I tired to draw my own story
Today
I sat with my pen and paper
Today
I drew myself first
Today
So I could see me
everyday.
Then I drew my village
placed my people in it
picked a house and lived in it
my story is me.
Then my story needed joy
and I drew all that too
I needed a boy
and I drew him too
but he broke and fell off
but first he broke me in two.
My story flows in and around through and above
my story.
Most times - there are dark forests-
but I don't want to be red riding hood
but I still met all my wolves
on watery full moons.
Then the pencil broke and my canvas flew away.
Now the Artist has taken over
and my story colours are bolder...
Tag: stories
How Bad Do You Want It?4
“For you are all children of light, children of the day”
“Come here little girl come sit on my lap.”
“So when are you getting a job?”
“Joe me the girl eat nuh. “
“You think it right? This girl nuh have no job for five weeks and we have to feed her, she using up the light, and water. Inna fi we old age.” She doubted fifty-one and fifty-four would be considered old. However, knowing better, she kept quiet.
After this mini-tirade, there was absolute silence. She looked over at her step-father and wondered what happened to that jovial, playful companion she use to know. Instead, she saw before her an overall indulgent pest, who had become the boon of her existence. It seemed as if he had still not recovered from his night out last night and a bout of vomiting this morning. He looked a little green around the mouth and his eyes were still bloodshot.
“cho! raatid man. A your fault enuh man!”
She focused on the whole scene once more to realise that he had spilt the entire jug of drinks on the table, and now it was soaking into her favourite nightie. She sat transfixed as her mother scurried here and there in a vain attempt to mitigate the damage being done by the drinks. With swift and awkward movements Joe got up from his now chaotic domain. He no longer wanted to berate her for her lack of a job, his mind had moved beyond home affairs and his unfocused gaze revealed his new target. The rum bar.
“Listen this is a waste of time, I going road.”
No one responded, Tonya was still cleaning up his mess and Sophie was too familiar with this script to participate.
“The man dem waiting for me, so I will see you later.” and with that, he quickly made his escape. They both could hear the old bottle roar into life, whining and whistling down the road. “The boys”, yeah right. She knew why her step-father was so upset about her not having a job and it had nothing to do with bills. She had heard the argument that her parents had tried to suppress two nights ago. She knew that he wanted more money to floss with his friend. How convenient that he forgot that he was not the breadwinner of this family. She guessed it gave him more time to monitor their finances and devise ways how he and his many female friends could spend her mother’s money. As she watched her mother’s face crumple at his departure, she wondered why she stayed. There was nothing she could see that would attract the most desperate of women. Well, that is unless you were one of his “special female friends”. She had asked her mother why she still stayed and her mother had simply responded that it was, “too late”. A truly sad state of affairs.
“Well now him gone, we can talk”. Was her smile a little forced, her eyes a little too bright? Ah boy, she really did not want to talk but she did not want to hurt her mother’s feelings so she complied.
“Well today was okay nothing special yet, but I have some great leads, yes something good is going to happen, I can feel it, just a little longer”. Maybe if she took up all the space with her words, her mother would get distracted, or bored. But she should have known better.
“But I don’t hear anything specific. What leads? How long? These were questions Sophie could not answer, because she had no leads, except that one attached to her five thousand dollars. No concept of time either. She just wanted to go to bed. She just wanted tomorrow to come and know everything would be alright.
“Well, I have an important meeting tomorrow, but I can’t say much, so after tomorrow I will share everything. Just pray a get the job Mommy”. She hoped that kept her until tomorrow.
“Okay Mesha I will wait but don’t let what Joe say stress yuh, don’t let him frighten yuh.” Well right now her greatest motivation for getting a job was to pay back her student loan, but she also wanted to be on her own. She was tired of feeling like a beggar, like she had overstayed her welcome.
“Okay mommy, I won’t stress but I think I want an early start. So good night.” Before her mother could respond Sophie got up and left. Looking back she saw her mother, a pitiful figure bent looking down and her interwoven fingers. She felt at once connected to her mother for her reassuring presence there yet repulsed by her seeming docility when it came to the terrible treatment of her husband.
In bed Sophie could not sleep. How could she? Tomorrow seemed so far away yet so near. There was not light in the room and as she cracked her window, she realised there was also no moon. Sitting in bed, she wondered if this was a good sign. Maybe it was a new moon, with new beginnings in the horizon. Or it could be a bad omen. She knew she had to get some sleep to be prepared for what was to come. She had to be prepared for what was to come.
How Bad Do You Want It? 3
The taxi was suffocating. At any moment Sophie was sure she would pass out. Though curtains of rain terrorised the outside, inside she was burning up. Why did so many taxi drivers have dry-weather cars in a tropical climate? She knew the answer would not be forthcoming but she continued to be perplexed by this anomaly. She had been sitting in this taxi for more than half an hour before it started to rain. Now as she looked outside she saw a piece of rainbow try to attach itself to the fearsome sky. Unfortunately, there wasn’t enough sun to give it the light it needed. No one else was in the car. She wondered how much longer would she sit in the boiling heat before she tried to save her life. As she contemplated this, three men approached the car and opened the doors.
” Go over pretty girl.” But this man could be her grandfather who him calling ‘pretty girl but Sophie decided to keep her mouth shut. At this they all piled in, pushing her to the corner and bringing a bit of the outside with them. They were large men. The one at the front blocked out half the view and the two in the back with her made the heat even more oppressive. Immediately they both cracked the windows, letting in some of the rain. She could not bring herself to ask them to close them back much less look at them. She suddenly felt like she was not supposed to be there, in a car with three men.
“Driver yuh nuh ready!” The impatient call of the one to her left mirrored her sentiments. After all, she had been sitting here now for more than an hour!
“One an’ ready, one an’ ready!” the deafening monotone of the driver enlightened all in the vehicle to the fact that he was not ready and if that did not alert them to this fact then certainly his pointed stare-down while he was screaming like a banshee did. It was this call of “one and ready” that had convinced her to take this taxi, along with the impending rain. Now she knew she had been duped by that promise and wondered when the taxi would leave and where that next one would go.
“Small up yuh self.” Sophia realised she was apparently preventing someone from coming into the car, but still the worrying question. Where would this person go? She did not have long to find out. Just as she realised it was yet another man, the driver revealed his intention.
“Listen, yuh might have to sit in someone’s lap”.
“Driver, she look like she ready to jump out, let we just fix up, so him can come in.” This voice of reason must have seen the horror on her face. Imagine sitting in a stranger’s lap and then having to pay full fair. A stranger’s lap! “Jesus take the wheel,” she thought, dumbfounded by this new ordeal. How did this day seem so long? Sophia was certain that if the men in the car did not kill her then the slow pace of the afternoon would. All she wanted to do was go home and have night come and done, so she could wake up and find out if she really was a big dufus. Finally, the taxi left the stand.
As the taxi sped along she became aware of being in danger. Here she was, a lone female in a car with five men. Sophia began to have visions of her broken and battered body being found, after being abused by these men. Her poor mother would be devastated! She could imagine how everyone would suffer, all because she stayed in a car with these five men. She wondered why she had to find herself in these kinds of situations. She thought of getting off before her stop when they passed people along the sidewalk. She knew that she did not want to die here, like this.
“Relax my girl, nobody won’t do you anything. Why you lookng so nervous.” His laugh was a bit too velvety smooth. She could feel the blood rush to her head suddenly and knew she was about to blackout. She tried to breathe in some fresh air but was attacked instead by the stench of garbage bubbling to the top of the open drains on Thomas Road. Everything was pressing in on her. It seemed her vision was failing her. Everything was becoming a blur and the people she now saw standing on the roadside seemed ghostlike.
“One stop driver!” She wondered if the desperation she heard in her voice was her imagination too, or was it real.
“One Stop driver!”
“Wait nuh! You want me to stop in the road or what?” Praise God, she had reached her stop. She did not care if the driver was upset, she just wanted to get out, quick. She was finally out of that car. Never again, she told herself. As Sophia went home she reflected on her near miss.
“Boy, I have to be more careful, you can never be too careful.”
“Miss. You don’t pay yeh enuh.”
Embarrassed, Sophia turned around and quickly dropped the fare in the driver’s outstretched hand whipped back around and sped off quickly toward her safe harbour. Boy, this was truly a day! As she went she wondered if this was a sign that tomorrow fortune would smile on her and bring her sunshine after the rain. tomorrow could not be worse than today.
How Bad Do You Want It? 2
I had never done anything like this before. Yes I had gotten into fights, told lies and other things too painful to give words to right now. But this! I walked away and I could not look back. I felt hot, I felt like a fool. I must have done the right thing? But who just gives a stranger their hard-earned money. Tomorrow I would know the truth and the truth shall set me up with a job or set me back my five thousand dollars.
“Lady you going to juk out mi eye”
When did she open her umbrella? She could have walked out into the road and not even noticed. Just like the sun pelting down from above her thoughts were now attacking, making her delirious with regret. This was Spanish Town, she could not afford to be distracted while walking in the streets. Looking to her left, the guck in the gutter reminded Sophie that she had to be alert to possible dangers. As her surroundings came into sharp focus, she noted all those busily going about their business and wondered if they could see the big duncebat sign flashing all over her.
“Excuse mi.” The impatience emanating from that voice reminded her that she needed to get it together. Like a beaten dog she scurried along trying to get to her taxi stand.
“Hyacinth, Haycith! Purple Hyacinth Avenue young girl?”
Why do taxi drivers always rush at you, as if you have no clue where you are going? This one turned her off immediately, looking like a criminal. The car looked even worse. She had to be careful, she thought, who she took, too many reports of women missing after taking a taxi from Hyacinth Avenue. For the hundredth time, she wondered why she had to be born in this hellhole. No that was wrong, she felt. There were good things about Spanish Town, she just felt cantankerous all of a sudden, she felt like a hedgehog in danger. What to do?
“Coming miss?” She realised she was standing at the car door. But when did she move?
“No, I not ready”. But she was, so why did she lie? Since she had already done so, she had no choice but to walk around until he left. After all, she did not want him to know she was lying! How would that look?
Now she was on Martin Street, the loneliest part of the town, adorned with old decaying buildings forgotten in the push to modernity. They stood as relics that condemned the citizens of the town for their lack of foresight and planning. However, if you look closely, beyond the ugly visage, there were flashes of past grandeur and pride lost to the hell of time. Who could believe that at one time in the country’s history, this town had been the focal point of its political, economic and social life? The square was the only area that had been successfully preserved and one could not help but admire the architectural details reminiscent of its Spanish and British heritage, the most impressive of the West Indies. But this meant nothing with it being situated in a town now at the mercy of natural and manmade disasters and most crushing of all rampant criminality. She wondered if she would be celebrating tomorrow as the ex-enslaved Africans did here in 1838 when they were finally given their emancipation. Since Sir Rodney couldn’t tell her she decided it may be safe to go back to the taxi stand.
Remembrance Day
According to the data in World War 1 an estimated 10 million military and 7 million civilians died with 21 million wounded and 7.7 million missing or imprisoned. During World War 2 over 60-80 million people died. Not only were there millions of death but for each war, but there are records of genocide being committed on particular groups of people. For the first world war it was the genocide of the Armenians and for world war 2 it was the Jews and other minority groups by the Germans. In all of that data is the question; was it worth it in the end?
On Sunday I sat and listened to the sermon and one concept stood out to me:
Freedom is not free, someone must pay the price in order for us to enjoy it!
Armistice Day a.k.a Remembrance Day, commemorates the armistice signed to end the first world war at 11 a.m. on the 11th day of the 11th month in 1918. On this day a two minutes silence is held to remember those who have died in wars. Two minutes to remember what is now easily billions of people all over the world, killed for political and ideological beliefs.
Many of us cannot imagine being in the situation of being constantly facing death and uncertainty for a prolonged period of time, much less years at a time and live to tell the tale. I recently read an article by David Lammy [How Britain Dishonoured its African World War Dead] that sought to put closer to the forefront of W.W.1 narratives, African soldiers who served Britain in the first world war but who had been “written out of the story”. What is heartbreaking is the reality that the records never tell the true death tolls; they never allow many who died to be remembered. Many of those soldiers were never buried with the dignity that their service demanded and in his article, Lammy relates how dead soldiers had been left without the dignity of a grave, much less their names on a tombstone. However, such is the nature of war, along with the bolstering of pride is the reality of many many more left behind, their stories never finding itself on the pages of history, their names are now like them, dust blown away by the winds of time.
There have been many wars in the history of the world. There have been the need to defend, protect and take possession or repossession. However, what we sometimes forget are the real sacrifices that many made so that from war we could enjoy peace today. Many will argue that war eventually leads to a more peaceful and productive society -depends on who you ask, surely not those who have to live through it. But consider that the wars fought in ancient time cannot compare to the devastation of wars that have weapons that can cause mass destruction around the world in a short amount of time today. Peace is dangerous to those who do not benefit from it and we need to consider who do not.
Guernica by Pablo Picasso 1937 shows the tragedies of war and the suffering it inflicts upon individuals, particularly innocent civilians. This work has gained a monumental status, becoming a perpetual reminder of the tragedies of war, an anti-war symbol, and an embodiment of peace.
And so we return to the simple case of wars.They continue today, and many of us are removed from them and therefore cannot imagine the devastation of such events.What is a fact is that war is something ever present and therefore we will always have the need to remember those who die because of them. As we remember, let us acknowledge that some will never have their stories told and their final resting place marked. Let us remember all the nameless and faceless who got no credit and who have died to make the dreams of others a possibility. Let us also remember that violence and misery are present companions for many around the world in 2019, where desolation never left and where war is still a reality and peace a dream. But most of all let us never forget the pity of war [Wilfred Owen] not just for some but all who have experienced wars, especially those in far flung places.
Storytelling
Storytelling is the conveying of events in words, and images, often by improvisation or embellishment. Stories or narratives have been shared in every culture as a means of entertainment, education, cultural preservation, and to instill moral values.
definitions.net
The least we can do is to try to understand the story of another and if you can’t understand do not deny it.
Unknown
We hear and tell stories everyday. No matter where we are, but at least once per day, we recount some incident we experienced to someone. Sometimes theses stories end up being fantastic tales, because something wildly unexpected and exciting happens. Whether it is an accident, a disagreement that got out of control, a funny incident or not so funny one, but something dramatic that can make your day a memorable one.
Then we may find ourselves in a situation where we have to use an experience from out past or from someone else’s past, to make a point and perhaps inspire someone. We gladly share, because our intent is that these stories will change lives. And sometimes, in the act of sharing our stories or someone else’s, we are reminded of what we are capable of. So, our stories not only inspire others but we are also inspired by it. Stories matter and the telling of them matters greatly.
Then, there are stories that we dare not tell, no matter the audience. These are stories that will be misunderstood and rejected by listeners. These are stories that may not be fit for public scrutiny -depending again on who is listening. It may be because of where we come from, how they are told and who is doing the telling. When your story challenges the status quo, then it becomes harder for it to be heard and you feel as if your story does not matter. But somewhere out there is someone who needs your story, so they too can have the courage to tell their own.
When you tell your story, those who hear become witnesses to that story. Stories are not limited to renown writers; millions of potential stories are crafted everyday by people living their unique situation and are waiting simply for the instrument through which they will be given life, to enter the lives of people who need them and who they need, to keep alive a part of you after you are no longer hear to do the telling. These stories live and never die, when those bearing witness, listen without judgement, without adhering to previously held prejudices and who in the process, restore dignity where lost and the power to simple be what it is and not what others would want it to be. Every story does not have to be our individual or collective realities but every story needs to be told.
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