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.

"What's in a name?"

I wouldn’t dare to compete with two of our finest columnists, Bassy and Dr. John, each a “senior citizen” and their belly busting pieces on nicknames, but am “curious” why there is a preponderance of letter writers to the newspapers who hide behind pen names. In this instance, I am like a “man about town”, full of questions and no answers!

But, really, as a ‘well-wisher” of freedom of speech, do these readers think that their pieces are so explosive that their identity shouldn’t be revealed? I really don’t know, but it would appear to me that being “Mystic”, after taking time to craft a letter, and asking many to read it, and believe it, is wishing too much. A little openness, like Joel H Jack, and his views on capital punishment, is quite constructive, while “Visionary” shows real short-sightedness in his blind call for Mitchell to re-enter politics.

Still, isn’t it time for us to have the guts to stand by what we write, however divergent the viewpoint. Either way, the least some readers could do is display a little creativity when choosing a name, like, Amos Johnstone, an ardent supporter of Ralph, did. Not so, this “John Smith” who seems to have just pulled his name out a hat, but delivered a fine piece, that touched on Bassy’s humour and sharpness, and his ingenious coinage, “jumbie airport”.

And, then, I guess “Concerned Citizen” doesn’t care enough to come public. Certainly not a Kingsley Defritas, who comes through in a plain, simple and honest way, letting the chips fall where they may. And though I do not intend to disparage those who use pen-names, this “Scrutineer” guy or gal, who so bellicosely called the Leader of the Opposition a coward, should scrutinise himself in the mirror, and see why he didn’t come forward.

Yet, I am having difficulty seeing how “A Patriotic Vincy” wouldn’t love his country to the point of putting his name on paper. So the DPP’s office is understaffed, just say so and put your name, no one is going to prosecute you for it. Some persecution might come your way, though.

Then there is “A Teacher at NUSS”, who took cover and used a pen name, albeit, in an impressive piece in the Searchlight, to slash and burn Israel Bruce and Otto Sam. Two men, by the way, who do seem to have vision and foresight and who when they write, sign their names. I can’t speak for either, but I bet that Israel and Otto want “A Teacher at NUSS” to come out of hiding, and show whose pen is mightier!

We have all sorts of nameless experts. Readers are given a crash course in mixing concrete, and the government gets free advice on how to cut expenditure by an “Ex Road Builder and Bridge Builder”. Maybe next week an “Ex-Police” would instruct us how to slow down the staggering crime rate and rather than the NDP pointing all blame to the ULP, even for the murder of a 14-year-old school boy, an “Ex-ocial worker” would tell us how to find hope in these desperate times and tackle challenges head on. Then what good is a “Community Activist”, who doesn’t want to be known? Maybe, eventually, he would come out, decide to hit the street corners, the alleys and the highways, to mobilise and organise the youth, just like Andrew Simmons has dutifully done for years.

At the end of the day, readers’ pen names will come in all shades, like some of the nicknames of our younger generation. Many of us went to school with an “Animal” or grew up with one. I remember “Fowl”, “Dog”, even a “Mad Dog”, “Horse”, “Goat” and “Monkey”, not a real donkey, but a “Rubber Donkey”, no cats, but a “Puss”, and a “Rat” from Trinidad, and a Barbadian “Manicou”. In our village we didn’t have just an ape; we had a “Queen Ape”. And, there is a case of a boy who became known as “Good Morning Donkey”- after being flogged for not telling an old man riding a donkey good morning - he came to thereafter let out a chirpy: “Good morning donkey, good morning old man,” when they passed by. And, there was no sparing you if you had an oversized body part or an unbridled tendency. I knew more than one “Nose”, a pair of “Legs”, a “Guts” who liked to eat, “Double Ugly” who wasn’t so ugly, “Piece ah man” who was a whole man, and “High Wind” who was indeed swift.

In the end, I remain a “Man on the Ground”, not suspended in air, and appreciate the fact that readers have real fear. Keep writing!

Purpose; a few thoughts

For there comes a time, when each man must choose his path, when he has been given another chance to do so. 

I will prefer books to be my friends, the raindrops, my radio and all the world my home. For what joy is there, what satisfaction is there, when your rhythm is made offbeat by some, though unknowingly, when it rings your ear drums, like screeching tires, like wild fires, not like the waves greeting the shores, lapping them with love. What is the purpose of existing, of living for them and not for you? 

Now, I am intoxicated, suddenly, I am in a trance, like my ancestors, I imagine, were, connecting with inner self, with inner purpose, and now, I am thrusting, deep, deep, incessantly, into the sweet depth of what writing is, to me.

I must be faithful to her, to impregnate her with my seeds, so they can blossom, so when I am no longer here, you will eat of my fruits.

Excerpt from short story called, "Green Grass."

...the roach was no longer there. Maybe it had decided to move on to greener pastures. That's what I did, when I came to this country. Greener my backside, 25 years here and I have nothing to show. Maybe next year I would leave this place and go home to some sunshine and sunset rum and black fish and cray fish and jack fish and roast breadfruit. Maybe.

At night, I would often lay on my bed, sometimes well into the early hours of the morning, and wonder what it would be like landing down at ET Joshua Airport, still small and yet to get international status, as was promised by successive governments. That's the thing about ST.Vincent; everybody just talks and talks.

I would dream about those childhood days when I would go to the mountains with my pops. There, we would dig wild yams and catch crabs and crayfish, after milking the cattle and giving them a drink of water. I liked doing that, especially fishing in the river and feeling the cool water and the slippery pebbles under my feet.
Often, I would sit perched on a tree, feeling free like a bird, eating dunce plums or jar plums, depending on my mood, while Pops tended the cattle or took a nap under the tree. Those days weren't too bad when you think of it. And Pops would make sure that we pick some guavas and plum rose to take to Ma. Later that night, if she chose to and if there was enough sugar in the cupboard, we savored the sweet taste of guava jam or plum stew.

I wish I was young again. Yeah, I think I would go home. But then, where would I stay. Ma and Pops had since passed on, and that house that I dream about was no longer there, but, instead, a playing field that had been hurriedly prepared as an election promise. Now, it was overgrown with weeds and had bumps the size of St.Andrews mountain.."

Viva La Revolucion!

Viva La Revolución!


  I met this girl, no more than 19, on a serene night. Mid- July it was, on a Saturday, four years ago, somewhere near Toronto, at a club called Havana Nights, that proposes to replicate night life in Cuba. There are large aquariums at Havana Nights, with miniature sharks and exotic tropical fish with shells and fauna and coral reef, conjecturing the image of the resplendent waters of the deep blue Caribbean Sea. There is a patio, too, covered with reddish stone and a set of wooden benches and tables, shaded by palm trees, banana plants and a bright yellow and orange canopy.

Smoke filled the atmosphere, cigar, but mostly cigarette and the chatter and the clatter of glass.

Beautiful women; black, white and yellow, gently swayed their hips, while the men looked on admiringly, before sauntering over with an extended hand, the other behind the back.

I was there, just digging the vibes, settled in certain beliefs, when I saw her. Her skin was the colour of almond. Her hair was black, thick and wavy and tied in one. A red strapless dress flowed downwards, resting above her ankles. She was Cuban, most likely the progeny of mixed parentage, and had left several years before that revealing night. “You know we admire Castro and the Cuban people in St.Vincent and the Caribbean. They have given us so much. Scholarships, technical assistance....”

“There are a lot of fears there, people are afraid to speak up; we can’t even get basic items...”

She told me of how much the people suffer and of the deep contrast in the quality of life of Castro’s family and the Cuban people.

I have since grappled with the idea that she could be wrong, maybe a descendant of one of the elites who had an old grudge. Then, I would remember those dark eyes, the bold eyes, that innocent looking face and the truthful conviction in her young voice and accept the fact.

I had to see Cuba with my own eyes. Not with those of the social activist or the NGO executive or the columnists or the man on the street who romanticises the Cuban Revolution. Sure, it’s a beautiful story; I have known that since my university days; Castro threw out the Americans and the greedy capitalists.

She helped me to see beyond the soul lifting rhetoric.

There is suppression of the Cuban people. There is hunger, hopelessness, fatalism.

Since meeting Isabella on that night, I have met other young Cubans who all spoke of a Cuba where the people are demoralised. Castro, one of the most charismatic men of his times, has ended up making George Orwell seem more clairvoyant than Nostradamus. See ‘Animal Farm’.

Yet, I still sing Castro’s praises. Cuba has done well, considering all else!

But, it’s time that he frees up the airwaves, let journalists write what they like and open the doors to democracy! All the aid and handouts from Cuba shouldn’t make us forget that we cherish our own freedoms. We see the external face of the revolution. But, again, that’s all that some may ever see; you travel as a government official, a friend of the party in power, a friend of comrade or a grateful student, past or present, and you’d see what you want them to let you see.

I see more clearly now. I see the two faces of Cuba, of Castro. Though, lately, I see one face. And, I imagine the road that leads where he is, as winding. It’s shaded by palm trees and coconut palms that are heavily laden with fruit. The grass is verdant. There is a pasture that undulates for miles, where thorough bred horses run wild. Beyond the great house, and the road that winds to it, is a stream, where the fattest of calves drink to their leisure. On the other side of the stream is a large expanse of land where tobacco flourishes.

The great house is made of wood, painted white, the chimney is stone from where a steady stream of smoke makes it way up the blackened walls and disappears beyond the trees.

I see a huge but elegant veranda that embraces the mansion. There are wicker chairs on the veranda with comfy multi-coloured cushions. On this day, like many others, the owner of this splendid respite is entertaining comrades from the Caribbean. I smell the rich aroma of the cigars being hand rolled for the guests. Near one of the kerosene lamps that line the veranda and that burn in the slowly approaching night is a barrel of whisky that is pure gold, reserved for such occasions. “Viva la revolución!”

There is a kitchen that is heavenly. It’s laden with all kinds of fruits and meats, not yet cooked but mouth-watering!

Meanwhile, far away, in a forgotten village, in a little shack, a mother is tossing in her bed; her children are hungry.

A journalist, by the light of a candle, is huddled over a typewriter, tapping away furiously, glancing around nervously, this time vowing to get the other story out; of a people muzzled, oppressed, and fearful, of a people yearning for change.