Excerpt of A Step In The Right Direction

A step in the right direction.( Excerpt only. Do not copy) by Marlon Bute

by Marlon Bute on Friday, September 17, 2010 at 6:19pm

A Step in the Right Direction
By Marlon Bute

Sometime ago, I met this young man who was quite despondent.
It showed on his face, his walk and his very talk. All I did to try to console him was in vain, or so it seemed.
And, I, having my own predicament to deal with, decided not to push it.
Seeing that I no longer appeared to be interested in him, and was focusing instead, on the bottle of beer that was in front of me, he proceeded to tell me his story.
That was five years ago, in a bar somewhere in the West End, that used to serve the coldest beer and the best curry, that a man could find anywhere in North America.
        

It was a night that was quite warm, I remember, because that was when I had made up my mind to do things the right way, with regard to immigration, I mean.
Lots of people manufacture stories just to become straight and some of them actually work. So I had decided, with little consternation, to create a way or rather to employ a strategy that was already tried and tested to organise myself. I wasn’t a criminal but just like the others I simply wanted to get by.
It sounded like a darn good idea too, a little risky but better than looking over your shoulder every minute.

But, that was until I met Danny: a dark skinned, tall Grenadian who was from the island of Cariacou and who until recently, had been living the good life- or so he thought.

By the way, my name is Augustine. I am from St. Lucia and I left my village of Ti Rocher, situated just ten minutes from the hustle and bustle of Castries, sometime, after Sir Compton decided that he had had enough of politics and had stepped down and turned over the leadership to Dr. Vaughn Lewis.

I am a carpenter. I have been in this trade since I have known myself and though I am not one to brag or boast, I think that I could build just about anything-Perfectly - and I won’t even have to measure it.

So, there I was having a drink, while contemplating what I was about to do and dreaming about the expected improvement in my quality of life, when as lady luck would have it, I met this Danny. He was slouched over his glass of gin and tonic, while the bartender; a rather ball-like looking man with beady, furtive eyes seemed to be intent on listening in on the conversation.

Danny was from a large family. His father had been in love with the sea for all his life and had been known in his hometown as a top class fisherman. Unfortunately, where he spent most of his time, he also died. Some of the fishing folk community had rumoured that his partner had pushed him overboard, since Danny's mother and Fred-his father's partner- had hooked up two months after the incident but Danny never really believed any of it. He also disregarded the village chatter that Fred was his real dad. 

Now, let me tell you how things really went. I will try my best to relate it to you without leaving out anything. Mind you, we had a few drinks and you would appreciate the fact that sometimes things could get a bit blurry, when there is good booze and great food.
 And, then there was the usual distraction that is pretty normal in any Caribbean setting, like when the woman came in to order a conch roti for her 'sweet man', as she put it, who was getting off a tiring work day soon, only to glance over in a corner to see the same sweet man with a white woman looking twice his age, and dressed as if she was going to Mardi gras. Well, as you could more than imagine it was pandemonium in the place, and hadn’t the same burly, bartender been quick on his feet, it would have been dead people.

So, this Danny, who had been in Toronto for the past five years after living in Quebec for just short of three years, doing all sort of odd jobs, had found that the move to Toronto had brought some immense improvement to his circumstance. 

Its my soul.

I wont be held, restrained, you wont stop my refrain. You may interrupt it, punctuate it, but the melody, the verses, the rhythm, that comes from within, that keep me soaring, like a bird, like an eagle, are what sustain me.

So, I said it already, I am possessed, positively, like I want to be, like you could be, if you were free, with the spirit of my ancestors, that make me look at you, in your dark eyes, fearlessly.

So, go on, try to hurt me, sure you can physically, then again you don't know me, like I know you, with your minuscule mind, that keeps you from seeing me in you and you in me, the man across the street that eats from the garbage can, in you and me, the little girl with the little baby boy, in you and in me.

So, go ahead punctuate, be bad, be mean, I will forgive you, but I will write about you, and a hundred years from now, you will be remembered as the pitiful soul that you are that failed to kill a spirit, a bird, an eagle that soars too high for your liking.

Sometimes, I think I am crazy for having nothing but yet plenty, because I am a dreamer and maybe thats where it starts, with a dream, with a passion, with a maddening love for something that is exceedingly intoxicating, that is more pleasurable than the sweetness of a vagina.

So my life could be chaotic, but times like these, when I write, I am free, I feel I can touch the sky, although I cant, I want to share my soul, my heart, so I feel uninhibited,
then the morning will come, the train will scream, the sky will be consumed with smoke, and my life will take on a monotony.

Then the night will fall, darkness will envelope us and in the quiet, the solitude, I will find myself.

So, now I need balance, so I can do what I love, if not I will prefer to be alone, in a room somewhere, dimly lit, listening to the pant of a dog, peering out the window, now and then, to the black wet street that glistens. I don't smoke. I quit, you thought you knew me, otherwise, I would open the door, to the soothing cold, take a pull and contemplate my next work.
I would look at the grass, orange, from the weight of the snow, but still alive, deep rooted, and about to enrich itself with a luscious greenness.
Maybe, I am like the grass... maybe you can be like that grass...ah..perennial.

...The school bell rang at exactly 12.00 and hundreds of gleeful children ran out, happy that they were getting another half day. The Prime Minister was coming to their village, and they were looking forward to line the streets and welcome him with the many placards, they had made at school. For the past week, their parents, who months previously, couldn’t find work, had been busy cleaning drains, trimming hedges and filling thousands of pot holes for the grand occasion. The Prime Minister who was also the minister of finance, the minister of works, the minister of education and the minister of lands, had issued a special warrant for four million dollars, to get the village in tip top shape, for what was being billed as another historic occasion. It was the 12th half day for the year, and government workers were encouraged to take half day too, to support nation building, they were told.
Even the business owners, big and small, felt that they had to close up shop, as a sign of support. The prime minister was also the minister of trade, so they all understood the importance of being in his good grace.

The master of the ceremonies was a J.P, chairman of the local party branch, ambulance driver, senior watchman and road supervisor. He was hoping to get the nod for the MBE or OBE or even a knighthood, during the upcoming independence celebrations. It would be the biggest nationhood celebrations, to be ever held, throughout the region, the great leader had promised.

He paused for a drink of water, and peered at the growing crowd, over the perfectly round lens, of his glasses. He was told they give him a sophisticated and educated look, so he didn’t mind the occasional headaches, that they caused. He took another drink, he was not thirsty, nor was his throat dry, but, he liked the idea of the crowd waiting, somewhat impatiently, for him to continue. Besides, the supreme leader does it too.

“Those few of you who are on the other side, or who are sitting on the fence, should emulate her and come to us. Embrace the community, embrace the prime minister, embrace the great leader, embrace the great great leader, embrace him, embrace him because we are blessed to have such a leader, who is progressive and who puts people before politics”.
He surveyed the crowd, pausing for another drink of water. He had their attention alright. What he didn’t notice was that the PM was twitching and turning uncomfortably in his seat. Admittedly, the P.M thought Jones was a good speaker, especially for someone who had never gone to secondary school or university. After all, he knew nothing about the law, politics and arts, and the finer things in life, but he had his uses. He was loyal, and acted when called upon to do so, without fail. Jones would have to cut short his speech. The people had come to see their leader, not him, pretending to be erudite. .....

Jones was now introducing the Pm, one of his Cuban trained security personnel had signaled to Jones to get on with it, the great leader was now excited, ready to get up and look down on his adulating followers.
“Gentlemen , ladies, boys and girls, I now turn you over to the greatest leader in this country and the Caribbean, a man we are all blessed to have transforming our lives in more ways than one..”

Thunderous clapping erupted, the earth shook, the trees took a bow and the Prime minister rose slowly. He looked over at the sea of red and lifted his arms, parallel to each other. The crowd fell silent, immediately. He lowered his arms and the crowd went wild again. Up went his arms, followed by silence. Then up and down, chanting and silence, like a light switch being turned on and off........

Excerpt of, "Monkey says cool breeze."

By Marlon Bute

"Boysie was known as the village hunter; anything you wanted you could depend on him to catch. That was how he made his living. Near 6ft tall, robust looking and chocolate brown in complexion - the progeny of a black father and a mulatto mother - Boysie's agility was legendary. It was on one of these hunts, that he came across Seetha, a girl who he had had his eyes on, for quite some time. like many of the guys in the area, he had heard that she was kind of wild, but he didn't put any truth to it, since he knew that her parents were disciplined and staunch Hindus,who, he was sure, would lead their daughter in the right direction.

On that evening, when the crickets were creaking and the bull frogs were croaking like never before, Boysie had actually been poised on a tree, his bow raised - he had made it himself from bamboo - and ready to pierce a large manicou, when he heard a sweet voice some distance away. Seetha, with a wash basin on her head, was singing, 'brown skin girl', as she negotiated the track out of the ravine, that led to the main road. Her dress - a bright yellow and red - was wet and clung to her copious body, revealing firm breasts and thighs that were curvaceous to perfection.

Forgetting about his prey, Boysie, a climber from birth, slid off the tree in a flash, as if it were his natural habitat and extended his large hand to Seetha. In it, was a succulent looking julie mango, that was as big as a ball - on his face was a humongous grin - exposing perfect white teeth...."

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BoucpjVl3D8

I've met some giants throughout my journey

Kenneth John is not an overly liked man, or so it seems. I couldn’t care less; I admire the man and have for as long as I could remember been soaking up his columns. I remain enthralled with his mastery of the pen and naturally find it easy to disregard his detractors’ ramblings about his alleged flirtations with lies and half-truths. Besides, none among us is flawless. Heck! We have a literary genius in our midst! Never have words flowed so smoothly for so long. Rarely have such writings given us a clearer picture of elements of our social, cultural, economic and political consciousness.

I thank Dr. John, here and now. Because I, too, like to write, and his strokes with the pen were a staple that nourished me, from my Grammar School days through to this day. Alas, I only met the man but twice, unfortunately at a time when fine literature was not foremost on my mind. I’d love to meet him again, though, to chat, have a drink maybe, and reminisce about some of his lovely work. Surely, he reads a lot, so I’d like to go through his books, leaf through his favourite ones, and borrow a few, maybe. I’d leave a better writer, I believe. Such honour may not be mine; so you, who have written so beautifully and generously, of the sterling contribution of others; cricket, netball, business, farming, calypso, politics, the arts; in colourful ways, in a rhythmic fashion, in a clear style, with a sweet- sweet flavour, I say thanks for giving me a piece of you.

I long to be a magnificent writer like you, a great storyteller like you.

Andrea Bowman is a fine giant. She taught me English at Grammar School. She, like Dr John, filled my appetite for reading, mostly, for writing. No teacher that I’ve ever been tutored by made books so delicious. Andrea Keizer, as she was known then, was quite refreshing, bright, fair, stern, kind, and endowed with a gift of bringing characters alive! “Green Days by the River” and “Moon on a Rainbow Shawl” were not just books we read. They were journeys that this splendid teacher took us on. Exceedingly inspiring, she who is a harnesser of possibilities was the first to encourage me to write. This goddess of a woman, as we saw her, made every class a treat for close to 30 infatuated pubescent boys, who found true love in the beauty of reading. She was really the icing on the cake for those who came before and after, making learning a delightful affair; Joel “Bamba” Providence, Mrs Jean Walker, Luis deShong, Joy Browne and Mrs Elsie Frederick were but a few, among a veritable battalion of instructors, who rendered our school days more pleasurable than we expected.

Naturally, Andrea Bowman is of good stock. Her mother, Norma Keizer, a long serving educator extraordinaire, has moulded many young girls into productive, constructive young ladies who went on to excel in their chosen field of work. Norma Keizer’s own daughter, Clare, who heads the Searchlight, blessed with her mother’s sharp acumen and a quick grasp of things that matter, shines among the bunch that includes Michele Samuel, a consummate professional and senior manager at the National Commercial Bank; Francelia Bute Thomas, a fine nurse in Brooklyn who just sent her eldest son, Michael Thomas jr, off to Princeton, arguably the finest school in the world; Bronty Liverpool Williams, Deputy Headmistress at her alma mater, a brilliant mind, a former tennis star and a good friend, who I had the privilege of sharing history classes with at UWI. And there are many others who remain grateful for having shared some air with Mrs Keizer.

My own brother, Dr. Michael Dennie, better known as Grubby, remains close to the Keizer family, having been more than a staff member to Mrs Keizer. With this beacon of hard work and pillar of virtue encouraging him to do well, Grubby’s academic success at UWI and at John Hopkins is legendary. If that were not enough, his older daughter Madiba, not yet 18, just commenced studies at Princeton, like her first cousin, Michael! Surely, creating local history.

I, myself, would remain indebted to Norma Keizer. She was my Editor for some time. I learnt from her. I was disciplined by her and was always humbled by her overpowering presence. Without a doubt, I enjoyed my time at the Searchlight, covering stories all over the island, not only delighted with those that made the front page, but just being happy to wake with somewhere to go. It was there that I met Corletha Olliviere, a media icon in SVG, and renowned throughout the Caribbean as a vintage journalist. She, with her inquisitive mind and familiar smile, always took the time to give me a few pointers from her own arsenal, sharpening me up for always. Corletha is among the giants that I know.

The whole Caribbean and many around the world know Dr. Ralph Gonsalves. Some recognise him as a brilliant lawyer. Others see him as a vivacious speaker, and a don of politics. As prime minister, he has riled some, but has rewarded many hungry minds with hundreds of scholarships. Rising to power on the promise of hope and change, he has initiated the wellness revolution, the education revolution, and continues to charm his way throughout the country. Now, working feverishly in his trademark style to tailor-make a foreign policy that is as bold as it is ambitious and focussed, the Prime minister, who I still talk to from time to time, is also racing to give SVG the infrastructural advancements that will modernise it!

Still, with alarm being raised by some, Ralph is at worst a star batsman like Lara, who lacks the testicular fortitude around him, and as captain must take full blame for the foibles of his team. My opinion is still being formed, but I can only attest to the good I see in him, thus far. He gave birth to the youth arm as deputy leader and nurtured and motivated a bunch of us to work the width and length of the country, morning, noon and night, in the end seeing his child play a loyal and supporting role in an eventual trouncing of the old order.

Some time before that, when I had been unable to return to complete my final year at UWI, he had worked the phone tirelessly and convinced the quite willing Joel Providence, a new manager at Corea’s, to give me a ‘hold on’ there, where I added to my meagre resources and eventually finished my studies the following year. Bamba did more! Apart from taking me under his wings and teaching me a thing or two about marketing, he was generous enough to use some of his personal resources to put me back on track. These are two giants that I know.

Some giants are real salt of the earth. Eardley Bute from Lowmans Hill is such, and is stubborn like hell! Do as I say, not as I do; a stern disciplinarian he was. He took care of us for many years, but only recently I figured out how. Not with a policeman’s pay, but with goats, sheep, pigs, chickens, cabbages, tomatoes, carrots and sweet potatoes. You see, every spare time he had, he was in the land. Now, when I write, I have memories that guide me; of watering plants, of picking vegetables, of bringing in the animals, of stumbling out of bed in the early hours and smelling the morning dew. I remember waking early on Christmas Eve mornings, maybe 4 or 5 a.m., to observe, as perhaps I often did, while he butchered and then packed parcels of meat, of eggs to give to all and sundry. He was always an honest and very productive man who loved to eat and enjoy a little strong drink, out-matched only by his indiscriminate appetite for women! He is the symbol, I think, of the many innovative men, fathers, uncles, brothers: the farmer, the teacher, the policeman, the tradesman, the sanitation worker, the huckster, who did what they had to do, with what little they had, to provide a better life than they ever knew, for their folks. All these men are the giants that I know.

I revere Nelcia Robinson. She has done outstanding work for most of her life. She is a quiet, caring, passionate, dedicated mother of all. She came straight out of the bowels of our ancestors who never accepted defeat, but who devised strategies to triumph where others saw insurmountable obstacles. When her story is written, like I barely succeeded at doing with my undergraduate thesis on her, she will be cast as a larger-than-life figure, who worked in nearly every nook and cranny throughout the island and left an indelible mark, on and beyond our shores, as the feminist, the poet, the writer, the social activist and the stoutest defender of the calinago, and all peoples’ rights.

Nelcia and others are some giants that I know.