AMANIE MATHURIN
May 21st, 1971 — Augustine Osman
“Tiwé tjou an lakou mwen avan mwen soté tét ou!’
On the day my uncle died, Granny’s obscenities startled me awake, her deep voice ringing through the small bedroom my sister and I shared. I quickly pulled the faded curtains aside and shoved the wooden window open, curious to see the mysterious intruder she was threatening to behead this early in the God-given morning.
“Ou pa ka tann? Tèt ou wèd?”
Kneeling on the bed and thrusting my torso out the window I observed a nervous-looking man in a suit that seemed to swallow him. He did appear a little slow, or ‘hard-headed’ as Granny called him. I tried and failed to suppress a chuckle as I watched her advance towards him, his body recoiling from her impressive stature.
“Mam, c-construction of the n- new development s-starts in t-two months. You and your f-family must l-leave immediately!”
I could hear the tremble in his voice, the words stuttering past the lump in his throat.
“I. Not. Going. Nowhere.” Granny shaped the response into a menacing growl, each word accompanied by a purposeful jab of her index finger into the man’s chest.
The skinny man backed away, nearly tumbling over the gnarled roots of the mango tree that stood watch in our grassy front yard.
“Girl get up! Watch that” I shook my sister awake, giggling as I eagerly jumped off the bed and raced towards the front yard.
“I’m s-sorry Mam, this land has b-been acquired by the d-developer!” the man nervously pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose.
“Which land? My land?” the words erupted from Granny like an explosion. “Land soak with MY sweat?”
***
December 17th, 1970 (Six months ago earlier) — Augustine Osman
On a sweltering Sunday afternoon, Granny dragged me to a town hall meeting where she clapped me round the ears every few minutes because I could not sit still. I only remember because she had come into the neighbour’s yard and hauled me off by my ear, barking orders to wash my face and change my dirty clothes. I begged in vain to stay with my neighbour and play Chinese skip, but she insisted that I accompany her so I could learn something and not turn out useless like my parents.
Granny hurriedly pulled my hair into three tight plaits, tying pink ribbons at the base of each. Next, she pulled a white dress with small pink flowers over my head. Then came the frilly socks, my one good pair of shoes, and a generous serving of baby powder on my chest. For a brief moment, I feared she was taking me to church, which seemed like the most boring town hall meeting of all.
When we arrived at the meeting a woman handed Granny a flyer; she accepted with a smile, staring blankly at it. Once we were out of earshot, she immediately thrust the flyer into my hand.
“What that saying?”
“Clearwater Hotel Development” I carefully read each word aloud to her, slowly becoming aware of the real reason she had interrupted my game to bring me here.
The heat was unbearable, made ten times worse by the itchy frills of the dress I had long outgrown. Just as I began to picture myself skipping away in the neighbour’s yard — I had learned to jump as high as her waist — the noisy chatter of the hall suddenly subsided. A fat man in a tight suit stood at a podium nervously straightening his tie and clearing his throat. I vaguely recognized him from the faded posters plastered on telephone poles from two years ago, bold lettering proclaiming “VOTE PETER THEODORE FOR A BETTER CHOISEUL.”
“Good evening ladies and gentlemen,” Peter Theodore read from a sheet of paper moistened by his sweaty palms. “Thank you all for taking the time to join me for this important news.”
The Minister spoke for ninety minutes, uninterrupted, a steady stream of sweat pouring down his face. When he finally finished, the town hall erupted into a ripple of whispers.
“Ki sa yo ka palé about la?” Ma Son, our neighbour leaned across me to ask in confusion.
Granny, who I was certain was just as confused by Peter Theodore and his fat speech, remained silent. All around me, adults leaned towards each other with similar questions posed with whispered urgency.
“Ki sa yo di yo kay fè en Chwazèy?” old Mr. Mesmain asked, his voice hoarse from years of smoking Embassy by the pack.
“Mwen menm pa sav” Mr. Pamphile shrugged in unashamed ignorance.
The truth was no one seemed to have the faintest idea what Peter Theodore and his government intended to build in our Choiseul. Every other sentence was punctuated with the phrase “my government”, barked towards us as if the term itself was supposed to convince us of something bigger, more important than ourselves. In between, Peter Theodore sprinkled his speech with words that had no meaning in my 12-year-old vocabulary, despite the long hours I spent with my nose buried in books. I made a mental note to look them up in the library when I returned to school the next day. Compulsory acquisition. Foreign investment. Gross domestic product. I repeated them in my head, trying to pronounce them just like the minister.
Despite the confused whisperings rising and falling around the hall, when the minister asked whether the crowd had any questions, he was met with a silence so clear you could hear the late-night singing of the zwi — tiny crickets that offered a permanent soundtrack to our simple country life.
With a proud smile, Peter Theodore scanned the crowd, nodding and thanking us for our support.
***
February 13th 1971 – Augustine Osman
The town hall meeting disappeared from our minds over the next few weeks as we performed mundane routines shaped around survival. One day I returned from the river delicately balancing a bucket of water on my head, trying hard to imitate Granny’s effortless poise. Despite my best efforts, the bucket swayed and water splashed down around my feet, causing her to shout “ti manmay, antwé bom-lan avant ou jété tout dlo mwen!”
I quickly obeyed her instructions, bringing the water to the old fireside where she was bent at the waist, lighting the firewood Uncle had gathered. Just then, Uncle walked in, his back slightly hunched underneath his banana-stained shirt.
“Ma,” he said slowly, cautiously. “Ou pa kwè nou kay jwenn un bon pwi pou tè-a?”
Though I was very much aware that the conversation was for grown-ups, my curiousity was piqued. Why was uncle asking about getting a good price for our land? What could he mean?
Granny rose to her full height slowly, straightening her colourful madras head tie as she stood. In a careful, measured tone, she explained that the land we stood on belonged to her father’s great-grandfather. I listened with interest, using an old plastic margarine container to slowly scoop water from the bucket into the large pan Granny had placed on the fire. I figured that if I pretended to be immersed in the task, they might not notice me.
This is how I came to learn that Peter Theodore and his government had made my grandmother an offer for the small plot of land where my grandmother, her children and grandchildren were all born. My uncle, ever the optimist, tried in vain to convince Granny that she should think of the future, more specifically, my future. He emphasised that I was a bright child — the money could help me get an education. It could mean Granny would not have to work hard until she died, like her mother and her mother’s mother before her. He pleaded that he could finally have more than one pair of shoes. And not have to go to bed every night with the lingering weight of banana boxes on his back.
She steadfastly refused. “Sa sè tè nous!” This is our land. The only thing we own.
***
May 21st 1971 — Augustine Osman
By the time my sister and I reached outside, the skinny man in the suit had been joined by Peter Theodore and two large men. A black jeep was parked in the distance, shining under the morning sun.
“Look ma’am,” Peter Theodore began. “Let’s be reasonable. We have made you a fair offer. You don’t even belong here.”
“Tibway! What nonsense you saying?” Granny’s voice rose from her chest in anger.
Peter Theodore, who I had only ever heard addressed as “Honourable Minister” and “Mr. Theodore sir”, was visibly taken aback by Granny calling him a little boy, and even more so by the obvious disdain in her tone.
“Madam!” he shouted. “You have no choice in this. You and your family must leave.”
“You not hearing I not going anywhere?” Granny snarled.
“You. Will. Leave. Mark my words you ignorant old fool” Peter Theodore hissed at Granny before spitting on the ground and turning on his heel.
What followed happened so quickly. In a flash Granny lunged forward, her thick arm deftly encircling his fleshy neck. I stood frozen in place as the two huge, suited men grabbed her, roughly shoving her to the ground. Sylvine screamed. The Minister stormed towards the black jeep. I did not know exactly when they arrived, but an angry mob of neighbours rushed towards the suited men, shoving, kicking, and biting in unison. Their collective anger built to a bloody frenzy as I stared in horror.
Uncle emerged from the distance, green bananas in one hand, his old cutlass in the other. Sylvine’s screams jolted him into action and he charged towards the men who had pinned Granny to the ground, forcing her arms behind her back. It happened in an instant — the sound of a sharp pop filled the air, so loud that I could feel it in my ears, in my brain, in my chest. People were screaming and scattering in every direction. There was blood on the ground, all over the tangled roots of the mango tree. I felt my head swimming as I watched Granny fall to her knees in a sea of red, her face contorted into a silent scream.
David and Goliath by Edward Akintola Hubbard
May 21st 1971 — Agatha Osman
They kill my boy. My son. They murder him. Right on my own fucking land.
May 24th 1971 — Irvin D’Auvergne
MAN SHOT DEAD DURING SCUFFLE WITH POLICE
The headline in Saturday’s newspaper barely scratched the surface of what had happened. On the cover was a grainy black and white photo of an old woman, her head thrown back, mouth open wide to unleash a cry of agony that I would never forget. In her hands was a brawny young man’s lifeless body, his face trapped in a permanent expression of horror.
A small accompanying paragraph described the “fracas that ensued when a minister’s security detail clashed with a Choiseul family outside their simple dwelling in Sabwisha”. What the newspaper failed to mention was that “the deceased, thirty-two-year-old Jimmy ‘Jim Boy’ Osman” was the sole breadwinner of his small family. He had spent all his adult life and many years of his childhood taking on whatever jobs could put food on the table for him, his aging mother, and two young nieces. What the article also didn’t say, is that Jimmy died defending his family and the little they owned.
Two days after Jimmy Osman’s death, I summoned the courage to visit his mother’s modest home. I had hoped to bring news of some sort of compensation that could at least offer Agatha Osman the reassurance that she and the girls would be taken care of. Instead, I arrived with no solace or promises to offer. The developer’s team of lawyers — all foreign — had advised against any actions which could be translated as an acceptance of liability for the ‘unfortunate incident’. An offer of compensation, they suggested, would imply responsibility.
The lawyers remained vehement in their claim that the Osmans never held any legal title to the small plot of land they lived on. They maintained that their illegal occupation of the land for generations did not entitle them to any rights or protections and that the residents of the vicinity– nearly all of them squatters — had been sufficiently consulted about the development at a town hall meeting months before.
Despite my firm protestations — ‘they are just a poor family’, ‘Agatha Osman has two small children to raise’ — my plea for a show of humanity fell on deaf ears. After all, I was a mere Community Liaison Officer. At least that was the politically correct term. The reality, as I came to realise in the sleepless nights following Jimmy Osman’s death, is that I was simply a pawn in a game where there could be no real winner. A young black boy, educated in London on a government scholarship, well-spoken enough to be sent out into the community to speak on behalf of faceless hotel developers. Local enough that the developers believed I would appear harmless.
When I set foot in the old woman’s unadorned front yard that first morning, I never imagined I would be the harbinger of death. I simply intended to convey the message I was tasked to deliver. And here I was once more, swallowing hard, forcing myself yet again, to form words around the lump in my throat. I did not expect to immediately come face to face with the grieving mother, but there she was, sprawled on the wooden front step, legs wide. She stared blankly ahead, her glazed eyes unseeing.
“I’m so s-sorry Ms. Osman,” I stuttered. “I n-never meant f-for any of this to happen.”
My words did not seem to reach whatever far-off place her mind now occupied. I tried again to summon the right words, words that I could not bring myself to speak, and that she would never truly hear. Accepting that there was no purpose to my efforts, I brought myself to rest beside her on the step, silently watching the dust swirl against the hem of the one suit my own mother had spent the last of her savings on. We sat that way — without words — for what felt like hours until the setting sun cast orange hues from behind the mango tree. Before leaving I slipped an envelope into the large pocket of her skirt. Though she took no notice, it was all I had to offer — the final check handed to me from the Clearwater team two days after Jimmy Osman was killed.
September 1984 — Augustine Osman
“Stunning view isn’t it?”
I paused and looked up at the stranger whose words had interrupted my work. He flashed me a smile before turning his attention back to the stunning panoramic scene in the distance. Directly across from us the Caribbean Sea caressed Choiseul’s magnificent cliffs.
“Yes sir,” my reply was curt. It was not customary for guests — or white men in general — to address me, outside of delivering instructions. Sweep this. Wipe that. Turn around. Bend over.
I carefully balanced the tray of empty glasses I had collected from his table, watching in silence as he took in the view.
“It’s arguably the only real selling point of Clearwater,” he continued, more for his benefit than mine. “I mean this place is nice, but is it really worth the price?”
The stranger expelled a deep sigh before turning towards the hotel behind us. His eyes lingered on me a moment too long and I offered a polite smile before averting my eyes. White men are always staring. As if we are wild animals rounded up and caged just for their pleasure.
Once I was out of sight I set the tray down and walked towards the old mango tree that sat on the edge of the cultivated lawn. I took off my shoes, closed my eyes, and took a step forward, sinking my toes into the grass and raising my face to the sea breeze. There was no need to open my eyes to make sure that I did not trip over the gnarled roots of the tree. I knew every root and branch like the back of my hand. I knew exactly where the birds nested, which branch Sylvine had tumbled from, and where the roots had soaked up my uncle’s blood. I knew where in its shade the workmen sat in between breaks from bulldozing Granny’s house, Mr. Mesmain’s house, Ma Son’s house, Mr. Pamphile’s house. All the houses that they claimed we had built without authorization. I want to tell the white stranger that this — none of it — could ever have been worth it.
I was 12 in 1971, the year Granny lost all hold of her senses. My sister Sylvine was 9. In the days after uncle died in her arms, Granny became withdrawn. Then as the weeks went by she grew erratic. Sylvine and I would plead with her to let us bathe her but she violently refused. Our slender limbs were no match for her sturdy frame and so most days we resigned ourselves to tolerating her stench. Sylvine and I would spend many evenings trying to lure her back home before sunset. Granny had taken to aimlessly walking the unpaved roads for hours on end until her bare feet were bruised and bleeding.
Three months after uncle’s death, Granny was sent deep into the countryside to live with a cousin who grudgingly agreed to care for her since Sylvine and I could not. She never heard our goodbyes or saw us waving as the old car drove off, a plume of dust rising in its wake. Sylvine was soon sent to the city to live with another distant relative, comforted only by the promise that she would finish school. Considered old enough to fend for myself, I was left behind. I would never see Sylvine or Granny again.
