. For some reason, though I am furious about them murders, though I am full of grief, that horrible, heart-thumping fear ain't gripping me as hard as it use to. Instead of me nightmares overshadowing me days, instead of me thinking about men in the dark with guns, I dream about fabric and colours, I dream up patterns and designs. I sew all me energy into making beautiful things. And while I work I think about the people I love and what I can do to cheer them. They love me so much I feel like I win the lotto.

I think a lot too about Anne Frank. In a shut up, small, dark room, in the midst of war, any minute she and she family can get ketch by them Nazis, she discover the art of living…