Recently, I been to pay thirty-three and one third percent of me earnings so that others can eat.
They call it Consumption Tax, or to be more specific, General Consumption Tax.
I ain't know who General is, but oh boy, he or she sure consume a lot, not just we money.
We time and we energy too.
Sooner than later, General and the Consumption people gon call or send a letter saying, You didn't pay. I gon go to see them, froff at the mouth like Mrs. Harry Dan, tear up me garment and roll on the ground, they gon look at me like the clock - implacable - and repeat, like a robot: I'm sorry ma'm, it's not in the computer.
Computer was sapposed to save we-the-people.
They promised we this in the years B.C. [Before Computers].
Yep, they did actually verbalise this promise to my mother one day, in the years B.C.
She was at a guvament office trying to help she brother-in-law living Overseas. The staff in Georgetown could find no record of the po' man's pension payment. They said it was all the way in Berbice, across the river.
"You can go there and look after it," said the staff.
"Oh," said my mother in a voice that sound like hot pepper, if hot pepper could speak, " I will gladly go if you pay for the taxi to take me there. I will look after business for you too."
I ain't know what guvament staff is like in civilised countries, but here, them is like hard-mouth rum drinkers. Every citizen here know that full-time rum-drinkers consume tons o' pepper to make their food taste better.
The staff watch my mother as she stew, wondering what to do.
Finally, one o' them melt a li'l bit and say, "Don't worry. One day we will get computers."
"And who is going to programme the computers?" my mother ask. "The same pack of dummies that you have in here!"
But between you 'n' me, I don't think them is dummies.
I think they get kinky watching we-the-citizens froff and fume. There's not much entertainment around town, y'see. They sit in the lunch-room and compare people's reactions, and place bets as to who bring down the most citizens.
I bet one hot winner is the slim miss, dusky-skin and dolled up, spurting a li'l cleavage, and flaunting she long, straight hair in the cashier-cage.
I meet she when I go to the Albert Street branch for the first time last year.
She look at me tax return and say, "You didn't pay taxes for two years." She quote Accounting Words so big, me po' head couldn't hold them in.
"What? I've been paying consistently at the GPO building on Robb Street," I cry.
She watch me squirm like a worm turning every colour with rage.
"I'm sorry, ma'm, It's not in the computer," she sneer.
I ain't see she at the shiny, new office this year. But I know she is hiding, waiting to send that letter.