Categories
Stories Storyteller

Bloody Monday

Bloody Monday

I was not supposed to be there, Mommy Charles had insisted I stayed home from school, but being young and feeling invincible will drive a person to making snap decisions. I was curious, I was not able to see what was going on from the window in the house on Lucas street. And now, here I was, running, running, running from the hooligans with machetes, running from the large sticks they were swinging over and over. Running from the teargas, eyes watering, lungs burning. People stampeding, hurdling fallen bodies, screams, angry cursing, blooded school kids, screaming mothers. Then it echoed, one shot, and the screaming crowd became a murmur, like I had dove into the ocean. I was not close to the shot, I just think my humanity died for a second. But I was still running, round the corner onto Lucas street, then back to that house overlooking the harbor. Sitting in the living room, struggling to breath, I was not exhausted, I was being stifled by fear. Outside the screams continue, angry yells, “Yuh go dead, yuh go dead,” Silent pleas, crack of a stick on bone, then a mob of anger. I covered my ears with my hands, lay on the concrete floor, waiting for the nightmare to end.

Categories
Stories Storyteller

The Gray World (1983)

The Gray World (1983)

As the war raged, I tried my best to cope, but nothing worked. One day my oldest brother walked into the room and placed eight cigarettes as big as Cuban cigars on the kitchen table. I looked at them, a little skeptical, but he swore that they would calm my nerves. I took my first draw on one before I realized it was the most potent joint I’d ever had. Needless to say, I must have smoked a pound of marijuana a day until all the fighting was done. We would get high, then go out into the front yard and watch as helicopters hovered over the city. They sometimes shot at targets, and I wondered how many were killed. One afternoon, when all was quiet, we stood outside watching the Navy ships come in closer. Suddenly a volley of gunshots rang out. I was standing next to the door, high as can be. Before I could react, I felt someone grab my shirt and pull me. It was my brother’s wife. That bloody woman was strong for her size. The look on her face was classic: she did not care how big I was, she was determined to move my big ass out of her way even if she had to huff and puff. I landed on my back looking up at my size seventeen feet. I remember thinking how big and ugly my feet looked against the tropical blue sky. Yes, that was my ganja voice talking to me. Before I could gather myself, she had disappeared into the house; I was the butt of jokes for a while.

Categories
Storyteller

New book about the Grenada revolution, check it out.

http://www.amazon.com/We-Move-Tonight-Grenada-Revolution-ebook/dp/B00HURZF9W/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1391698725&sr=1-1&keywords=WE+MOVE+TONIGHT#_

 

On March 13th 1979 West Indians were stunned as they awoke to the news of the first successful revolution in the English Speaking Caribbean. Four and a half years later the Grenada Revolution succumbed to tragedy and US military invasion. This book is the first to give the inside story of how the revolution was made. It chronicles the thinking, the internal debates, concrete plans and actions of the Grenadian revolutionaries as they both responded to events unfolding in the 1970’s and sought to shape them. This critical period in Grenada’s modern history is narrated from personal experience by the author who, as a 20 year old, took part in the assault on the army barracks which set in motion the Grenada Revolution. Following the US-led invasion he was imprisoned for 26 years during which time he wrote this book.
The author is the holder of Law degrees from London University and a graduate of Hugh Wooding Law School.
 
 
Categories
POEMS Storyteller

What is it Good for

You are hidden in the thick bushes
something moved just ahead of you

you clinched your riffle
there he is, your so called enemy
you jumped out of the bushes
your riffle trained on him
he sees you and raises his pistol
you pull the trigger
for a second there is death in his eyes
but that soon turn to a blaze of anger
he raises his gun
you react

bang

bang

bang

he hits the ground like a rock
you stand over him
he is motionless
you look down at him
you don’t see ideology
communism
capitalism
who gives a fuck
you just buried a soul
now the devil lives in you
one shalt not kill
war is no excuse
there is no excuse
there is no excuse
forgive me
forgive me
forgive me

Categories
Stories Storyteller

My Yardfowls

My Yardfowls

I saw this picture this morning and it reminded me of the yard fowls I had. It was October 1983, gun fire echoed through the village, fighter jet roared over head causing the galvanize roof to vibrate violently. My stomach rumbled, sharpe hunger pains meandered through my belly. For two weeks all I had to eat was hard boiled eggs and fruit. Shops were closed, or looted, harvesting season for corn and peas had come and gone. I looked over at my chicken coup. The twenty or so chickens clucked and flapped their wings as an explosion shook the trees on the hill behind the house. I opened the door and walked over to the coup, the fowls were quiet now, as if anticipating something. I opened one of the doors and grabbed one of the birds. It fought back, its wings flapping wildly. I walked over to the bucket that lay on the concrete stand next to the door. The cutlass sat next to the stand, its sharpen edges glittered in the tropical sunlight. I removed the bucket and lay the fowl on the concrete stand. I covered its body with the bucket leaving its head out. I reached for the cutlass but hesitated, looked at the bucket, the bird did not move, there was complete silence as if it was giving into it’s fate. How can I do this, these birds were more my pets then a food source. The sound of gunfire brought me back to reality, my stomach grumbled with a combination of fear and hunger. I lifted the cutlass, swung it. I sat and looked at the place of cooked chicken, I did not eat until my stomach compelled me to. That night I lay in the dark agonizing about what I had done. Then like a jumbie, I got up and walked to the back door, the night was orange with the glow from flares, sporadic gunfire persisted beyond the hills. I walked over top the chicken coup, opened the door and shewed the fowls the fowls out. The flapped their wings, landed on the ground, then with a confusion of clucks disappeared into the fading light of the flares.

Categories
POEMS Storyteller

Day of the riots (Writter 1976 Grenada riots)

I stand on the edge of nowhere

A place where civilization and common sense part ways

I hear a baby cry and I wanted to go to her

But my legs refuse to move

A woman moans in pain next to me

But I don’t turn around for fear she might need me

Grown men on their hands and knees

Waiting for me to help yet still I don’t move

An old lady walks up to me

“Are you ok Sonny” she asks

My name is Andy I swim through the clouds and always come out on the other side

“Are you going to help them?”

My name is Andy I take care of the world

But I can’t help asking, who is going to take care of me.

Categories
POEMS Storyteller

The Old Revolutionary (written December 1983 Grenada)

I left my footprints on a beach with blood red sand
I left my soul clenched in the fists of a dying revolutionary
I sang a song of silent words to the shadows in my nightmares
I surrendered my consciousness to the taste of cold steel in my mouth
I accept that I am the living retribution for the sins of misguided leaders
I don’t expect loyalty and I don’t expect love
Because in this world, ideology trumps humanity

Categories
Stories Storyteller

Revenge on the Bully

Brian Smith, one of the biggest bullies I ever encountered, that boy used to beat up anybody he could get his hands on. I once saw him give this other boy so much licks he turned the boys shot pants into a mini skirt. When you have a father who is a cop every bully love to take turns testing you. I do not remember why but Brian accosted me in the classroom. He stepped towards me, a menacing look i…n his eyes, “Teacher’s liccle brudda eh? I backed up until I was against the wall. I wanted to fight back but my skinny butt was not trying to get licks. “Wah, you fraiiidddd?” he asked smiling. “You touch me an I go tell me sista,” I said, that made him vex for so, “An wah she go do eh, I could beat he up too you know,”  I balled my fist up and took a swing, he ducked and everything went black and a rainbow of colors exploded in my head. “wah you tink eh? You tink you go beat me” I heard Brian say. His figure materialized surrounded by bright light. His shadowy figure walked away from me laughing. I leaned against the wall rubbing my face, he had slapped me so hard I felt imprints of his fingers on my face. I found my brother and told him what had happened. Rafi was vexed for so, but fighting was not an option, Mommy Charles always said, no fighting. We went home and when Mommy Charles saw the marks on my face he was real mad. She looked at us and said “Give dat buoy good licks tomorrow. We stood surprised, Mommy Charles said give him licks? The next day we followed Brian from school, stalking him like a lions would its pret. We got to the courthouse  and that is where we got our chance. We attacked and a crowd soon gathered. Brain was taken by surprised as me and Rafi punched, slapped and kicked at him. He rolled into the gutter and I jumped on him. A policeman came out of the courthouse to see what was going on then went back inside. I was sitting on Brain’s chest going Ralphie from the Movie A Christmas Story when the policeman came back out and pull us off Brian. “Ah go tell alyou mudda, stop dat fighting.” Brain stood up, a stunned look on his face. Without saying a word he took off running. Years later I saw Brian, he walked up to me and stopped. Slowly he lifted his hand, “You want a liccle weed?” He asked and smiled.