< Situations and Revelations of Passing Notice In Guyana >
Locket # 27:
My uncle wears neat khaki at his job in our Police Force. He likes to tell people
he worked his way up through the ranks to his office desk and quiet zone. He
has this wooden plaque with the words, Ex nihilo nil fit. It rests on his desk
like a correcting rod.
My father had this idea, after graduation I should spend June through August at
my uncle’s station house, before moving on with my life. Get a taste of police
work, see if you like it, they need smart young women in the force.
Well, I did my time there, and I can tell you, a police station among the boys
and men in serge and khaki is a place of drama, the worse kind of drama.
Sorry, no role for me.
I have one man to thank for this. Mahendra Mahadeo.
The day shift fellows at the station called him Mad Mahadeo. From Canal
District. I should tell you, he died weeks back. He was driving a tractor and
the tractor tip over and fall on him.
I know, I asked myself the same question. In this flat country, how could a
tractor tip over and crush you, just like that?
He came in one afternoon, announcing he just got robbed. Came straight up
to the front desk where he probably expected everyone to drop everything
and listen to him. The corporal in serge told him calm down, go sit on the
bench; someone would be with him shortly.
And poor Mahadeo sat on the bench, perspiring, hunched over a little, his shirt
straining to contain the baby whale in his belly. I notice he had a fresh haircut.
His mouth must have felt dry, he had no bottled water. He looked over at me
answering the phone whenever it rang, like the errand girl or message person
in the building.
I offered to take his information. Attacked and robbed in public, he needed
proper understanding. How hard could that be?
He wasn’t keen on the idea at first. I wasn’t dressed like I was employed there.
The corporal stood over my shoulder like he was the Officer in Charge, and
Mahendra stared hard in my face, making sure I put down all the pain in all his
words.
Get robbed in broad daylight, he said. Just come out the bank, about half a
million dollars (our million) in a bag, when “two black chaps” ride up behind
him on motorbike. One twist his head ‒ “he had a snaky tattoo on his neck” ‒
pointed a gun at him, and grabbed the bag.
(You probably heard, we have roaming bandits, like roaming horses, ownerless,
grazing day or night, any and everywhere. Some carry knives and guns, and
they don’t care. It still nice to live here, though.)
And it all happened so fast, was just after 11 o’clock, outside a school building.
Students looking out a top floor window might have seen the whole thing.
His heart never pound so hard, he said, it didn’t even let him shout. (I left
out the part where he was sure somebody in the bank tipped them off. Was
an inside job.)
He thought first of taking a minibus and just going home. He started walking
back to the bank, Then he decided to walk all the way to our station to report
the matter.
In the end, an officer in khaki came outside with the statement his hand,
giving the impression he had read it. He told Mahendra Mahadeo he would
“address the matter urgently”. And when Mahendra Mahadeo seemed not
convinced, he told him, “a thorough investigation will be ongoing. The
scoundrels will be found if we have to shake every coconut tree”.
I can’t imagine the state he was in when he got home that day.
I told my mother, it was really terrible the way they treated him. And the
conversation afterwards in the station house was really stupid. What he
expect? we should call in FBI people to solve his case? like he more
important than anybody. And, He lucky he didn’t get hurt. That money gone.
He kept coming back for any news, asking to speak to “the same khaki chap"
who was in charge the first day, nobody else. I couldn’t tell what was more
important, getting his money back, or redeeming the time he spent on the
bench.
The desk serge told him they still working on the case. They had identified a
“person of interest”.
He was accompanied by a woman, well dressed, sunglasses, strands of grey
hair, who said not a word until they were leaving. Then: “You think we don’t
know what going on here? This is damn nonsense. But don’t worry, we will get
justice.” The same outburst, spraying the walls of the station house.
She didn’t sound like a lawyer, insisting on his rights; more like Mahadeo’s
guardian angel now, sharing his burden; and probably fighting some hurtful
issue of her own.
As they were leaving she glanced over at me, probably wondering what the
world was coming to, now they have schoolgirls in the station house taking
statements when they not checking their phone. I didn’t take that personally.
*
I read in the newspapers, page 4, how Mahendra Mahadeo died. It really upset
me. I don’t think anybody in the station house even blink an eye. It probably
didn’t occur to them it was our Mahadeo, the victim of that broad daylight
robbery.
These boys in serge, I bet you, if ever something was to come over our
Pakaraima mountains, something that needed to be stopped in its tracks,
these boys would run, swim, vanish in the bush.
I made enquiries. I phoned from the station house, pretending I was following
up on the investigation. I asked if it was the same Mahadeo. A sad voice
confirmed it was. From the same home address in Canal District. I left my
condolences.
And would you believe, the next day somebody called back.
I answered the phone and I recognized the voice right away ‒ the woman who
accompanied him whenever Mahendra Mahadeo showed up at the station for
any news.
Her call was not to thank me for the condolences. I didn’t hear any grieving in
her voice. She asked me to convey a message.
I should tell “the fellow in khaki” who spoke to them, if he really want to find
“persons of interest” in Mahendra’s case, look for people hanging round the
city roadsides on crutches. “With bruk knee”. He should haul these people into
the station house for questioning. “Some two-leg creatures need harness; some
stray dogs should be put away.”
I didn’t understand what she meant, but the next day I arrived at the station
house the boys in serge were loud and excited. “We had company last night.”
I thought at first they had arrested prostitutes here illegally.
Some lady in head wrap and gold bangles burst in to make a report, creating
one big scene; how some “crazy coolie man” jump out a car, pull her son off
his bike, and give him three blows on his left knee.
With a cricket bat. Bruk up his left knee. Leave him on the road in worthless
pain. He in hospital. They say he might not walk normal again. Some crazy
coolie man do this to him. Worthless pain.
On my way home that same afternoon, passing the Georgetown Hospital,
something tell me why not check with the hospital staff, find out how many
patients they admitted recently with knee injuries. It would only take 10
minutes, what was so difficult about that?
And would you believe, there were three cases over the past six weeks! Three
fellows admitted and treated for serious knee injury. They stayed for awhile.
Left on crutches. Made no complaint. Gave no explanation of what happened.
I had a theory, but the moment I opened my mouth my uncle might have sent
me to the station “detectives”. I don’t know what clothes they wear, maybe
they go around detecting in plain clothes.
Anyhow, I had seen enough, heard enough ‒ report after report of robbery,
house break in, car stolen, girl child missing. Enough to give you skin bumps
and nightmares.
On my last day I went in to Uncle’s office to say goodbye. He was in his comfort
chair reading the newspapers, trying hard to ignore what people say about him,
how he's old and not really qualified for the job despite coming through the
ranks.
I chose the same hour of day when Mahendra Mahadeo returned to the station
asking for news. Please don’t make too much of that.
Uncle said he hoped I had a good experience. I could use it on a scholarship
application. He hoped I understood now how hard his job was keeping law and
order in the city. As he hugged and rubbed my back (for good while, I had to
pull away), I said, “Some things happen here you can’t find the right language
to explain.”
And he said, That is true, so true; as if that was what his shiny grey head had
been trying to tell the young generation all along. He wished me luck and
urged me to do nothing I would regret later in life.
One day I will call that woman who came with Mahendra; find out what really
happened; how a tractor could tip over and fall on you like that. A girl my age,
lucky so far, has other things to worry about, like the true life that is coming;
clear sky, road closed, allergies; all certain to find me.
Valentina Sharpe
Georgetown, Guyana
FARJOURNEY CARIBBEAN 