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        < Situations and Revelations of Passing Notice in Guyana >

         Locket #50:

        
         So now I’m thinking: if my mother had a problem, it was waiting for the right
         man to come along. Looking out at the possibilities in Georgetown, few
         seemed qualified. There were men blessed with more muscle than mind. She
         associated ‘muscle’ with required labour, like fortune hunting in the forest;
         and ‘mind’ with talent and city hopes.

         Her husband, my father, was a labour type. He laboured in the civil service
         and in the bedroom. He died of a stroke which she blamed on his compulsive
         labouring, and the quantities of food and drink he consumed.

         She worked at our public library. Books and quiet and minds growing. She
         shushed loud visitors and rowdy students. She was gracious with men who
         came up to her desk and made enquiries in soft voices. Who noticed how
         attractive she still was, but said nothing

         She shelved, she took returns at the desk; she liked reading new fiction and
         making suggestions to the Head Librarian, about what was suitable or not
         suitable for young readers.

         But her focus was raising her only daughter. In the eyes of others she was
         a quiet, generous soul. I did not let her down.

         Like her I valued people who liked reading and for a long time I was friendly
         with boys who spent energy on books and had impressive grades. This meant
         we spent our time together talking.

         I abstained and abstained which required much labour. Going from school
         straight to her library some afternoons, doing my homework there. Going
         home together where we ate and I did house chores. I might dip into a new
         book for the shelves.

         You would think by now I know exactly how and what to do in intimate
         situations, but I haven’t opened up myself yet, and I haven’t found what
         best suits me.

         About my father, we talked only once. I mean, talked seriously. My mother 
         confessed ‘love’ had little to do with her decision to marry. At the time
         he had dreams he’d be sent abroad one day to work at an Embassy. She
         came home from her job and dreamt of moving away with him. Means to an
         end, if you want to think that way.

         When she calls me here in New York asking, What’s happening, she’s itching
         to know if I’ve fallen in with the wrong labour company.

         I told her I wasn’t ‘dating’ anyone. The word ‘dating’ has little meaning for
         her. She didn’t have to remind me to focus, not to ‘stray’.

         I told her I had settled in the basement of her sister’s home. I could find my
         way around now. I signed up for classes. Classes cost money and ‘studying’
         here could take longer than we’d imagined. I had to take a job, but I knew
         my boundaries, and I was managing okay.

         Then the other day I got this letter from her.

         Normally between us it’s email; or a weekend phone call with questions and
         news. A Georgetown envelope with Georgetown stamps was unusual. It was
         followed quickly by email telling me not to leave the letter lying around;
         someone might read it.

         There had been a development back home.

         She'd met someone. A man from Martinique. He had wandered into the
         library during a book donation event. There were no empty chairs when he
         arrived. She found one for him. He seemed curious, at the same time a little
         lost. 

         I could see her standing there, wondering if more chairs might be needed for
         more late comers; curious about this late-comer, and drawn to his accent.
         When it was over he seemed to know no one in the room.

         She said she'd had dinner with this man. In our house.

         She didn’t explain how this happened, just that it happened. One minute he
         was a stranger at the back of a room at her library; the next he was sitting
         at our dining table.

         How could this be? How could the person I’d known all my life, a person of
         quiet authority, allow this to happen?

         There was more: this man had insisted on preparing the dinner. Something
         special. Like nothing my mother had eaten before. It required a trip to the
         nearest market.

         My mother didn’t care much for our public markets. She preferred the super-
         market. Things were neatly arranged on shelves; she had her list. He wanted
         to see our public market.

         I was left to imagine the dining event: the table set, glasses, the wine (We
         can’t have dinner without a glass of wine, she said he said) the napkins.

        They must have talked and smiled and listened to each other; a little fuss
        now and then, wondering if everything met each other’s liking. His ease and
        familiarity, telling her ‒ he must have noticed ‒ how very well she’d kept
        herself over the years.

        Everything in the house must have taken on a new glow. Pictures on the wall,
        the furniture. Her tone of voice. We had no dogs or cats, nothing to breeze in
        with sniffing interest.

        At around eight, maybe nine o’clock, they might have moved to chairs in the
        living room. No, he couldn’t just shake hands and be on his way; though at
        this stage what more could he offer to do?

        I could see him making himself comfortable (in my chair), waving away a
        stray mosquito. I could hear her speaking with pride about her daughter,
        away in America ‘studying’.

        In the presence of someone with dinner-cooking skills and a stranger's accent,
        she might have pulled back the covers, hoping again to be admired and taken
        away. Oversharing. Not listening to what she's saying. Glad someone is there.
        in our home listening to her.

       All those years with her, in our home, swept aside by some late-arriving thrill.

        The last time she called our conversation was brief. Along the lines of, So
        how is your new sonic toothbrush? I listened for signs of continuing
        developments. I didn’t want to appear too concerned or curious so I didn’t
        ask about the “Pierre” from Martinique; about his age and occupation, for
        instance.

        Some change had taken place, oui! From the moment of ‘let me help you’ in
        the library, to that evening, ‘let me cook for you’ in our home. I combed
        through the letter for clues.

        So why the fuss here? which sounds like I’m overreacting? over imaginings.
        Well, some things might sound like imaginings to other people.

        Something is slowly sinking in: the beloved only daughter is no longer all
        that matters in her mother’s world. She’s far away, she's out of range. She’s
        still expected not to ‘stray’.

        I can’t stop wondering if the letter was meant to set me free to act in ways
        I’d never acted before. No longer bound by home rules or expectations. And
        if so, what happens now? how should I move on? I mean, what would happen
        if some stranger with dinner-cooking skills were suddenly to cross my path?

        This is where I am at the moment. I just felt like talking about it.

         Desiree D.
         Georgetown, Guyana
         New York City

           

 

 

            < Situations and Revelations of Passing Notice in Guyana >

            Locket #49:

            Waiting to hear from my friend, Simon. I think he’s dying; for all I know he’s
            already moved on.

            He lives in the Northwest District. As fate would have it we met by pure
            accident in Georgetown. He was here “seeking justice”, only to discover
            that without money or friends with ‘connections’ an Amerindian with
            only 'innocence' is lost. I wish we had known each other earlier.

            We in our early sixties. Among the lucky ones, not physically
            “handicapped”, having to rely on family and relatives. Nowadays you
            can’t afford to even look old and feeble. Helter skelter don’t always see
            in time slower limbs crossing the road.

            I have a son who has grown and moved away. Simon as far as I know has
            sons and daughters.

            His eldest son, Matthew, came to town one day, and was stopped in the
            market square; punched and forced to hand over his phone, his gold chain
            and sunglasses. Poor fellow, he didn’t know where to turn.

            He found his way to the police station in Brickdam, where they asked    
            jokey questions and told him to wait. He waited. When waiting felt like
            humiliation he left.

            From that day I swore whenever Simon came to Georgetown he wouldn’t
            have a problem not knowing where to turn.

            I went with him to the Georgetown hospital. He was in a battle with his
            body. A quiet, private battle. Internal problems, let's leave it at that. I
            didn't press him to talk about it, and I don’t want to make it everybody's
            business.

            He invited me to come visit him in the Northwest. From the sound of it he
            has a nice little farm.

            When he came by me he looked around and I could see questions in his
            eyes.

            I can bolt my doors and rest in reasonable comfort. I have a dog and
            friendly neighbours; to date no real problem living by myself. He seemed
            concerned. What might happen if, for instance, fire break out and hip hop
            from building to building. Or if flood waters creep in the yard and start
            rising.

            Well, it’s the best I can right now, I muttered, answering his thoughts.

            This last visit to the Hospital, he thanked me for the hours I waited with
             him.

            The lady at the desk in her tight bossy clothes told us, “Kindly have a seat
            over there,” the doctor would see us eventually.

            Eventually stretched on and on. Now and then her cheekbones tossed
            unkindly looks our way. Playing her little dominance game. Just waiting
            for anger and frustration to break out on Simon’s face.

            I wanted to jump up and raise hell. Other people turned to each other
            grumbling, You see what this country coming to? Dog house. Collar and
            bone in the dog house. It wouldn’t have helped. Besides, I didn’t want
            to make Simon an object of pity, unable to fend for himself. I put aside
            my irritation and joined him in patience.

            After a stop at a pharmacy I suggested we go to Chinese restaurant.

            Two elderly gentlemen having lunch in a fancy restaurant. An odd pair,
            yes, in a room of table linen and chairs. Not the regular snake charmers
            taking lunch break from public office.

            Simon was wearing blue denim jeans; they didn't look tight at the waist
            and droopy. Where you get those pants? I poked at him. Who you think
            you are? dress up like that? “They feel comfortable”. They should dress
            you that way when you die. “You know, that is not a bad idea.”

            For dinner I’m sure Simon kill and cook plenty snakes, birds, all kinds of
            fish, iguanas, duck. My letter-sorting fingers couldn’t even wring a
            chicken’s neck. But here we were, menu and dishes waiting for our
            decisions.

            I think he liked the idea of the soup served first (which he spooned with
            slow hand movement) and somebody watching, deciding when it’s right
            to approach and clear away bowls for the next course. Everything Ok?
            they kept asking, and he always looked up surprised.

            I told him about my post office work, how I started with house deliveries,
            moving up over the years to Postmaster (Act.) till they asked me to retire.

            He was curious about people I met.  Anticipation and gratitude, rain or
            shine, I said, even before I dug into my mail bag. They’d read their names
            on the envelopes, check the stamps, examine the handwriting. Someone
            had addressed them with dignity. In those days we were formal adults,
            thinking adults.

            In the post office I searched and searched for parcels that hadn’t arrived.
            They might show up tomorrow, or the day after, I’d say. Back then
             nobody accused my post office of theft or opening mail.

            I asked him if it was true people in the forest gave names to birds based
            on the sounds they made. Like the Qu’est ce que dit? And were there
            water spirits that grabbed hold of canoes and pulled them to the bottom
            of the river? He laughed. But that’s what they told us in school, I said. I
            never knew what his laughing meant.

            He let slip he was schooled by nuns at a Catholic school in the interior.
            He still paddles his canoe along the river late afternoons, passing little
            stellings, waving to people. As times changed he had to contend with
            power boats churning up and down the river.

            After lunch I arranged for us to do things. He wanted to see the big rivers.

            I’d hire a car and we took trips up the coast, or cross the Demerara. I
            paid the driver to stop and wait as long as we wanted, take us wherever
            we directed. We stood side by side, ignoring the baking heat, and looked
            out with new astonishment at our big rivers; intent on flow, not caring
            about our shaky bridge builders.

                                                            +

           So one day his son showed up at my house. Short, strapping fellow, with
           gold-rimmed sunglasses. Following the fashion. He hadn’t been to
           Georgetown since the incident in the market square.

           What you doing here? His father sent him to work on my roof. My roof?
           True, it needed work, but I didn’t know who to trust with the job. The
           “estimates” I got sounded like knives sharpening on stone.

           All he needed was the materials, he said. He had a friend, they could do
           the repairs. Where’s your father? How is he? Not doing too well. In fact,
           he didn’t have long to live.

           They say if out of the blue something happen to you, you start aging
           really fast. You add three to every one year. Medicine don’t help. Simon
           might have been dying all this time, but like he decide to say nothing.
           Not a grimace, not a wrinkle, not a twinge. And though I could never be
           sure what he was feeling, it seemed he didn’t want any sadness to
           spoil his afternoons in town.

           I used to be a thrifty person. Somehow thrift found its way from my
           parents’ bible to my habits. Well, that was then.

           I’ve arranged so that everything I own, the house, whatever is left in my
           Savings ('cause since meeting Simon I’ve been wondering if there's any
           point saving?) it will pass to my son. Wherever he is when he hears I’m
           approaching the pearly gates, he’s bound to hurry back here.

           Simon said there were places along the river he was told as a child not to
           go. Voices fell silent as they paddled past; people thought they heard faint
           cries, spirits calling.

           I told him about places in Georgetown I prefer not to go. As a postman my
           job was to deliver to homes with addresses. I looked out for dangerous
           dogs, idle watchers. I didn’t know enough about ‘spirits in the forest’ to
           disregard what he said.

           But I keep having this one dream, over and over, every Monday morning.
           I'm out delivering mail; find myself trapped in a yard; the residents
           refusing to let me leave, accusing me of opening mail; demanding I hand
           over packages they expecting, otherwise they won’t let me go.

           I don’t know much about Simon day to day, but if you ask me, he’s not the
           type to wake up one morning, tired of everyone and everything, and just
           float away. The Northwest is where he’ll live and die; come back and live
           there again.

           I could see him in his corial, paddling past one of the Don’t Go There
           places his parents warned him about; thinking, with not too long on this 
           earth, might as well find out what's really going on back there.

           When I stop getting message he’s coming to Georgetown, mark my word
           that’s where he is; that’s where he’s gone. In blue jeans with cutlass
           and crocus bag. Hailing and waving from the bush. That could be Simon.
          

           F.M. John
           Georgetown, Guyana

 

 

 

 

 

        < Situations and Revelations of Passing Notice in Guyana >

            Locket #48:

        So somebody comes up behind you and grabs your phone. You’d be shocked
        and angry, right? Make a big scene, run after the man, shouting for somebody
        to stop him.

        I was at the mall with Nadira, my best friend. Our imitation mall. Nadira has
        been to New York and she says our “Mall” is pure imitation; and people stop
        going to malls in New York.

        Then why we coming here? Well, we still catching up with the world.

        Besides, her family like buying expensive things. And imitation or not, our 
        Mall is a not a bad place to wander about and feel safe.

        We attend one of the best schools in Georgetown. I would say ‘the best’, but
        our standards are so all over the swamp, unless you getting a private
        education you can’t be sure what you getting.

        I told Nadira someone grabbed my phone. The look on her face should have
        been the look on my face. When she gets panicky, even a mouse would stop
        and laugh at her.

        I told her I thought I recognized the man who grabbed my phone. He was
        wearing bad boy dark glasses, Nike shoes. There was a tattoo on his wrist.
        The face was narrower. It had lost some of his good looks, but it was Ranji.
        Ranji G. A student from our school. A former student.

        He was two years ahead of us. Nadira and I used to give him long distance
        looks but all we got back was cold shoulder.

        Her Mom phoned, she was outside waiting in the car. So what should I do?

        Nadira thought I should report it to the police. The Police?

        Well, the Security people in the Mall. They must have cameras with the
        whole incident on tape or something. But we’d have to go looking for the
        Manager, and her mother was waiting in the car.

        Just as we stepped outside two fellows on motorbikes appeared. Out of
        nowhere. Shiny helmets, dark glasses. They just rode up and the fellow on
        the second bike sort of threw a phone at me. My cell phone. And they rode
        off.

        I checked to see if it was damaged. Was that the guy who snatched your
        phone? Nadira.

        I was relieved I didn’t have to report anything. I was thinking, our lives can
        grind to a standstill just like that. Somebody grabs your phone, rides away
        away in the wind and your life is at a standstill.

        I told Nadira not to say anything. I got my phone back, and that was the end
        of that.

        Knowing Nadira, it couldn’t be the end of that. The moment her mother
        dropped me off, her mouth opens, the story pops out. Some man on a motor
        cycle snatched Annette’s phone!

        And her mother would say something back, something stupid and frightened,
        about certain people in this country (whom she identifies by the pigtails
        sticking out under the helmets); the way they treating this place, scaring
        her to death with their road behavior.

        She is like so many people, they see and hear things they vaguely under-
        stand. 

        There are pictures in our papers. Gross pictures so we could feed like  
        passing crows. Dead bodies, battered bodies, people arrested, people
        released, homes burnt down in vexation. All we could do is hope and pray,
        if we avoid trouble, it will leave us alone.

                                                     +

        Of course, the matter didn’t end there. I started getting messages. On the
        phone. From Ranji. The phone he snatched and handed back.

        Unreal, I said the same thing. I couldn’t believe somebody would do anything
        like this.

        At first he signed his text ‘Bombay Boomboy’. Then he changed it to BB.
        Then still not happy with the tag he signed it B2 and he stayed with that.

        From what he says, he has joined some motorcycle gang. And he’s involved
        with the Narcotic Trade people you hear about in our country. I’m not
        joking.

        To give you an idea, here are samples of what he wrote.

        Showed Miss T. how her profits would improve if she did business with us.
        Her market stall perfect for drop off/pick up. Told Ras man to change
        balance – 350 (bought) 400 (sold). It's not a waste of pineapples.

        N’jeeryan causing problems. Made it clear he's responsible for any loss of
        product. He’s a courier. Told him, do his job. Deliver. Don’t open package.
        Bikes a better transport investment. Maintenance the courier’s problem.

        Next month code change. Old: Do you want to see my Amerindian girlfriend
        tonight?  New: The children need dresses. Buy me four dresses. Birthday
        preparations moving okay.

        Complaint about last delivery from P’roon. Ordered to send it back. Top
        layer good. Bottom layer look like sawdust. Told them use coffee beans to
        cover scent. Strict rules of business and accounting.

        BoomBoss threaten to discipline people riding about on bikes and drawing
        attention to themselves. Bikes bought with Company profits to be used like
        Company vehicles. Punishment for disobedience they will not like.
 
        Package from P‘ribo turned out to be a woman. Picked up at Beach 63.
        Don’t know what she carried that was so precious. Language problem. Did
        what we were told. Middle of the night, transport to GT. No questions.

        Like postcards from another world. And for my eyes only.

        When all is said and done, he could only end up one place, in the half-
        naked punishment of our jails. But he’s out of school now, and he doesn’t
        care who approves or disapproves what he's doing. 

                                                           +

        I still wonder, why me? Snatching my phone, the toss and ride drama outside
        the Mall. Is he looking for a friend?

        Someone like Ranji with his motorcycle style and fast flow shouldn’t have
        problems. His headlight bulbs glow day and night; he's revved and ready to
        go. Maybe the girls he meets aren’t his type.

        I mentioned his name to my English Teacher the other day. Told her I’d seen
        him. Where? How is he? I think she enjoys “following” her students after
        they graduate.

        I can’t imagine what he’s going through. It’s her favourite line. She uses it to
        display “empathy”; and with that word she’s helping us develop, she says,
        our 'underdeveloped capabilities'.

        She talks like she needs to hear “news” about all of us, like it feeds some  
        hunger or unhappiness she holds inside. Her eyes light up; but I cut her off
        that time. I wasn’t going to give her any pleasure, tracking Ranji’s
        ‘development’ outside.

        Besides, I suspect she’s quietly plotting her ‘move away’ moves. She gets
        agitated, shouting at us over little things. At times we catch her staring out
        the window. The creatures and vegetation in the swamp. I can do better
        than this. It doesn’t take much to push her off topic, off her windowsill into
        the wind.

        Maybe Ranji sensed I couldn’t find the courage to approach him. And now,
        like he’s blaming me. See what happen? If you had stepped up and declared
        your feelings, this wouldn’t have happened. Our lives might have been
        different. Yes, think about that.

        Like he’s trying to implicate me. I wouldn't let him pull me in.

        It could be a pride thing. From Canal District (about his family we knew
        nothing) worrying what people thought about him. All his friends moving on,
        doing something in shirt and tie, while he’s there riding motorcycles and
        doing clearly psychiatric things. Proving at least he has spine for something.

        Could be fantasy thing. Like Nadira. She likes to pretend she is ready for
        the sex she hasn’t started having.

        She has this tattoo on her hip line, in a little harbour just above her buttocks.
        I don’t know when or where she had it done. She’s still alive so obviously
        her mother hasn’t seen it.

        She showed it to me one day; shaking her behind to demonstrate how she
        expects to be humped; like I’m her secret mirror. Wait till she finds out
        what else it involves.

        I have my problems, but to her they’re not as important. But I’m generally
        a cautious person. And to be honest we want different things out of life,
        out of the swamp.

                                                            +

        I ask myself, when his riding eventually stops, and his picture gets in the
        newspapers (with nothing to smile about) and people find out everything,
        what am I suppose to do? speak up for him? take his side? I can't just do
        nothing, watch him stare out then disappear in the day's swamp news.

        His messages come late at night. The short bursts. He probably hopes I read
        them rightaway and go to bed thinking about him.

        I wait until early next morning. Pull back the blinds, let the sun wash over
        my night clothes. I check the phone, a new message is there! it's like, Since
        you were always interested in who I am, here. grip on this. and this.

        I take in every word. Sometimes I stay in bed imagining the drama, letting it
        float around inside; until my mother bangs on the door and tells me to move
        my lazy behind.

        I should maybe throw the phone away, get a new number; though when he
        realizes his messages aren’t getting through, who knows what might happen
        next?

        He might get angry. He might start “stalking” me. Out of the blue showing
        up again, taking off his dark glasses, wanting to talk now; hoping I’ll see him
        in a better light. I swear if that happens, I’ll tell him straight: stay away
        from me.

        Anyway, I have to focus. Exams! Final exams! only months away.

        I don’t hang outside too long now. In the house; spending solid, scholarship-
        hungry hours; making notes in the margins. Studying.

        You wouldn’t find anyone more motivated to get past these final exams.
        I just had to move this Ranji stuff out the way first. No, I’m not letting go
        of my phone.

        Annette B.
        Georgetown, Guyana

 

 

 

       < Situations and Revelations of Passing Notice in Guyana >

          Locket #47:

          Well, I have made a big decision. About my father and me. It has been
          forming for years. I am only telling it here because I think it’s unhealthy to
          keep certain things locked away in your vault. You can read it like a
          confession, if you’re Catholic.

          I used to think I'd inherited my mother’s genes, her anxieties. She grew up
          in Canal District; poor, one of seven children. She decided at some point
          she didn’t want to be like her mother and go through seven pregnancies.
          She met my father, they married and they had only one child. That’s me.

          So my decision? Well, my grandmother bore seven; my mother brought
          one child into the world. I will not have any. We’ve reached the end of
          this line.

          I always thought my father was content in the marriage. He was a quiet
          man, he read a lot. He encouraged me to leave the District, to study and
          work abroad.

          He has framed pictures of me, his only daughter. Tells everyone how I’m
          doing. I have never felt closer to anyone else in my life.

          Mom died of cancer when I was seventeen. We buried her on a Sunday. My
          father insisted I go out to school the next day, ignore what people might
          say. I came home early that afternoon and found him with the woman
          who helped in our house.

          Mom was not energetic at house cleaning. Too tired, or not inclined. She
          hired helpers; Dad made sure they were well paid. She kept changing them,
          or maybe they left on account of her “attitude”.

           This woman was in her thirties. She'd been with us longer than the rest, and
          there he was that afternoon doing it with her.

           She was bracing herself on my mother’s dresser, her dress was up and he
           was behind her, his buttocks (recently bereaved) jabbing away. I had
           never before witnessed a display of energy like that from him.

           My heart was screaming and racing up my throat. Why was he having her
           like that, with her hands bracing Mom’s dresser?

           I’m sure he heard something outside. It might have caused some
           hesitation, the helper panicking a little, turning her head. He might have
           said something to her, keeping her focused, hurrying now.
            
          I slipped away. I walked to the end of the road. When I came back I
          slammed the front door; a loud “Hi, dad”, my eyes locked on my phone.
          And straight to my room.

          I blamed my mother. This would not have happened if things were ‘normal’;
          if somehow she’d had more children; if she had come home earlier from
          work in Georgetown.
 
          Dad and I never spoke about it. Since it "never happened”, there was
          nothing to talk about. But my attitude to the helper changed. I could barely
          speak or look at her.
 
          At the dinner table we ate mostly in silence. He'd ask if something was
          bothering me. It must have weighed on him, Mom not being there;
          wondering if I knew about his carrying on with the house helper.

         He believed there is a “context”, a set of circumstances for everything. He
         wasn’t quick to accuse or judge anyone. He let the whole house helper thing
         hang in the air like a puzzle. Now and again he’d drop clues for me to piece
         together our context.

         “Women aren’t all 100 percent faithful," he said one evening, opening casual
          conversation with his only daughter, soon to be a woman. “Some drift into
          odd behaviors as a way to escape”. Okay, like wanting to escape the house,
          the village, the overgrown grass; insects and roadside stalls. Canal is Canal.

          There are men in the District able and willing. Out of the goodness (or
          lurking idleness) of heart, they offer to help in any way they can, behind
          closed doors, out of sight somewhere. Friends and neighbours suspecting
          something going on usually lower their suspicions to whispers. It’s easier
          to get away with this, easier than hiding theft or prejudice. Anything was
          possible.

          Mom had always longed for style and security in her life. She had a sister
          in Canada; she talked of moving there one day. Dad wasn’t eager to
          emigrate. Longings can pile up.

           Her afternoons late at work in Georgetown became excuses for coming
           home late. She probably hung out with a few men, friends and
           acquaintances; people in Real Estate, men who traveled, with business
           to take care of in the world.

           I imagined her laughing, talking excitedly, with men who gave her little
           bows of admiration. Maybe having too much to drink once in a while,
           and next thing you know she is taking off her clothes, and for the wildest,
           brief moment a different life was passing through her body, outside the
           Canal.

             Her cancer swept in out of nowhere, like through a window left open. It
           brought its own unimaginable pain. She had firm, beautiful breasts, and
           never tired of shifting her blouse, checking her profile.

           Dad wanted her to go abroad for treatment. She made excuses.This was
           not how she imagined travelling to see the world. Besides, they told her 
           she was too far gone.

           I think we were close to each other then, our sadness a quiet, tightlipped
           denying thing.

                                                             +

           So why didn’t Dad confront her? That would have been the normal thing
           to do; saying something, on even a whiff of suspicion.

           He probably did say something to her. I used to hear low-droning
           conversations coming from their bedroom.

           She might have said over and over, Nothing is happening in Georgetown.
           Nothing. And he would be like, Okay, nothing happening. After all. what
           purpose would it serve? scratching the surface, on the flimsiest suspicion?
           starting fires that could consume their lives?

           Still, I know! you wonder, how could any person react like that, calm
           and even-tempered?

           Men in the District are known for forcing issues. They don’t have time
           for explanations. Instruments of pain are lying around, within hands reach.
           The angriest I ever heard Dad was when he said once, You really shouldn’t
           talk to people like that.

           Here’s something else, another piece of the puzzle. The day I came into
           this world. He remembers that day very well.

           “They told me, Go home! She wasn’t ready to deliver; there was no point
            waiting around the hospital." 

            The next day he saw the look on her face, a lingering grimace, tired from
            all the pushing and pain. He saw the way she held me and breast fed me.
            Totally relieved it was over.

             It was clear to him, her mind was made up: she would not go through
             the pain of child bearing again.

             I think for Dad this must have been the heart-changing moment of his life.
             I think it directed relations between them from there on.

             Intimacy was now accompanied by her fear of pregnancy again (to put
             her body through abortion was completely out of the question) so they
             did it less and less, until eventually they didn’t do much at all.

             Raising me (I would say she wanted me to grow up quickly, stop
             demanding so much of her time) was her fussy, ‘good parent’ doing; but
             the feeling of belonging to our family (I would say) was Dad’s work. He
             was our house hold together.

             I’ve had boyfriends. I’ve had sex. Certain acts I refuse to perform. I’m
             not into helping anyone. They might ask, How was it for you? I just smile.
             Can’t wait for our temperatures to cool; get back into clothes.

             I don’t like people talking about me behind my back. I can tell, just the
             look on the face, they’ve been talking; like I’m some weird person. I
             find myself abruptly shutting down when the conversation slows, and
             they ask, So where you from? Eventually we drift apart.

             Sometimes I let them know, plain and straight, I have things to do,
             important matters to think about that don’t involve them.

             I could never return to our house, with Dad and the house helper; not
             knowing if they continued helping each other.

             Dad is getting older. I don’t think he’ll survive on his own back there. He
             might become the target of another woman, fluttering round his head,
             wanting to take care of him. She might tempt him to tell her everything ‒
             about me, Mom, the house helper (maybe not the house helper).

             At his stage he deserves days of quiet leisure. We must always be moving
             forward, he told me once. So I’m working to bring him out the country.

             Last I heard from him, his days were moving faster, the years slower.
             He’d taken up meditation. He has friends but I won’t describe them as
             men of ‘power and influence’. And for what it’s worth he never had my
             mother’s hidden, sideways moves.

             One morning he’ll wake up and realize, I’m too old for this. Meaning, by
             ‘this’, what’s taking place around him, for which there seems no rational
             explanation.

             He might start forgetting who he is. That ‘forgetting’ thing is popping up
             in the District.

             I’ve tried to say everything here within limits, leaving out details and
             stuff. Not asking for sympathy. And please, don’t start some search in
             the District, trying to find out about our family.

             Anyone who thinks nothing like this could ever happen in that place ‒ she
             must be holding back or making up stuff! ‒ well, looks like somehow I’ve
             escaped your expectations. Sorry.

             Anyway, this is where I draw the line.

             Radeesha M.
             Canal District, Guyana
             Toronto, Canada

       

 

 

      < Situations and Revelations of Passing Notice in Guyana >

        Locket #46:

         The other day I met the oldest man in my life. Mr. Goldfields. 90 years old.
        More than 70 years older than me. I couldn’t believe it. Born way back in
        the 1920s or something.

        He didn’t look that old. He carried a stick, maybe to fend off stray dogs or
        idle young men with hurtful intentions. And he walked with a limp, his thighs
        stringy in short pants; pushing himself, step by step, to show everyone age
        didn’t matter.

        We had a conversation. A one-sided conversation, since he did most of the
        talking. With some old men, patience and politeness is required. Like my
        grandfather. He was a civil servant, an imperious man ‒ his favorite words,
        “May I remind you.” ‒ who expected you to follow his example. And my
        grandmother who stayed close to the church of her childhood.

        The last thing you want is some old man gassing you to death with  
        memories and judgment. They do this in the newspapers, on our television,
        sounding mournful or excited. How hard or how better everything was in
        their day and age. And how much they love their country. What a blessed
        place to scatter last thoughts and ashes; their loving thoughts, everybody’s
        ashes.

        I like the ones waiting with dignity to pass on. Content with a smile and a
        pleasant “Good Morning.” If you sit with them, they might not say much,
        but every word speaks truth.

        This oldster was out for his “morning constitution”, walking, from his home
        in Kitty Village, outside Georgetown, to the seawall, then back home. Long
        past three score and ten, he said, sounding bible-ish. Taking in the morning
        air before the heat and the work traffic took over, by which time he was
        back in his yard.

        He said he used to walk the length of the sea wall before they raised it to
        hold back the ocean. “That seawall is about two miles long. You know how
        long it took to build it?” he asked, slowing down for the first time. “Over
        thirty years. 30 years hard labour.” Where you hear that? In the gold fields?
        “I knew you’d say that. The head on these shoulders holds knowledge.”

        After 20 years in the gold fields using your hands, if you walk a lot you live
        to be 90; you lose body mass, but your head holds knowledge. Okay.

        He said he did a lot of thinking when he walked. Like he was plucking
        thoughts from the air, left and right, discarding the ones he didn’t want. He
        was far from finished with life.

        In his day there was brightness over the land, he said. Brightness? Most of
        the buildings were painted white, and the sun fell and spread bright light
        everywhere. Everybody, rich or poor, was touched with brightness. You felt
        alive. There was space for bicycles, bright light and surprise.

        “Now they putting up these stone structures. Sometimes I does stop and
        wonder, Who are these prisoners up there in the sky?”

        New buildings blocking out the sun, casting shadows. I could see that. And
        hot days, burning hot days. I don’t know if the city is more bright or less
        bright.

        Back home from his walk, a cup of tea was waiting, he said, and two soft
        boiled eggs. I could see him at his breakfast table, sipping and munching;
        and sorting out new thoughts like pocket change. Night time he poured a
        shot of Eldorado rum in a cup of tea, and he listened to the village night
        noise.

        I wondered if he had a birdcage with a bird. My father won't allow a birds in
        our house. Too rural, like hanging sheets outside on a line.

        He’d spent his young years, by which he meant 20 to 40, in the gold fields.
        In his day without a Go Forward school education (bad exam results), what
        else could a young fellow do? Those 20 years were the best years of his life.
        He saw everything, did everything, good and bad.

        While he spoke I was wondering: did he have family or relatives who worried
        about him? And if he came out the gold fields after 40 years, and was now
        past six score and ten, what happened to the years in between? what did he
        do? did he ever have reason to dress up once in awhile?

                                                      +

       The very next morning, it was Saturday, and burning with curiosity I got up
       meaning to cross paths with him. I'd pretend it was by chance we were
       meeting again.

       It was raining. I hate having to be out in the rain. I have a bicycle for errands.

       He was out there. Soaking wet. Coming back from his walk. Master of the sun
       and rain, our old man of the universe. I had to admire his persistence.

       He didn’t act surprised to see me. Maybe he thought after the conversation
       the day before I had been thinking about what he said; and here I was again
       ready for more enlightenment.

       When you pass my house you always talking to yourself, I said, joking with
       him. “I don’t talk to myself.” I see your lips moving. “I’m thinking aloud.
       It only sound like I talking ‘cause now you hearing the words.” Okay.

       You don’t live on my street. “This village used to have narrow streets, horse
       drawn carts, bicycles. Now the cars and vans, they knocking down cows and
       anybody in the way. People starved for the future. They’d run over anything
       to get there. Crash into trees, take fast corners, spin and tumble over.
       Tyres getting old, they run them to the ground, they keep running on rims
       to the future.”

       Well, goals and aspirations, usually that’s what drive us forward, I said,
       getting off my wheels, matching his steps. “Yes, forward to the fields of
       gold and death.” I don’t understand. “The fields you dig, the waste you rinse
       and wait to see which serves you first, gold or death.” Okay.

       "Then you start to wonder where to end your life.” Where? “I came back
        here at age 40. The streets hadn’t changed. Houses the same.” Where to
        end your life? “Yes, where. How and when are instruments out your hands.”

        “Most people ask the same question – where? – all their life. They wake up
         to ordinariness, every day the same ordinariness. The present refusing to
         fulfill, refusing go past. Everybody waiting for the future to start. Ignition,
         gobble gobble, nothing. Ignition, giggle giggle, nothing.”

         His voice was rising and fuming with irritation. Eventually I stopped. I told
         him I was really going the other way, I would see him around.

         He raised a hand, like he was signing me off; like it wasn’t his fault, he
         didn’t interrupt wherever I was going. And it didn’t matter whether or
         not I understood what he was saying.

         That same night after our conversation I had this dream. I’d taken off for
         Bartica, the mining town. I didn’t tell anyone. I traveled until I found what
         looked like a mining quarry.

         It wasn't how I imagined it. There was a camp and an office and a manager
         type fellow outside having a smoke; a place selling liquor; two women,
         their brassiere straps dangling, who smiled and asked my name. I didn’t
         know where to turn, who to trust.

         Then this Amerindian showed up. Tall man in a plaid shirt who smiled and
         tried to sell me a bow and arrow kit. He said I had to be careful, this was
         a dangerous place. No, not just tigers and snakes. I could get stabbed,
         arguing over nothing or nonsense.

         He squeezed my shoulders. I had to have tough skin, he said, and a hard
         stomach. Maybe this wasn’t the right place for me. He tried again to sell
         me the bow and arrow kit.

         I told him I liked birds. He identified the bird sounds I was hearing – That’s
         the Piha, same three note every time. It set me thinking, maybe I could
         become a bird expert one day.

         The first night in the hammock, my father showed up, shouting so loud he
         woke up everybody. 

         What are you doing here? I told him it was time to start my 20 to 40. I
         wasn’t trying to be rebellious. He went on and on, loud and embarrassing.
         We didn’t raise you to come here then return. Your life isn’t circular.

         It became clear he hadn’t come all this way to save me, to take me back.
         He and his public gassing are now part of a series of dreams I’ve been
         having.

         Who knows what this place will be like in forty years. If Mr. Goldfields is right,
         not much will change. Higher roofs blocking the sun. The ocean pounding the
         seawall to get in. Street by street, people and buildings, new and
         dilapidated, jostling for brightness and space.

         Lots of fellows my age find themselves in the swamps for their lives. All they
         can think of is survival, gold and death like gun twins stuck in their pants
         belt, if you know what I mean. Lucky if they reach forty and not in jail.

         I’d intended to ask the old man about the years after he came out the gold
         fields. The fifty or so years? between then and now? That’s a big gap. What
         happened? what did he do besides walking? Completely forgot to ask.

         Anyway, that is it for me. Not getting up again early in the morning to walk
         anywhere with anyone rain or shine. I have things to do. Things!

         Mark Duncan Cadogan,
         Georgetown, Guyana