<Situations and Revelations of Passing Notice in Guyana >
Locket # 40
Not calling names. At least not real names, okay?
I like taking care of the women who come to our hospital all bruised and
battered. They talk to me. I listen like a big sister. Find out what really
happen.
Take Jainee. Her man beat her up bad, then he try to kill himself. Both of
them hanging on here, though left to me this man would be mince meat and
ribs for the ants and earthworms.
I looking after her, alongside this doctor from England. He used to work in
Malaysia, and now he is here.
She in a fragile state, in and out; most of the time sleeping, or pretending to
sleep, especially when relatives come to visit. Whenever I come in to check her
vitals tears fill up her eyes. She’d hold my hand tight. “What happen to the
man,” she’d ask. Don’t fret yourself, I tell her. And I’d whisper, He don’t
deserve to walk again after what he do to you.
She don’t want to leave the hospital. She don’t want to live anymore. All her
life people taking advantage. This last beating was like the last straw.
Her man came home one night demanding! Common law situation. I could
never for the life of me understand these situations. More like common
lawlessness. And this man has rise and come problems.
In his 40s, almost twice her age. They have no children. He likes his rum, but
he could barely lift and stay stout inside. He always wanting help.
At some point ‒ grabbing her hair, forcing her face to his crotch ‒ he’d give
up; then in the middle of the night he wake up and fly in a temper, like he
remember what didn't happen, and he hitting her for not helping.
This time he hit her with a Roti rolling pin, knock her all ‘bout her arms and
head. She here now all swell up.
I asked her, You don’t get tired of his nonsense? She didn’t want to cause
more aggravation, she said. Besides, she was seeing another man. He was
better. Better? Well, he didn’t need any help. And when he talked, he made
her smile, he made her feel happy.
So just a lil sweet talk and she spreading? In the hot stuffy bedroom, she had
to push her husband off her stomach. She’d lie on her back, pouting, watching
his chest heave, listening to the grinding of the cooling fan; thinking only
when next she would see Mr. Sugar Cake man. He's probably near her age,
better looking.
So why she didn’t just leave? Same thing I was wondering. She had nowhere
to go. She wasn’t going back to her parents. Another man was waiting there
to take advantage. A pandit.
First time she went back her mother sent her to him. He listened. In his
opinion, her husband had “stress” problems, which was why they had no
children. Drinking rum was not the solution. Her duty was to help release him
from these problems. He told her to take off her clothes, he would give a
demonstration.
This is what we have now, pandit talk show fornication, with one of these ‘my
dear child’ pandits, which makes for bad fornication.
I tell you, sometimes our bodies are like a forest. Every day some creature
comes out, crosses the river, hungry for scraps and bones. When it can’t find
anything, when it can’t stand being ignored, it does horrible things, then
scoots back to some shed in the bush.
I stab one o’ them already. He was no older than a schoolboy. Pushing me inside
as I opened my front door, all sweaty and pointing a gun. Expecting me plead ‒
Okay, okay, please!
I waited till the right moment, when he thought I was too frightened to resist.
I reached in my bag and pulled out a doctor’s scalpel. I always carry one. You
should see the shock on his face when I slice him. He stared at the blood on his
fingers, on his shirt, and he ran out the house fast.
Mongrels! with no future! pointing gun at your face and running at the sight of
their own blood.
I don’t think Jainee could make it on her own. I will help her get better till
time come for her to leave. Her village there waiting ‒ sugar in short supply,
cows with milk to give and belly heavy men. Not a lot to choose from. Still,
you never know.
*
This doctor from England (he wasn’t born there, but he has their accent) in
his fifties. He seems to know what he’s doing. Mr. Shiny Shoes. All beard and
curly hair.
He gets fussy about time and he can’t stand anybody who couldn’t be bothered
doing things the right way. He likes when I tell him everything is in order.
He told me he was beginning to understand our problems. The women in this
country all waiting to be rescued. Rescued from what? I asked. “Your mother
and father probably saved each other and now, see? you’re working here, doing
well. You know things about life,” he said.
Only here a short time and already he’s this big expert on my mother and
father, and our women; and claiming to know me.
Actually, we had a very nice conversation. At a restaurant, after work. Was
him, another woman and me. I think he wanted to show us girls he was not
above socializing outside the hospital with lower level staff.
He ordered wine. No one had ever served me wine in a wine glass anywhere in
Georgetown.
He said our country was breaking down, too many viper heads, too many hot
air heads in charge. One day we going become like Malaysia.
The other girl laughed. Maybe she thought she was supposed to laugh when
sipping white wine in the company of doctors.
At the restaurant I could tell he hadn’t been with a woman since he arrived. I
picked up signals ‒ after the wine and the conversation and some awkwardness
outside ‒ that he wanted me. I played Not interested. Didn’t want him to
think I was another Georgetown woman who needed saving. But the next day
I spread for him.
Was after 10.00 in the morning, in his office, I brushed his left side with my
hips and thigh and told him how much I enjoyed the wine and his company.
“I enjoyed your company too.”
Sorry, things didn’t advance afterwards, I said in a soft voice. And that must
have raised the colours up his flagpole.
“Lock the door,” he ordered, catching me by surprise. “The door,” he
repeated, rising from his chair.
A pen rolled away and fell to the floor as he pushed my shoulders down on his
desk. He took a little time putting on “his gloves” like he about to examine
a prostate. Ready for work and pleasure, you notice.
His finger grip on my wide hips was firm, I couldn’t move. My mouth opened,
enough to release a muffled Yes! Yes! to keep him driving. Other parts of me
waited for something grand to happen, like fireworks of pink and gold. Too
much to hope for at that moment, I know.
Mr. Far from home, lonely but not showing it, whose lips barely move when he
talks; who just the day before was saying how women here could use a little
“sweetness” now and then, though his word for it was “affection”.
When he was done, he patted my buttocks and turned away as I scrambled to
pull my pants up and look tidy again. Then he sat down and laced up his shoes.
He had slipped out his shiny shoes! All that time he was in his socks! huffing
behind me like he climbing stairs.
Regrets? Not from me. One day a man who I knew was generous, the next
day I let him. We here now, calm and composed as per usual; we even in Eden.
And that feels better than some mongrel jumping out the bush at you, leaving
you on all fours ragged and torn.
Doctors and patients come and go. I feel my life has changed, maybe just a
little. I’m definitely not the same as yesterday.
Whatever happens next, I am not going to end up living alone in Georgetown.
With a cat or a dog. Some child’s auntie. Acting the same way every day, not
realizing the years passing.
Our rivers move at their own sweet pace. I could always find wine and wine
glass in a shop here. I think I could manage.
I’m not going to let situations wear me down. My little doctor scalpel right
here ready to head off any common lawlessness.
Ayanna Brimp
Georgetown, Guyana
FARJOURNEY CARIBBEAN 