[{"id":11538,"date":"2026-08-14T15:12:07","date_gmt":"2026-08-14T20:12:07","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/?p=11538"},"modified":"2026-08-27T08:40:10","modified_gmt":"2026-08-27T13:40:10","slug":"on-becoming-a-storm-three-poems-after-melissa","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/14\/on-becoming-a-storm-three-poems-after-melissa\/","title":{"rendered":"On Becoming a Storm: Three Poems After Melissa"},"content":{"rendered":"<p><span style=\"color: #0000ff;\">SHORTLISTED<\/span><\/p>\n<p>ROLANDO ALBERTS<\/p>\n<h3>WHEN THE WIND KNOCKS<br \/>\n<em>an ode to Oya and her daughter, Melissa<\/em><\/h3>\n<p>You carve a path of destruction<br \/>\nor transformation<\/p>\n<p>From the sea<br \/>\nstraight to our house<\/p>\n<p>With all your fury<br \/>\nyou whip your machete across the sky<\/p>\n<p>Threaten our sheltered selves<br \/>\nand everything else we know<\/p>\n<p>We bargain<br \/>\n\u201cIba Oya. If we must be changed<\/p>\n<p>Leave us with our right hand so<br \/>\nwe can rebuild our left\u201d<\/p>\n<p>With your last bit of mercy<br \/>\nyou turn.<\/p>\n<h3>THE CHURCH TURNS THE GIRL TURNS THE CHURCH INSIDE OUT<br \/>\n<em>or The Girl Becomes a Hurricane<\/em><\/h3>\n<p>Long titty church sisters and<br \/>\nbroad back ushers<br \/>\nwelcome her with half open arms<br \/>\nThey find her a place in the pews<\/p>\n<p>This is where she waits<br \/>\nOff the coast of the salvation she was promised<br \/>\nOff the coast of the home she desires<br \/>\nWondering if she should turn around<\/p>\n<p>Or find solace in some other place<br \/>\nSomething inside the congregation is watchful<br \/>\nAs if they know where she has been<br \/>\nAs if they can see what she will become<\/p>\n<p>She ponders her belonging until<br \/>\nScripture trickles out of Pastor\u2019s mouth<br \/>\nSomething in the early chapters of Genesis<br \/>\nTells her who and why she must be<\/p>\n<p>Pastor pontificates how all sinners are created equal<br \/>\nBut not all sin is the same<br \/>\nHe divulges his disdain for<br \/>\nMan royals<\/p>\n<p>And sodomites<br \/>\nTomb wombs<br \/>\nAnd jelly back men<\/p>\n<p>She knows who she is among this<br \/>\nAnd wonders if she might receive forgiveness<br \/>\nAnd something like holy ghost fire<\/p>\n<p>Rises out the pit of her stomach<br \/>\nDrags her by her chest to the altar<\/p>\n<p>Here she spins<br \/>\nAnd flings herself toward the pulpit<br \/>\nLong-necked uncles lay their crusted fingers<br \/>\nOn her head, on her shoulders<\/p>\n<p>Tell her how she must be more than<br \/>\nA roaming sketel with<br \/>\nTrash littered through her body<\/p>\n<p>For a moment<br \/>\nShe agrees<\/p>\n<p>She inhales the destruction<br \/>\nThey tell her she brought on herself<\/p>\n<p>How could she have done this?<\/p>\n<p><em>How could she not?<\/em><\/p>\n<p>Pastor\u2019s gaze meets hers in<\/p>\n<p>The middle of deliverance<\/p>\n<p>And she realizes<\/p>\n<p>He will bury her\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 in this<\/p>\n<p><em>\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Hattaclaps.<\/em><\/p>\n<p>Something else inside her<br \/>\nSpins in the other direction<br \/>\nShe tears open the pulpit and<br \/>\nPlaces her hands against both columns<br \/>\nRocks the sanctuary to each side<br \/>\nPulls the roof down and covers<br \/>\nSerpents, sinners and saints alike<br \/>\nBefore moving to another place<br \/>\nWhere perhaps she will be forgiven<br \/>\nWhere perhaps she will find a home<\/p>\n<h3><strong>\u00a0<\/strong>THE DAY AFTER<br \/>\n<em>after Allison Morris<\/em><\/h3>\n<p>Tired of carrying faith on her shoulders<br \/>\nThe old church finally rests<\/p>\n<p>Her head on damp St. Elizabeth soil<br \/>\nShe listens to tales and stories<\/p>\n<p>Of old family homes and family names<br \/>\nTaken to the sea by the wind<\/p>\n<p>The old church weeps at their passing<br \/>\nKnocks her wood against newly barren land<\/p>\n<p>Sends a seismic call<br \/>\nTo the saints in the east<\/p>\n<p>And the saints\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 feel disaster<br \/>\nAnd the saints\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 come marching in<\/p>\n<p>And the saints\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 pour libation<br \/>\nAnd the saints\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 lament surviving<\/p>\n<p>And the saints\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 tell their stories<br \/>\nAnd the saints\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 bury their dead<\/p>\n<p>And the saints\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 pray<br \/>\nAnd the saints\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 say<br \/>\namen<\/p>\n\n\t\t<div class='author-shortcodes'>\n\t\t\t<div class='author-inner'>\n\t\t\t\t<div class='author-info'>\n\t\t\tRolando Alberts is a Jamaican poet and actor. His work appeared in the Scottish Poetry Library as part of their Burns Night 2026 showcase. In 2024, he was shortlisted for the Poet Laureate of Jamaica Young Writers\u2019 Prize for Poetry. His writing uses distinct lineation and white space to control pace and rhythm. He often uses strong metaphors anchored in concrete imagery to explore ideas of vulnerability, identity and mental health. Rolando and more of his work can be found on Instagram at socratesbeard.\n\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"<p>Something else inside her<br \/>\nSpins in the other direction<br \/>\nShe tears open the pulpit and<br \/>\nPlaces her hands against both columns<br \/>\nRocks the sanctuary to each side<br \/>\nPulls the roof down and covers<br \/>\nSerpents, sinners and saints alike<br \/>\nBefore moving to another place<br \/>\nWhere perhaps she will be forgiven<br \/>\nWhere perhaps she will find a home<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":15102494,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_et_pb_use_builder":"","_et_pb_old_content":"","_et_gb_content_width":"","_coblocks_attr":"","_coblocks_dimensions":"","_coblocks_responsive_height":"","_coblocks_accordion_ie_support":"","_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_wpcom_ai_launchpad_first_post":false,"_jetpack_feature_clip_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"{title}\r\n\r\n{excerpt}\r\n\r\n{url}","jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":{"image_generator_settings":{"template":"highway","default_image_id":0,"font":"","enabled":false},"version":2},"_wpas_customize_per_network":false,"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false},"categories":[422,728594591,728594603,728594599],"tags":[728594619],"class_list":["post-11538","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-poetry","category-pree-15","category-rolando-alberts","category-shortlisted","tag-pree-15","et-doesnt-have-format-content","et_post_format-et-post-format-standard"],"yoast_head":"<!-- This site is optimized with the Yoast SEO plugin v28.5 - https:\/\/yoast.com\/product\/yoast-seo-wordpress\/ -->\n<title>On Becoming a Storm: Three Poems After Melissa - PREE<\/title>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/14\/on-becoming-a-storm-three-poems-after-melissa\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_GB\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"On Becoming a Storm: Three Poems After Melissa - PREE\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"Something else inside her Spins in the other direction She tears open the pulpit and Places her hands against both columns Rocks the sanctuary to each side Pulls the roof down and covers Serpents, sinners and saints alike Before moving to another place Where perhaps she will be forgiven Where perhaps she will find a home\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:url\" content=\"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/14\/on-becoming-a-storm-three-poems-after-melissa\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:site_name\" content=\"PREE\" \/>\n<meta property=\"article:published_time\" content=\"2026-08-14T20:12:07+00:00\" \/>\n<meta property=\"article:modified_time\" content=\"2026-08-27T13:40:10+00:00\" \/>\n<meta name=\"author\" content=\"ap\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:card\" content=\"summary_large_image\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:label1\" content=\"Written by\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:data1\" content=\"ap\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:label2\" content=\"Estimated reading time\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:data2\" content=\"3 minutes\" \/>\n<script type=\"application\/ld+json\" class=\"yoast-schema-graph\">{\"@context\":\"https:\\\/\\\/schema.org\",\"@graph\":[{\"@type\":\"Article\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/14\\\/on-becoming-a-storm-three-poems-after-melissa\\\/#article\",\"isPartOf\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/14\\\/on-becoming-a-storm-three-poems-after-melissa\\\/\"},\"author\":{\"name\":\"ap\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/#\\\/schema\\\/person\\\/4518f338ddbd9b8905be3abd07c656f1\"},\"headline\":\"On Becoming a Storm: Three Poems After Melissa\",\"datePublished\":\"2026-08-14T20:12:07+00:00\",\"dateModified\":\"2026-08-27T13:40:10+00:00\",\"mainEntityOfPage\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/14\\\/on-becoming-a-storm-three-poems-after-melissa\\\/\"},\"wordCount\":614,\"commentCount\":0,\"publisher\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/#organization\"},\"keywords\":[\"PREE 15\"],\"articleSection\":[\"Poetry\",\"PREE 15\",\"ROLANDO ALBERTS\",\"SHORTLISTED\"],\"inLanguage\":\"en-GB\",\"potentialAction\":[{\"@type\":\"CommentAction\",\"name\":\"Comment\",\"target\":[\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/14\\\/on-becoming-a-storm-three-poems-after-melissa\\\/#respond\"]}]},{\"@type\":\"WebPage\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/14\\\/on-becoming-a-storm-three-poems-after-melissa\\\/\",\"url\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/14\\\/on-becoming-a-storm-three-poems-after-melissa\\\/\",\"name\":\"On Becoming a Storm: Three Poems After Melissa - PREE\",\"isPartOf\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/#website\"},\"datePublished\":\"2026-08-14T20:12:07+00:00\",\"dateModified\":\"2026-08-27T13:40:10+00:00\",\"breadcrumb\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/14\\\/on-becoming-a-storm-three-poems-after-melissa\\\/#breadcrumb\"},\"inLanguage\":\"en-GB\",\"potentialAction\":[{\"@type\":\"ReadAction\",\"target\":[\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/14\\\/on-becoming-a-storm-three-poems-after-melissa\\\/\"]}]},{\"@type\":\"BreadcrumbList\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/14\\\/on-becoming-a-storm-three-poems-after-melissa\\\/#breadcrumb\",\"itemListElement\":[{\"@type\":\"ListItem\",\"position\":1,\"name\":\"Home\",\"item\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/\"},{\"@type\":\"ListItem\",\"position\":2,\"name\":\"On Becoming a Storm: Three Poems After Melissa\"}]},{\"@type\":\"WebSite\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/#website\",\"url\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/\",\"name\":\"PREE\",\"description\":\"Caribbean. Writing.\",\"publisher\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/#organization\"},\"potentialAction\":[{\"@type\":\"SearchAction\",\"target\":{\"@type\":\"EntryPoint\",\"urlTemplate\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/?s={search_term_string}\"},\"query-input\":{\"@type\":\"PropertyValueSpecification\",\"valueRequired\":true,\"valueName\":\"search_term_string\"}}],\"inLanguage\":\"en-GB\"},{\"@type\":\"Organization\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/#organization\",\"name\":\"PREE\",\"url\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/\",\"logo\":{\"@type\":\"ImageObject\",\"inLanguage\":\"en-GB\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/#\\\/schema\\\/logo\\\/image\\\/\",\"url\":\"https:\\\/\\\/i0.wp.com\\\/preelit.com\\\/wp-content\\\/uploads\\\/2022\\\/01\\\/PREE-logo.png?fit=782%2C414&ssl=1\",\"contentUrl\":\"https:\\\/\\\/i0.wp.com\\\/preelit.com\\\/wp-content\\\/uploads\\\/2022\\\/01\\\/PREE-logo.png?fit=782%2C414&ssl=1\",\"width\":782,\"height\":414,\"caption\":\"PREE\"},\"image\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/#\\\/schema\\\/logo\\\/image\\\/\"},\"sameAs\":[\"https:\\\/\\\/www.instagram.com\\\/preelitmag\\\/\",\"https:\\\/\\\/www.youtube.com\\\/channel\\\/UCuiY23cFTFeSXuap5c8dreg\"]},{\"@type\":\"Person\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/#\\\/schema\\\/person\\\/4518f338ddbd9b8905be3abd07c656f1\",\"name\":\"ap\",\"image\":{\"@type\":\"ImageObject\",\"inLanguage\":\"en-GB\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/secure.gravatar.com\\\/avatar\\\/8f2ffa09d7223d04aa89db2b3cafec3ec5304fb83073abc3d51dd47bfd948c51?s=96&d=identicon&r=g\",\"url\":\"https:\\\/\\\/secure.gravatar.com\\\/avatar\\\/8f2ffa09d7223d04aa89db2b3cafec3ec5304fb83073abc3d51dd47bfd948c51?s=96&d=identicon&r=g\",\"contentUrl\":\"https:\\\/\\\/secure.gravatar.com\\\/avatar\\\/8f2ffa09d7223d04aa89db2b3cafec3ec5304fb83073abc3d51dd47bfd948c51?s=96&d=identicon&r=g\",\"caption\":\"ap\"},\"description\":\"writer, editor and walkabout\",\"sameAs\":[\"http:\\\/\\\/anniepaulose.wordpress.com\"],\"url\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/author\\\/anniepaulose\\\/\"}]}<\/script>\n<!-- \/ Yoast SEO plugin. -->","yoast_head_json":{"title":"On Becoming a Storm: Three Poems After Melissa - PREE","robots":{"index":"index","follow":"follow","max-snippet":"max-snippet:-1","max-image-preview":"max-image-preview:large","max-video-preview":"max-video-preview:-1"},"canonical":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/14\/on-becoming-a-storm-three-poems-after-melissa\/","og_locale":"en_GB","og_type":"article","og_title":"On Becoming a Storm: Three Poems After Melissa - PREE","og_description":"Something else inside her Spins in the other direction She tears open the pulpit and Places her hands against both columns Rocks the sanctuary to each side Pulls the roof down and covers Serpents, sinners and saints alike Before moving to another place Where perhaps she will be forgiven Where perhaps she will find a home","og_url":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/14\/on-becoming-a-storm-three-poems-after-melissa\/","og_site_name":"PREE","article_published_time":"2026-08-14T20:12:07+00:00","article_modified_time":"2026-08-27T13:40:10+00:00","author":"ap","twitter_card":"summary_large_image","twitter_misc":{"Written by":"ap","Estimated reading time":"3 minutes"},"schema":{"@context":"https:\/\/schema.org","@graph":[{"@type":"Article","@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/14\/on-becoming-a-storm-three-poems-after-melissa\/#article","isPartOf":{"@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/14\/on-becoming-a-storm-three-poems-after-melissa\/"},"author":{"name":"ap","@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/#\/schema\/person\/4518f338ddbd9b8905be3abd07c656f1"},"headline":"On Becoming a Storm: Three Poems After Melissa","datePublished":"2026-08-14T20:12:07+00:00","dateModified":"2026-08-27T13:40:10+00:00","mainEntityOfPage":{"@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/14\/on-becoming-a-storm-three-poems-after-melissa\/"},"wordCount":614,"commentCount":0,"publisher":{"@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/#organization"},"keywords":["PREE 15"],"articleSection":["Poetry","PREE 15","ROLANDO ALBERTS","SHORTLISTED"],"inLanguage":"en-GB","potentialAction":[{"@type":"CommentAction","name":"Comment","target":["https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/14\/on-becoming-a-storm-three-poems-after-melissa\/#respond"]}]},{"@type":"WebPage","@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/14\/on-becoming-a-storm-three-poems-after-melissa\/","url":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/14\/on-becoming-a-storm-three-poems-after-melissa\/","name":"On Becoming a Storm: Three Poems After Melissa - PREE","isPartOf":{"@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/#website"},"datePublished":"2026-08-14T20:12:07+00:00","dateModified":"2026-08-27T13:40:10+00:00","breadcrumb":{"@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/14\/on-becoming-a-storm-three-poems-after-melissa\/#breadcrumb"},"inLanguage":"en-GB","potentialAction":[{"@type":"ReadAction","target":["https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/14\/on-becoming-a-storm-three-poems-after-melissa\/"]}]},{"@type":"BreadcrumbList","@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/14\/on-becoming-a-storm-three-poems-after-melissa\/#breadcrumb","itemListElement":[{"@type":"ListItem","position":1,"name":"Home","item":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/"},{"@type":"ListItem","position":2,"name":"On Becoming a Storm: Three Poems After Melissa"}]},{"@type":"WebSite","@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/#website","url":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/","name":"PREE","description":"Caribbean. Writing.","publisher":{"@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/#organization"},"potentialAction":[{"@type":"SearchAction","target":{"@type":"EntryPoint","urlTemplate":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/?s={search_term_string}"},"query-input":{"@type":"PropertyValueSpecification","valueRequired":true,"valueName":"search_term_string"}}],"inLanguage":"en-GB"},{"@type":"Organization","@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/#organization","name":"PREE","url":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/","logo":{"@type":"ImageObject","inLanguage":"en-GB","@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/#\/schema\/logo\/image\/","url":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2022\/01\/PREE-logo.png?fit=782%2C414&ssl=1","contentUrl":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2022\/01\/PREE-logo.png?fit=782%2C414&ssl=1","width":782,"height":414,"caption":"PREE"},"image":{"@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/#\/schema\/logo\/image\/"},"sameAs":["https:\/\/www.instagram.com\/preelitmag\/","https:\/\/www.youtube.com\/channel\/UCuiY23cFTFeSXuap5c8dreg"]},{"@type":"Person","@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/#\/schema\/person\/4518f338ddbd9b8905be3abd07c656f1","name":"ap","image":{"@type":"ImageObject","inLanguage":"en-GB","@id":"https:\/\/secure.gravatar.com\/avatar\/8f2ffa09d7223d04aa89db2b3cafec3ec5304fb83073abc3d51dd47bfd948c51?s=96&d=identicon&r=g","url":"https:\/\/secure.gravatar.com\/avatar\/8f2ffa09d7223d04aa89db2b3cafec3ec5304fb83073abc3d51dd47bfd948c51?s=96&d=identicon&r=g","contentUrl":"https:\/\/secure.gravatar.com\/avatar\/8f2ffa09d7223d04aa89db2b3cafec3ec5304fb83073abc3d51dd47bfd948c51?s=96&d=identicon&r=g","caption":"ap"},"description":"writer, editor and walkabout","sameAs":["http:\/\/anniepaulose.wordpress.com"],"url":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/author\/anniepaulose\/"}]}},"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_likes_enabled":true,"jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p9tXKW-306","jetpack_featured_media_url":"","_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/11538","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/15102494"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=11538"}],"version-history":[{"count":7,"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/11538\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":11545,"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/11538\/revisions\/11545"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=11538"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=11538"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=11538"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}},{"id":11524,"date":"2026-08-14T14:36:52","date_gmt":"2026-08-14T19:36:52","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/?p=11524"},"modified":"2026-08-27T08:40:10","modified_gmt":"2026-08-27T13:40:10","slug":"festival-of-lights","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/14\/festival-of-lights\/","title":{"rendered":"Festival of Lights"},"content":{"rendered":"<p>JUDY RAYMOND<\/p>\n<p>There were leaning stacks of big, deep, aluminium pots for corn soup, piles of flat round tawas for making roti. But the store was also packed with plastic buckets, flowered bedsheets, brooms, electric fans, irons, kitchen towels, gingham covers for washing machines, checkered plastic tablecloths. A Hindu friend had suggested she try this store for deyas, but she should have guessed she could find them here: it might look like a variety store to be found in almost any country, but it was in St James, where most of the streets had Indian names and where many former labourers had settled after their indentureship had ended, a century ago and more. Of course, it would stock deyas and tawas and bilnas, among other utensils whose names she was slightly embarrassed she did not know.<\/p>\n<p>Rather than searching for anything, it was easier to edge between the shaky pillars of plastic bowls, sidestep the string-headed mops, clattering the concertina-ed ironing boards against each other, and then speak to the affable man at the counter.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cRavi!\u201d he shouted, apparently at no one in particular. A skinny teenage assistant appeared from among the packed shelves.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cYou want the wax ones, or the plain deyas?\u201d Ravi asked in response to her request, then vanished again and returned cradling short, crooked stacks of the little clay bowls. In this store crammed with shiny metal and plastic, they looked as though they had been brought out not from a storeroom, but out of history. Ravi counted them into a black plastic bag. She could have chosen the modern ones like candles, ready-filled with wax, rather than the smaller old-time ones, empty and with an indentation in one side where the wick would rest.<\/p>\n<p>For these you could ask for the wicks, bundles of soft loosely-twisted string to be cut to the right length, then arranged in the deyas before you poured in the oil. Ghee was said to be best, but she used coconut oil. Nowadays it was fashionable overseas and was reimported to the island, as gentrified as olive oil, cold-pressed, extra virgin, extra expensive. But here you could also still get the kind people had used here for cooking since the first Indians were brought to work in the cane fields, after the emancipated Africans abandoned their previous drudgery. On the shelves of airconditioned supermarkets, the opaque white oil was lined up in its bottles, solid like candlewax or bacon fat; but by the time it reached home in its plastic bag in the trunk of your car, the heat would have morphed it into a miniature iceberg sliding through a greasy yellow sea.<\/p>\n<p>Some people didn\u2019t even use deyas any more, but put up Christmas lights from now, and left them up till the end of the year. There were whole streets in certain areas that were famous for their displays, each house owner trying to outshine the next; police had to be called in to deal with the traffic when outsiders came every evening to drive slowly past, comparing the numbers and fanciful arrangements of lights. But Clair had always found the little oil lamps with their cats\u2019 tongues of golden flames so much prettier, and the careful ritual of lighting each lamp more moving than flicking a switch.<\/p>\n<p>She imagined the countless deyas conjuring others into life around the planet as it spun into darkness, wrapped in coils of these little beads of light. She thought of the first Indians brought here almost two hundred years ago, lighting their deyas \u2014 in those days not so different from the lamps their colonial masters used \u2014 under strange skies. Perhaps it felt as if they were sending a message back to the home they might never see again. There would be no visible response to these tiny signals. But did it comfort them to know that their compatriots were doing the same, beyond the <em>kala pani,<\/em> the dark water they had crossed? Did they feel their gods were smiling down on them from the same heavens? Or did it underline the newness of this place: stars in corners of the heavens where there should be none, the croaking and whirring of night creatures they could not yet name, the lack of the ingredients to make the foods that should make up the feast?<\/p>\n<p style=\"text-align: center;\">***<\/p>\n<p>Clair had bought twelve deyas, the smallest number you could buy, and as she left the store, the shopkeeper wished her \u201cShubh Divali,\u201d a greeting she returned with pleasure \u2014 perhaps a little too eagerly? She wondered whether he was a Hindu himself, or a Muslim. Or a Christian. It was hard nowadays not to despair of this country, but in this one short season of the year it still felt like a few decades ago, in the days when some aspiring political party, probably now defunct, had had the slogan, \u201cAll ah we is one.\u201d For many years now, people of other faiths had joined in this festival. That gave it one of the meanings it held for her: that there was still hope for this place. Though much had been lost and many had fled, or withdrawn behind high walls and security barriers, people joined together as these lights were lit on this tiny island, from a spark that was kept alive through the lamps and the fuel that some of their ancestors had used for centuries. It had become everyone\u2019s festival, if they chose. The survival of this custom said that some of the old ways were indeed the best ways, that human nature didn\u2019t change, and despite its flaws, there was good in people still.<\/p>\n<p style=\"text-align: center;\">***<\/p>\n<p>She sidled out between the piled-up goods into a sunset that gilded the long straight road of rumshops, Chinese groceries, old-time steam laundries, more variety stores, trucks from whose trays men sold fruit and vegetables from the countryside. When it got dark, women would come out to sell roti on the pavement to the men drinking beer in the roadside rumshops, and would cook on the spot while their customers waited. Every night the women unpacked their covered pots of pumpkin and baigan, curry goat and chicken, the styrotex coolers full of balls of dough, the little tanks of gas for cooking the roti over an open flame, the folding tables decked with an oilcloth. They\u2019d light up the single gas ring, flatten the roti between their hands and spread it on the tawa, brush it with ghee, flip it until it was flecked with crisp spots of brown and ready to be packed with pot-spoonfuls of the chosen fillings, rolled and twisted into greaseproof paper, slid into a brown paper bag.<\/p>\n<p style=\"text-align: center;\">***<\/p>\n<p>She had time to reach home before dusk fell, to look for a few deyas her children had decorated at school \u2014 decades ago now \u2014 with wandering red or purple borders and glued-on sequins. The paint was mostly worn away, the sequins fallen off, but these deyas remained the most precious. She didn\u2019t put oil in them but lined them up on display.<\/p>\n<p>Some years she and her husband had driven the children around before the day itself, to see spectacular public displays in villages and parks, thousands of the little lamps balanced on the joints of lengths of split bamboo that had been arched and joined into flower shapes, simple or surreal; elephants; <em>om<\/em> symbols; lotuses; cobras; archways tall enough to walk through. She\u2019d taken the children to Divali lighting-up events at their schools, too.<\/p>\n<p>She didn\u2019t know much about the rituals that preceded the festival for Hindus, except that they involved cleaning, cooking, painting, washing, as Christmas did for their Christian neighbours; in fact she wondered if the latter\u2019s similar, obsessive preparations for Christmas \u2014 new curtains, \u201cputting away the house,\u201d new furniture \u2014 were actually influenced by the Divali customs.<\/p>\n<div id=\"attachment_11528\" style=\"width: 633px\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\"><img data-recalc-dims=\"1\" loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" aria-describedby=\"caption-attachment-11528\" data-attachment-id=\"11528\" data-permalink=\"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/14\/festival-of-lights\/screenshot-18\/\" data-orig-file=\"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/Diyas-1.jpeg?fit=623%2C626&amp;ssl=1\" data-orig-size=\"623,626\" data-comments-opened=\"1\" data-image-meta=\"{&quot;aperture&quot;:&quot;0&quot;,&quot;credit&quot;:&quot;&quot;,&quot;camera&quot;:&quot;&quot;,&quot;caption&quot;:&quot;Screenshot&quot;,&quot;created_timestamp&quot;:&quot;1786704220&quot;,&quot;copyright&quot;:&quot;&quot;,&quot;focal_length&quot;:&quot;0&quot;,&quot;iso&quot;:&quot;0&quot;,&quot;shutter_speed&quot;:&quot;0&quot;,&quot;title&quot;:&quot;Screenshot&quot;,&quot;orientation&quot;:&quot;1&quot;,&quot;alt&quot;:&quot;&quot;}\" data-image-title=\"\" data-image-description=\"\" data-image-caption=\"&lt;p&gt;Photo credit: Nilanjana Roy who noted that the photos were both &amp;#8220;courtesy our local potter&amp;#8217;s colony, where they make diyas every year, paint them right before Diwali and fill the candle wax\/ wicks the old-school way.&amp;#8221;&lt;\/p&gt;\n\" data-large-file=\"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/Diyas-1.jpeg?fit=623%2C626&amp;ssl=1\" class=\"wp-image-11528 size-full\" src=\"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/Diyas-1.jpeg?resize=623%2C626&#038;ssl=1\" alt=\"\" width=\"623\" height=\"626\" srcset=\"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/Diyas-1.jpeg?w=623&amp;ssl=1 623w, https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/Diyas-1.jpeg?resize=300%2C300&amp;ssl=1 300w, https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/Diyas-1.jpeg?resize=150%2C150&amp;ssl=1 150w, https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/Diyas-1.jpeg?resize=600%2C603&amp;ssl=1 600w, https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/Diyas-1.jpeg?resize=100%2C100&amp;ssl=1 100w, https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/Diyas-1.jpeg?resize=50%2C50&amp;ssl=1 50w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 623px) 100vw, 623px\" \/><p id=\"caption-attachment-11528\" class=\"wp-caption-text\">Photo credit: Nilanjana Roy, Delhi, who noted that the photos were both &#8220;courtesy our local potter&#8217;s colony, where they make diyas every year, paint them right before Diwali and fill the candle wax\/ wicks the old-school way.&#8221;<\/p><\/div>\n<p>For the believers this festival had deeper meanings: it was a time for charity, for welcoming the lost and friendless, mending rifts, closing the distances between people. It still brought her comfort these days, though almost overshadowed by a melancholy nostalgia. But who could object to a night that celebrated the triumph of good over evil, light over darkness? Especially those in need of light in their lives. And in these times. The deyas were tiny beacons, given power by their vast numbers, beacons sending not a warning, but good news. The festival was pure, simple, without the frantic excesses and expense of Christmas. Her little family wasn\u2019t religious, but this was one of the few rituals they observed \u2014 even if, at least in the early days, the reason the children loved it was because it was the one time of the year they were allowed to play with fire. There had been years, though, when the evening was marred by the tears of those same children, or, more recently, grandchildren, because they could only watch the lighting-up and weren\u2019t allowed to touch flame to wick themselves; or, when the great day came, they\u2019d been burnt by a drop of hot oil, or a match they\u2019d tried to use to light too many deyas.<\/p>\n<p style=\"text-align: center;\">***<\/p>\n<p>This time, when dusk fell, she added an old deya to those she\u2019d bought, and arranged them all on her porch \u2014 she had downsized from the family house and lived in an apartment, with no yard space of her own. But the evening was too damp for deyas out on the grass anyway. Clair nudged them into a circle and lit one each for her children, their partners and their children. One for an old friend who had died recently, one of the first and certainly the closest to go; one for her ex-husband, even, as he was being friendly these days; another longtime friend who\u2019d grown distant; one who was celebrating elsewhere with her big Hindu family . . . She added enough to make up thirteen, which she\u2019d been told was an auspicious number in Hinduism.<\/p>\n<p>She watched the flames for a while, not knowing what to do next. In the past, Divali wouldn\u2019t simply have been the lights: her colleagues would bring sweets for her \u2014 gulab jamoon, barfi, doughy prasad, and her favourite, crisp ginger-infused kurma; she\u2019d bring some home for the children and the rest would be shared round the office. But those were people \u2014 friends \u2014 she didn\u2019t work with any longer, and they\u2019d mostly lost touch, despite the promises.<\/p>\n<p>This year she\u2019d met an acquaintance in the mall who had asked what she was doing for Divali.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cOh, I haven\u2019t really thought about it,\u201d she\u2019d said. \u201cYou know, all my children live away now, so the grandchildren aren\u2019t here . . .\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cYou must come by us,\u201d Reshmi had said. \u201cWe all still go by my parents, in Kelly Village. Just family, but that is plenty people now, with all my brothers and sisters and the grands. Come, nah, so you wouldn\u2019t be by yourself. We all cook and take something.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cWell, the children might call, and I wouldn\u2019t want to come and then have to spend the evening on the phone . . .\u201d<\/p>\n<p>It was the best excuse she could come up with on the spot. She wasn\u2019t quite up to being with people but didn\u2019t want to unload her troubles. She had promised to let Reshmi know but hadn\u2019t called: she would have felt out of place among the celebrations of a big family she\u2019d never met, and been made even more deeply aware of her own children\u2019s and grandchildren\u2019s absence, thousands of miles away. She was hesitant, too, about driving to Central and back alone at night. Not nowadays.<\/p>\n<p>As for the children calling, well, there was no reason they should call especially for Divali, and sometimes the calls didn\u2019t go the way she hoped.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cHi, darling, how are you? How are my grands? How was Dylan\u2019s school concert?\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cHi, Mum, can I call you back? We\u2019re now about to drop Jada to soccer practice. \u2019Kay, thanks, love you, \u2019bye. Talk soon.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>Still, she was \u2014 usually \u2014 glad for them that they were away. So many people had left now. She couldn\u2019t see much of a future for this place, either, only sinking back into the obscurity and the struggles it had known in colonial days. Except it was now proudly independent. And what did that mean? Too small to be a useful pawn in global chess games; too small to defend its own position in those games. So she had once thought her children would be not only more comfortable but safer in the north. Now she read about cyberattacks, waves of climate refugees, coming water wars. She had marvelled at their smart houses, where everything was controlled by an app on a phone \u2014 lights, heating, window blinds, oven. What happened if a smart house was blown offline by a smart bomb a thousand miles away? And in one of the unusually hard winters that were becoming usual? Still, those places had the resources to recover, rebuild, adapt, not like these forgotten islands.<\/p>\n<p>For now, too, her children had opportunities they could never have had here. She tried not to think further ahead than that. She should be \u2014 she was \u2014 glad they were all well and happy. And busy. That they didn\u2019t worry about her. And she should be comforted by knowing they had been parented well enough to be able to spread their wings and fly away, to where there were more opportunities, less crime. She wouldn\u2019t want her grandchildren to be brought up here, the way things were, with no end in sight. Her own children had run up the road to play with the other boys, ridden their bikes around the neighbourhood. You couldn\u2019t let them do that now, here, unless they lived in what was called a \u201cgated community,\u201d but was only a gated and guarded group of neighbours who were strangers to each other.<\/p>\n<p>Still, the mass exodus, she supposed, was a sign of the success of the people whose ancestors had come here against their will or by chance, or in desperation, in search of new beginnings: they had grounded themselves in this alien soil so well that when the time came to move on again, they could uproot themselves once more, venture to the metropolis itself, and not just fend for themselves, but flourish there.<\/p>\n<p style=\"text-align: center;\">***<\/p>\n<p>She took photos of her deyas to send, hoping they would bring back pleasant memories from decades before, even though there were just a few lamps, no children gathered around, soft faces gilded by the light. She had no wishes she dared ask to be fulfilled, no gods to pray to; just memories to hold against her heart like lost, familiar guests, friends, her own children. Her eyes were fixed, unfocused, on the deyas, lost in the ancient human fascination with fire that predated any faith. The little yellow fires added a deeper warmth to the red clay of the lamps, and the oil reflected the dancing flames so that there seemed to be dozens of them.<\/p>\n<p>She steupsed at her earlier mood. \u201cLook at you, getting on like a poor-me-one.\u201d She was glad she had taken the trouble to drive to buy the deyas and wicks. This ritual, the festival, were hers too, and soothed her. At least she had had a choice \u2014 she could have joined Reshmi\u2019s family; and tomorrow one of the children might indeed call, or she could call one of them: it had been a few days, so she wouldn\u2019t seem too needy. In fact she wasn\u2019t; she\u2019d been doing all right recently.<\/p>\n<p style=\"text-align: center;\">***<\/p>\n<p>She didn\u2019t wait up until the end. She knew how it would look \u2014 like the aftermath of one of the children\u2019s long-ago birthdays: the clustered lamps the size and shape of half-eaten cupcakes, but with scorch marks on their rims, small gleaming puddles inside. There would be more shining liquid, as though from spilt drinks, on the tiles, where a sooty wick or two had dribbled out the last of the oil it had sucked up from the deya. But the cleaning-up could wait until the morning, like cleaning up after one of those parties.<\/p>\n<p>She checked before going to bed that it was safe to leave the deyas that were still alight. She didn\u2019t want to wait until the twelfth one sputtered out and left one lone flame, trembling in a breath of breeze, then straightening itself and standing up a little longer, holding off the enormous dark for now.<\/p>\n\n\t\t<div class='author-shortcodes'>\n\t\t\t<div class='author-inner'>\n\t\t\t\t<div class='author-image'>\n\t\t\t<img src='' alt='' \/>\n\t\t\t<div class='author-overlay'><\/div>\n\t\t<\/div> \n\t\t<div class='author-info'>\n\t\t\tWriter and editor Judy Raymond lives in Trinidad. Her books include three biographies and The Colour of Shadows: Images of Caribbean Slavery (2016), which details the lives of enslaved people in the last years before Emancipation. Raymond\u2019s essays, memoir and short stories have appeared in anthologies, and her stories have twice been shortlisted for the 2023 Brooklyn Caribbean Literary Festival Award for Writers in the Caribbean.\n\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"<p>She imagined the countless deyas conjuring others into life around the planet as it spun into darkness, wrapped in coils of these little beads of light. She thought of the first Indians brought here almost two hundred years ago, lighting their deyas \u2014 in those days not so different from the lamps their colonial masters used \u2014 under strange skies.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":15102494,"featured_media":11530,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_et_pb_use_builder":"","_et_pb_old_content":"","_et_gb_content_width":"","_coblocks_attr":"","_coblocks_dimensions":"","_coblocks_responsive_height":"","_coblocks_accordion_ie_support":"","_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_wpcom_ai_launchpad_first_post":false,"_jetpack_feature_clip_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"{title}\r\n\r\n{excerpt}\r\n\r\n{url}","jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":{"image_generator_settings":{"template":"highway","default_image_id":0,"font":"","enabled":false},"version":2},"_wpas_customize_per_network":false,"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false},"categories":[1747,728594601,728594591],"tags":[728594619],"class_list":["post-11524","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-fiction","category-judy-raymond-pree-15","category-pree-15","tag-pree-15","et-has-post-format-content","et_post_format-et-post-format-standard"],"yoast_head":"<!-- This site is optimized with the Yoast SEO plugin v28.5 - https:\/\/yoast.com\/product\/yoast-seo-wordpress\/ -->\n<title>Festival of Lights - PREE<\/title>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/14\/festival-of-lights\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_GB\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"Festival of Lights - PREE\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"She imagined the countless deyas conjuring others into life around the planet as it spun into darkness, wrapped in coils of these little beads of light. She thought of the first Indians brought here almost two hundred years ago, lighting their deyas \u2014 in those days not so different from the lamps their colonial masters used \u2014 under strange skies.\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:url\" content=\"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/14\/festival-of-lights\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:site_name\" content=\"PREE\" \/>\n<meta property=\"article:published_time\" content=\"2026-08-14T19:36:52+00:00\" \/>\n<meta property=\"article:modified_time\" content=\"2026-08-27T13:40:10+00:00\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:image\" content=\"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/diyas-3.jpeg\" \/>\n\t<meta property=\"og:image:width\" content=\"877\" \/>\n\t<meta property=\"og:image:height\" content=\"617\" \/>\n\t<meta property=\"og:image:type\" content=\"image\/jpeg\" \/>\n<meta name=\"author\" content=\"ap\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:card\" content=\"summary_large_image\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:label1\" content=\"Written by\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:data1\" content=\"ap\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:label2\" content=\"Estimated reading time\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:data2\" content=\"13 minutes\" \/>\n<script type=\"application\/ld+json\" class=\"yoast-schema-graph\">{\"@context\":\"https:\\\/\\\/schema.org\",\"@graph\":[{\"@type\":\"Article\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/14\\\/festival-of-lights\\\/#article\",\"isPartOf\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/14\\\/festival-of-lights\\\/\"},\"author\":{\"name\":\"ap\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/#\\\/schema\\\/person\\\/4518f338ddbd9b8905be3abd07c656f1\"},\"headline\":\"Festival of Lights\",\"datePublished\":\"2026-08-14T19:36:52+00:00\",\"dateModified\":\"2026-08-27T13:40:10+00:00\",\"mainEntityOfPage\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/14\\\/festival-of-lights\\\/\"},\"wordCount\":2906,\"commentCount\":0,\"publisher\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/#organization\"},\"image\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/14\\\/festival-of-lights\\\/#primaryimage\"},\"thumbnailUrl\":\"https:\\\/\\\/i0.wp.com\\\/preelit.com\\\/wp-content\\\/uploads\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/diyas-3.jpeg?fit=877%2C617&ssl=1\",\"keywords\":[\"PREE 15\"],\"articleSection\":[\"Fiction\",\"JUDY RAYMOND\",\"PREE 15\"],\"inLanguage\":\"en-GB\",\"potentialAction\":[{\"@type\":\"CommentAction\",\"name\":\"Comment\",\"target\":[\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/14\\\/festival-of-lights\\\/#respond\"]}]},{\"@type\":\"WebPage\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/14\\\/festival-of-lights\\\/\",\"url\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/14\\\/festival-of-lights\\\/\",\"name\":\"Festival of Lights - PREE\",\"isPartOf\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/#website\"},\"primaryImageOfPage\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/14\\\/festival-of-lights\\\/#primaryimage\"},\"image\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/14\\\/festival-of-lights\\\/#primaryimage\"},\"thumbnailUrl\":\"https:\\\/\\\/i0.wp.com\\\/preelit.com\\\/wp-content\\\/uploads\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/diyas-3.jpeg?fit=877%2C617&ssl=1\",\"datePublished\":\"2026-08-14T19:36:52+00:00\",\"dateModified\":\"2026-08-27T13:40:10+00:00\",\"breadcrumb\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/14\\\/festival-of-lights\\\/#breadcrumb\"},\"inLanguage\":\"en-GB\",\"potentialAction\":[{\"@type\":\"ReadAction\",\"target\":[\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/14\\\/festival-of-lights\\\/\"]}]},{\"@type\":\"ImageObject\",\"inLanguage\":\"en-GB\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/14\\\/festival-of-lights\\\/#primaryimage\",\"url\":\"https:\\\/\\\/i0.wp.com\\\/preelit.com\\\/wp-content\\\/uploads\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/diyas-3.jpeg?fit=877%2C617&ssl=1\",\"contentUrl\":\"https:\\\/\\\/i0.wp.com\\\/preelit.com\\\/wp-content\\\/uploads\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/diyas-3.jpeg?fit=877%2C617&ssl=1\",\"width\":877,\"height\":617,\"caption\":\"Photo credit: Nilanjana Roy who noted that the photos were both \\\"courtesy our local potter's colony, where they make diyas every year, paint them right before Diwali and fill the candle wax\\\/ wicks the old-school way.\\\"\"},{\"@type\":\"BreadcrumbList\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/14\\\/festival-of-lights\\\/#breadcrumb\",\"itemListElement\":[{\"@type\":\"ListItem\",\"position\":1,\"name\":\"Home\",\"item\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/\"},{\"@type\":\"ListItem\",\"position\":2,\"name\":\"Festival of Lights\"}]},{\"@type\":\"WebSite\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/#website\",\"url\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/\",\"name\":\"PREE\",\"description\":\"Caribbean. Writing.\",\"publisher\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/#organization\"},\"potentialAction\":[{\"@type\":\"SearchAction\",\"target\":{\"@type\":\"EntryPoint\",\"urlTemplate\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/?s={search_term_string}\"},\"query-input\":{\"@type\":\"PropertyValueSpecification\",\"valueRequired\":true,\"valueName\":\"search_term_string\"}}],\"inLanguage\":\"en-GB\"},{\"@type\":\"Organization\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/#organization\",\"name\":\"PREE\",\"url\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/\",\"logo\":{\"@type\":\"ImageObject\",\"inLanguage\":\"en-GB\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/#\\\/schema\\\/logo\\\/image\\\/\",\"url\":\"https:\\\/\\\/i0.wp.com\\\/preelit.com\\\/wp-content\\\/uploads\\\/2022\\\/01\\\/PREE-logo.png?fit=782%2C414&ssl=1\",\"contentUrl\":\"https:\\\/\\\/i0.wp.com\\\/preelit.com\\\/wp-content\\\/uploads\\\/2022\\\/01\\\/PREE-logo.png?fit=782%2C414&ssl=1\",\"width\":782,\"height\":414,\"caption\":\"PREE\"},\"image\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/#\\\/schema\\\/logo\\\/image\\\/\"},\"sameAs\":[\"https:\\\/\\\/www.instagram.com\\\/preelitmag\\\/\",\"https:\\\/\\\/www.youtube.com\\\/channel\\\/UCuiY23cFTFeSXuap5c8dreg\"]},{\"@type\":\"Person\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/#\\\/schema\\\/person\\\/4518f338ddbd9b8905be3abd07c656f1\",\"name\":\"ap\",\"image\":{\"@type\":\"ImageObject\",\"inLanguage\":\"en-GB\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/secure.gravatar.com\\\/avatar\\\/8f2ffa09d7223d04aa89db2b3cafec3ec5304fb83073abc3d51dd47bfd948c51?s=96&d=identicon&r=g\",\"url\":\"https:\\\/\\\/secure.gravatar.com\\\/avatar\\\/8f2ffa09d7223d04aa89db2b3cafec3ec5304fb83073abc3d51dd47bfd948c51?s=96&d=identicon&r=g\",\"contentUrl\":\"https:\\\/\\\/secure.gravatar.com\\\/avatar\\\/8f2ffa09d7223d04aa89db2b3cafec3ec5304fb83073abc3d51dd47bfd948c51?s=96&d=identicon&r=g\",\"caption\":\"ap\"},\"description\":\"writer, editor and walkabout\",\"sameAs\":[\"http:\\\/\\\/anniepaulose.wordpress.com\"],\"url\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/author\\\/anniepaulose\\\/\"}]}<\/script>\n<!-- \/ Yoast SEO plugin. -->","yoast_head_json":{"title":"Festival of Lights - PREE","robots":{"index":"index","follow":"follow","max-snippet":"max-snippet:-1","max-image-preview":"max-image-preview:large","max-video-preview":"max-video-preview:-1"},"canonical":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/14\/festival-of-lights\/","og_locale":"en_GB","og_type":"article","og_title":"Festival of Lights - PREE","og_description":"She imagined the countless deyas conjuring others into life around the planet as it spun into darkness, wrapped in coils of these little beads of light. She thought of the first Indians brought here almost two hundred years ago, lighting their deyas \u2014 in those days not so different from the lamps their colonial masters used \u2014 under strange skies.","og_url":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/14\/festival-of-lights\/","og_site_name":"PREE","article_published_time":"2026-08-14T19:36:52+00:00","article_modified_time":"2026-08-27T13:40:10+00:00","og_image":[{"width":877,"height":617,"url":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/diyas-3.jpeg","type":"image\/jpeg"}],"author":"ap","twitter_card":"summary_large_image","twitter_misc":{"Written by":"ap","Estimated reading time":"13 minutes"},"schema":{"@context":"https:\/\/schema.org","@graph":[{"@type":"Article","@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/14\/festival-of-lights\/#article","isPartOf":{"@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/14\/festival-of-lights\/"},"author":{"name":"ap","@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/#\/schema\/person\/4518f338ddbd9b8905be3abd07c656f1"},"headline":"Festival of Lights","datePublished":"2026-08-14T19:36:52+00:00","dateModified":"2026-08-27T13:40:10+00:00","mainEntityOfPage":{"@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/14\/festival-of-lights\/"},"wordCount":2906,"commentCount":0,"publisher":{"@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/#organization"},"image":{"@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/14\/festival-of-lights\/#primaryimage"},"thumbnailUrl":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/diyas-3.jpeg?fit=877%2C617&ssl=1","keywords":["PREE 15"],"articleSection":["Fiction","JUDY RAYMOND","PREE 15"],"inLanguage":"en-GB","potentialAction":[{"@type":"CommentAction","name":"Comment","target":["https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/14\/festival-of-lights\/#respond"]}]},{"@type":"WebPage","@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/14\/festival-of-lights\/","url":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/14\/festival-of-lights\/","name":"Festival of Lights - PREE","isPartOf":{"@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/#website"},"primaryImageOfPage":{"@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/14\/festival-of-lights\/#primaryimage"},"image":{"@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/14\/festival-of-lights\/#primaryimage"},"thumbnailUrl":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/diyas-3.jpeg?fit=877%2C617&ssl=1","datePublished":"2026-08-14T19:36:52+00:00","dateModified":"2026-08-27T13:40:10+00:00","breadcrumb":{"@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/14\/festival-of-lights\/#breadcrumb"},"inLanguage":"en-GB","potentialAction":[{"@type":"ReadAction","target":["https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/14\/festival-of-lights\/"]}]},{"@type":"ImageObject","inLanguage":"en-GB","@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/14\/festival-of-lights\/#primaryimage","url":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/diyas-3.jpeg?fit=877%2C617&ssl=1","contentUrl":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/diyas-3.jpeg?fit=877%2C617&ssl=1","width":877,"height":617,"caption":"Photo credit: Nilanjana Roy who noted that the photos were both \"courtesy our local potter's colony, where they make diyas every year, paint them right before Diwali and fill the candle wax\/ wicks the old-school way.\""},{"@type":"BreadcrumbList","@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/14\/festival-of-lights\/#breadcrumb","itemListElement":[{"@type":"ListItem","position":1,"name":"Home","item":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/"},{"@type":"ListItem","position":2,"name":"Festival of Lights"}]},{"@type":"WebSite","@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/#website","url":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/","name":"PREE","description":"Caribbean. Writing.","publisher":{"@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/#organization"},"potentialAction":[{"@type":"SearchAction","target":{"@type":"EntryPoint","urlTemplate":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/?s={search_term_string}"},"query-input":{"@type":"PropertyValueSpecification","valueRequired":true,"valueName":"search_term_string"}}],"inLanguage":"en-GB"},{"@type":"Organization","@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/#organization","name":"PREE","url":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/","logo":{"@type":"ImageObject","inLanguage":"en-GB","@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/#\/schema\/logo\/image\/","url":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2022\/01\/PREE-logo.png?fit=782%2C414&ssl=1","contentUrl":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2022\/01\/PREE-logo.png?fit=782%2C414&ssl=1","width":782,"height":414,"caption":"PREE"},"image":{"@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/#\/schema\/logo\/image\/"},"sameAs":["https:\/\/www.instagram.com\/preelitmag\/","https:\/\/www.youtube.com\/channel\/UCuiY23cFTFeSXuap5c8dreg"]},{"@type":"Person","@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/#\/schema\/person\/4518f338ddbd9b8905be3abd07c656f1","name":"ap","image":{"@type":"ImageObject","inLanguage":"en-GB","@id":"https:\/\/secure.gravatar.com\/avatar\/8f2ffa09d7223d04aa89db2b3cafec3ec5304fb83073abc3d51dd47bfd948c51?s=96&d=identicon&r=g","url":"https:\/\/secure.gravatar.com\/avatar\/8f2ffa09d7223d04aa89db2b3cafec3ec5304fb83073abc3d51dd47bfd948c51?s=96&d=identicon&r=g","contentUrl":"https:\/\/secure.gravatar.com\/avatar\/8f2ffa09d7223d04aa89db2b3cafec3ec5304fb83073abc3d51dd47bfd948c51?s=96&d=identicon&r=g","caption":"ap"},"description":"writer, editor and walkabout","sameAs":["http:\/\/anniepaulose.wordpress.com"],"url":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/author\/anniepaulose\/"}]}},"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_likes_enabled":true,"jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p9tXKW-2ZS","jetpack_featured_media_url":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/diyas-3.jpeg?fit=877%2C617&ssl=1","_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/11524","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/15102494"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=11524"}],"version-history":[{"count":6,"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/11524\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":11533,"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/11524\/revisions\/11533"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/11530"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=11524"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=11524"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=11524"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}},{"id":11518,"date":"2026-08-14T09:01:48","date_gmt":"2026-08-14T14:01:48","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/?p=11518"},"modified":"2026-08-17T13:07:51","modified_gmt":"2026-08-17T18:07:51","slug":"ti-kais-chattel-house","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/14\/ti-kais-chattel-house\/","title":{"rendered":"Ti Kais (Chattel House)"},"content":{"rendered":"<p><strong>\u00a0<\/strong>YAKIMA CUFFY-BAZIL<\/p>\n<p>There are a great many things that a diasporic teenager with a military mother has seen \u2013 but a house sitting atop a Bedford truck at the height of midday traffic was certainly not one of them.\u00a0 Celeste\u2019s belly somersaulted all the way from Fond Cole to Bellevue Chopin as her Aunt drove her silver Corolla behind the truck. The long, loose ringlets of her hair fluttered out the window, their speckles of gold shimmering in the sunlight.\u00a0 She was not used to the narrow city thoroughfares, nor the precipitous roads that curled themselves around the mountain. It was a mystery how the truck in front of them sped along, with her Aunt\u2019s chattel house dancing to and fro as they bent the serpentine corners leading to the village.\u00a0 Behind them was a van carrying furniture and appliances \u2013 a kerosene fridge, twin-size mattress, cooktop burner and floral couch whose upholstery long past its prime.\u00a0 It was a small motorcade of things that were altogether out of place.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cYou alright, chile? You look like you bout to puke,\u201d Aunty Mara regaled.<\/p>\n<p>Celeste nodded and swallowed hard.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cDon\u2019t worry, we almost there.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>Celeste had met Aunty Mara only once before \u2013 the summer she turned five. She barely remembered much about her aunt, but flashes of the chattel house kitchen where Celeste, her mother and Aunt Mara kneaded their laughter into tamarind balls floated across her mind like driftwood. That summer, they used to sit for hours sharing stories while shelling tamarind, adding sugar crystals and a little black pepper in a calabash bowl and rolling the tart treat into tiny orbs. Celeste recalled the joy and the sweat of their labour.<\/p>\n<p>There was sweat today as well \u2013 so much of it that it seemed to soak through her cotton t-shirt and short jeans pants. There was a little bit of something else too. Perhaps fear.\u00a0 Perhaps longing.<\/p>\n<p>Celeste\u2019s mother had been deployed to Iraq. It was her first tour outside of the US, so Celeste was sent to stay with her Aunt until\u2026<\/p>\n<p>The girl was used to moving around as a child. Since she was three, she had rarely lived in one place for over a year. And until today, she had never known that it was an option to carry one\u2019s house along when one moved. There was nowhere in particular she really called home, although there were parts of each of the six houses she and her mom had lived in that came as close to home as she ever thought she would get.<\/p>\n<p>The first house in Philadelphia had a library where Celeste would bury herself in books while her mother trained on base. Their second dwelling in New Jersey was smaller, with paper-thin walls, chipped paint and a leaky kitchen faucet. Her mother often remarked that the house had a lot of \u201ccharacter\u201d.<\/p>\n<p>House number three had bathroom acoustics that rivalled the finest amphitheater, and the Fort Lauderdale weather was excellent for traipsing through the nearby park after school. The fourth had a living room with a fireplace, where Celeste and her mother would roast marshmallows and drink Dominican cocoa during the horrible Chicago winters.<\/p>\n<p>Celeste fell in love with the wrap-around porch overlooking Lake Michigan at their penultimate residence. It was here, at thirteen, that she had met her father for the first (and last) time. He showed up unannounced with a stuffed teddy bear and chocolate-covered almonds. She was allergic to nuts.<\/p>\n<p>At their final home \u2013 a three-bedroom Atlanta townhouse \u2013 Celeste made a haven out of the walk-in bedroom closet where she buried life\u2019s mementos \u2013 the teddy bear from her father, her grandmother\u2019s ring, a picture of her mother holding her as a baby, her journal and the secret letters she had written to the boy in her class with the fresh fade, crooked smile and Jamaican accent.\u00a0 He had shared his headphones with her during Homeroom and complimented her art. She had drawn a picture of a tamarind tree at sunset, the place where the two people she loved most in the world found peace.<\/p>\n<p>The boy had recognised the tree from his homeland. \u201cTamarind, look pon sugar.\u00a0 Come leh we ball up!\u201d he said tersely.<\/p>\n<p>Celeste had smiled coyly. She wondered what the boy was doing now, halfway across the world.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cWe reach!\u201d Aunty Mara announced.<\/p>\n<p>A crowd of people had already gathered, some familiar faces \u2013 Benji (Aunt Mara\u2019s boyfriend) and some neighbours \u2013 and a few unfamiliar faces too. The men were tying rope to the chattel house on the truck to form a pulley, and the convivial women were fanning the flames beneath the coal pot nearby. The village of Bellevue itself was a quiet nook nestled in the contours of a mountain. Apart from the congregation which came to help mount the <em>ti kais<\/em>, Bellevue lacked the rhythmic bickering of neighbours that she had strangely grown accustomed to in Fond Cole, and the blare of sirens that forced her out of bed almost every morning back in Atlanta. The houses were also further apart, each with its own backyard garden decorated with herbs and tea bush and vegetables.\u00a0 In Fond Cole, there were no secrets. The houses were so close, Celeste often overheard the mothers praying for their imprisoned sons, or couples fighting, or the latest village gossip.\u00a0 But here, she would have to get used to the tranquility, and the space.<\/p>\n<p>Celeste clambered out of the vehicle.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cIs that little Cece?\u201d a woman shouted excitedly running toward her with her arms wide open.<\/p>\n<p>As the lady pulled her in, Celeste\u2019s face slammed into the woman\u2019s ample bosom. Her breath smelled like stale tobacco. She was tall and stately, unlike short, petite Aunt Mara.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cI remember you when you were only this tall,\u201d the strange woman said, her arms floating at her hip to demonstrate their acquaintance.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cCeleste, this is your big Aunty, Consuella. She was Granny\u2019s sister.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>Celeste could only muster a half-smile.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cIs she who give me this piece of land to put down some roots. De government give me 30 days to vacate. Can you believe it?\u00a0 After all those years. But God is good \u2013 my <em>ti kais<\/em> going up right here on this plot.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>Celeste didn\u2019t have much of a concept of God, although she prayed to Him every day to protect her mother overseas.\u00a0 He hadn\u2019t answered her when she prayed for her father to stick around, or for her mother to leave the military, or for a place to call home.\u00a0 She was hopeful that this time would be different.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cSo, how you like Bellevue so far?\u201d Consuella inquired.<\/p>\n<p>Celeste looked to the left and to the right. \u201cThere\u2019s no tamarind tree,\u201d she blurted out.<\/p>\n<p>There was silence at first, then the entire contingent burst into laughter.<\/p>\n<div id=\"attachment_11580\" style=\"width: 1034px\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\"><img data-recalc-dims=\"1\" loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" aria-describedby=\"caption-attachment-11580\" data-attachment-id=\"11580\" data-permalink=\"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/14\/ti-kais-chattel-house\/screenshot-2026-08-17-at-7-44-32-am\/\" data-orig-file=\"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/Screenshot-2026-08-17-at-7.44.32-AM.png?fit=2064%2C1000&amp;ssl=1\" data-orig-size=\"2064,1000\" data-comments-opened=\"1\" data-image-meta=\"{&quot;aperture&quot;:&quot;0&quot;,&quot;credit&quot;:&quot;&quot;,&quot;camera&quot;:&quot;&quot;,&quot;caption&quot;:&quot;&quot;,&quot;created_timestamp&quot;:&quot;0&quot;,&quot;copyright&quot;:&quot;&quot;,&quot;focal_length&quot;:&quot;0&quot;,&quot;iso&quot;:&quot;0&quot;,&quot;shutter_speed&quot;:&quot;0&quot;,&quot;title&quot;:&quot;&quot;,&quot;orientation&quot;:&quot;0&quot;,&quot;alt&quot;:&quot;&quot;}\" data-image-title=\"Screenshot 2026-08-17 at 7.44.32\u202fAM\" data-image-description=\"\" data-image-caption=\"&lt;p&gt;Traditional Barbados chattel house https:\/\/barbados.org\/chattel.htm &lt;\/p&gt;\n\" data-large-file=\"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/Screenshot-2026-08-17-at-7.44.32-AM.png?fit=1024%2C496&amp;ssl=1\" class=\"size-large wp-image-11580\" src=\"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/Screenshot-2026-08-17-at-7.44.32-AM.png?resize=1024%2C496&#038;ssl=1\" alt=\"\" width=\"1024\" height=\"496\" srcset=\"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/Screenshot-2026-08-17-at-7.44.32-AM.png?resize=1024%2C496&amp;ssl=1 1024w, https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/Screenshot-2026-08-17-at-7.44.32-AM.png?resize=300%2C145&amp;ssl=1 300w, https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/Screenshot-2026-08-17-at-7.44.32-AM.png?resize=768%2C372&amp;ssl=1 768w, https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/Screenshot-2026-08-17-at-7.44.32-AM.png?resize=1536%2C744&amp;ssl=1 1536w, https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/Screenshot-2026-08-17-at-7.44.32-AM.png?resize=2048%2C992&amp;ssl=1 2048w, https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/Screenshot-2026-08-17-at-7.44.32-AM.png?resize=1080%2C523&amp;ssl=1 1080w, https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/Screenshot-2026-08-17-at-7.44.32-AM.png?resize=600%2C291&amp;ssl=1 600w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1024px) 100vw, 1024px\" \/><p id=\"caption-attachment-11580\" class=\"wp-caption-text\"><a href=\"https:\/\/barbados.org\/chattel.htm\">Traditional Barbados chattel house\u00a0<\/a><\/p><\/div>\n<p>\u201cChile, come learn how to roll dumpling,\u201d Aunt Mara remarked.<\/p>\n<p>The pot was already bubbling on the firetop. Aunt Mara and Consuella sliced green bananas, yam, carrots and potatoes and dropped them into the pot. Then they threw in the lentils, back and neck, followed by some fresh herbs.<\/p>\n<p>Now, it was time for the dumplings. Flour, cornmeal and a little salt. Consuella did the first one \u2013 massaging it between her two palms like tamarind balls. They were perfectly rounded \u2013 soft to the touch, yet stiff enough to keep their form.<\/p>\n<p>It took Celeste several attempts to get hers even as half as good as Consuella\u2019s. She wondered whether her mother would be proud of her dumplings, and if the food in Baghdad smelled this good.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cHow did my parents meet?\u201d Celeste surprised even herself with this question.<\/p>\n<p>Consuella and Mara stared at each other for a moment.<\/p>\n<p>Aunt Mara cleared her throat. \u201cYour mother get a scholarship to study at a college in the States. She met your father there. He was a star soccer player, but a knee injury cost him his spot on de varsity team.\u00a0 When your mother tell him she pregnant, he was ecstatic.\u00a0 De following day, she never heard from him.\u00a0 She found out from the school\u2019s coach that Andrew had drop out of school. She tried calling and texting, but he never answered.\u00a0 Then she had you.\u00a0 After graduation, she enlisted for de military. A few years ago, he contacted her out of de blue and told her he want to be part of your life. Although she had her doubts, she didn\u2019t want to keep you from your father.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cWas that when he showed up on our veranda?\u201d<\/p>\n<p>Mara nodded. Consuella sucked her teeth.<\/p>\n<p>Visions of the flowery chiffon summer dress she had worn that day to meet her father, and the taste of chocolate sticking to the roof her mouth, flooded Celeste\u2019s mind.\u00a0 He didn\u2019t look like the pictures of the decorated athlete her mother had shown her, his head partially bald and his belly protruding over his belt. Overgrown stubble dotted his face \u2013 his skin, the colour of a winter morning. He barely said ten words to her before her throat tightened and her body went limp.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cSo, why did she choose the army, Aunty Mara?\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cShe wanted to become a doctor but couldn\u2019t afford it. De military paid for her medical degree and offered her a steady income.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cOne\u2026 two\u2026 three\u2026 pull!\u201d Benji yelled, his breath laboured as the men hoisted the <em>ti kais<\/em> off the truck and onto the concrete foundation. It took them some time to get the chattel house in place. They had to be careful that the entire wooden structure didn\u2019t fall apart during their maneuvers.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cSoup ready!\u201d Consuella announced, and the men all swarmed around the pot at once.\u00a0 There was slurping and belching and the unnerving sound of silverware against ceramic bowls. Soon, they were finished eating and the booze started to flow.<\/p>\n<p>The women who had been cooking left the fireside and went into the house to help Aunt Mara unpack and move the furniture. They moved meticulously \u2013 an assembly line of people working in tandem. Celeste always thought it took six months to unpack a house.\u00a0 She was used to searching for cups in the bedroom cupboard and digging kitchen towels out of the box under the bathroom sink even after weeks of moving to a new neighbourhood. Life with her mother was haphazard like that; like navigating one\u2019s way through a minefield.<\/p>\n<p>Time slowed down that afternoon, and by sunset the work was complete. The men were playing dominoes outside and the women were taking shots of ginger wine when Aunt Mara\u2019s Blackberry rang. The phone had been a gift from Celeste\u2019s mother.<\/p>\n<p>Celeste watched curiously as her Aunt dropped both the phone and the plastic cup in her hand to the ground. Mara fell to her knees and started bawling. \u201cNot my sister, not my sister. Oh God, please, not Connie.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>Celeste immediately froze. Her heart throbbed. Her throat suddenly went dry. The truth stung like sour tamarind.\u00a0 She knew that her chattel days had finally come to an end.\u00a0 This was home.<\/p>\n\n\t\t<div class='author-shortcodes'>\n\t\t\t<div class='author-inner'>\n\t\t\t\t<div class='author-info'>\n\t\t\tHailing from the Commonwealth of Dominica, the Nature Island of the Caribbean, Yakima Cuffy-Bazil is an award-winning writer, poet and playwright.\u00a0 A lawyer by profession, the prominent themes in her writing are patriotism, West Indian identity, migration, faith and sensuality. Cuffy-Bazil&#8217;s work has been published in adda \u2013 the Commonwealth Writers literary magazine, The Caribbean Writer Volumes 35 and 39, Midnight and Indigo Online Magazine, and the Waitukubuli Writers Anthology of New Dominican Writing. She has been longlisted for the BCLF Elizabeth Nunez Award for Writers in the Caribbean three times, emerging as a finalist in 2020 and 2024. Yakima is a graduate of the University of the West Indies, Cavehill Campus.\n\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"<p>Celeste\u2019s mother had been deployed to Iraq. It was her first tour outside of the US, so Celeste was sent to stay with her Aunt until\u2026<br \/>\nThe girl was used to moving around as a child. Since she was three, she had rarely lived in one place for over a year. And until today, she had never known that it was an option to carry one\u2019s house along when one moved.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":15102494,"featured_media":11580,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_et_pb_use_builder":"","_et_pb_old_content":"","_et_gb_content_width":"","_coblocks_attr":"","_coblocks_dimensions":"","_coblocks_responsive_height":"","_coblocks_accordion_ie_support":"","_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_wpcom_ai_launchpad_first_post":false,"_jetpack_feature_clip_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"{title}\r\n\r\n{excerpt}\r\n\r\n{url}","jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":{"image_generator_settings":{"template":"highway","default_image_id":0,"font":"","enabled":false},"version":2},"_wpas_customize_per_network":false,"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false},"categories":[728594600,1747,728594591],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-11518","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-yakima-cuffy-bazil","category-fiction","category-pree-15","et-has-post-format-content","et_post_format-et-post-format-standard"],"yoast_head":"<!-- This site is optimized with the Yoast SEO plugin v28.5 - https:\/\/yoast.com\/product\/yoast-seo-wordpress\/ -->\n<title>Ti Kais (Chattel House) - PREE<\/title>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/14\/ti-kais-chattel-house\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_GB\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"Ti Kais (Chattel House) - PREE\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"Celeste\u2019s mother had been deployed to Iraq. It was her first tour outside of the US, so Celeste was sent to stay with her Aunt until\u2026 The girl was used to moving around as a child. Since she was three, she had rarely lived in one place for over a year. And until today, she had never known that it was an option to carry one\u2019s house along when one moved.\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:url\" content=\"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/14\/ti-kais-chattel-house\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:site_name\" content=\"PREE\" \/>\n<meta property=\"article:published_time\" content=\"2026-08-14T14:01:48+00:00\" \/>\n<meta property=\"article:modified_time\" content=\"2026-08-17T18:07:51+00:00\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:image\" content=\"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/Screenshot-2026-08-17-at-7.44.32-AM-1024x496.png\" \/>\n\t<meta property=\"og:image:width\" content=\"1024\" \/>\n\t<meta property=\"og:image:height\" content=\"496\" \/>\n\t<meta property=\"og:image:type\" content=\"image\/png\" \/>\n<meta name=\"author\" content=\"ap\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:card\" content=\"summary_large_image\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:label1\" content=\"Written by\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:data1\" content=\"ap\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:label2\" content=\"Estimated reading time\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:data2\" content=\"9 minutes\" \/>\n<script type=\"application\/ld+json\" class=\"yoast-schema-graph\">{\"@context\":\"https:\\\/\\\/schema.org\",\"@graph\":[{\"@type\":\"Article\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/14\\\/ti-kais-chattel-house\\\/#article\",\"isPartOf\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/14\\\/ti-kais-chattel-house\\\/\"},\"author\":{\"name\":\"ap\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/#\\\/schema\\\/person\\\/4518f338ddbd9b8905be3abd07c656f1\"},\"headline\":\"Ti Kais (Chattel House)\",\"datePublished\":\"2026-08-14T14:01:48+00:00\",\"dateModified\":\"2026-08-17T18:07:51+00:00\",\"mainEntityOfPage\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/14\\\/ti-kais-chattel-house\\\/\"},\"wordCount\":1989,\"commentCount\":0,\"publisher\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/#organization\"},\"image\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/14\\\/ti-kais-chattel-house\\\/#primaryimage\"},\"thumbnailUrl\":\"https:\\\/\\\/i0.wp.com\\\/preelit.com\\\/wp-content\\\/uploads\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/Screenshot-2026-08-17-at-7.44.32-AM.png?fit=2064%2C1000&ssl=1\",\"articleSection\":[\"\u00a0YAKIMA CUFFY-BAZIL\",\"Fiction\",\"PREE 15\"],\"inLanguage\":\"en-GB\",\"potentialAction\":[{\"@type\":\"CommentAction\",\"name\":\"Comment\",\"target\":[\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/14\\\/ti-kais-chattel-house\\\/#respond\"]}]},{\"@type\":\"WebPage\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/14\\\/ti-kais-chattel-house\\\/\",\"url\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/14\\\/ti-kais-chattel-house\\\/\",\"name\":\"Ti Kais (Chattel House) - PREE\",\"isPartOf\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/#website\"},\"primaryImageOfPage\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/14\\\/ti-kais-chattel-house\\\/#primaryimage\"},\"image\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/14\\\/ti-kais-chattel-house\\\/#primaryimage\"},\"thumbnailUrl\":\"https:\\\/\\\/i0.wp.com\\\/preelit.com\\\/wp-content\\\/uploads\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/Screenshot-2026-08-17-at-7.44.32-AM.png?fit=2064%2C1000&ssl=1\",\"datePublished\":\"2026-08-14T14:01:48+00:00\",\"dateModified\":\"2026-08-17T18:07:51+00:00\",\"breadcrumb\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/14\\\/ti-kais-chattel-house\\\/#breadcrumb\"},\"inLanguage\":\"en-GB\",\"potentialAction\":[{\"@type\":\"ReadAction\",\"target\":[\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/14\\\/ti-kais-chattel-house\\\/\"]}]},{\"@type\":\"ImageObject\",\"inLanguage\":\"en-GB\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/14\\\/ti-kais-chattel-house\\\/#primaryimage\",\"url\":\"https:\\\/\\\/i0.wp.com\\\/preelit.com\\\/wp-content\\\/uploads\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/Screenshot-2026-08-17-at-7.44.32-AM.png?fit=2064%2C1000&ssl=1\",\"contentUrl\":\"https:\\\/\\\/i0.wp.com\\\/preelit.com\\\/wp-content\\\/uploads\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/Screenshot-2026-08-17-at-7.44.32-AM.png?fit=2064%2C1000&ssl=1\",\"width\":2064,\"height\":1000,\"caption\":\"Traditional Barbados chattel house https:\\\/\\\/barbados.org\\\/chattel.htm\"},{\"@type\":\"BreadcrumbList\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/14\\\/ti-kais-chattel-house\\\/#breadcrumb\",\"itemListElement\":[{\"@type\":\"ListItem\",\"position\":1,\"name\":\"Home\",\"item\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/\"},{\"@type\":\"ListItem\",\"position\":2,\"name\":\"Ti Kais (Chattel House)\"}]},{\"@type\":\"WebSite\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/#website\",\"url\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/\",\"name\":\"PREE\",\"description\":\"Caribbean. Writing.\",\"publisher\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/#organization\"},\"potentialAction\":[{\"@type\":\"SearchAction\",\"target\":{\"@type\":\"EntryPoint\",\"urlTemplate\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/?s={search_term_string}\"},\"query-input\":{\"@type\":\"PropertyValueSpecification\",\"valueRequired\":true,\"valueName\":\"search_term_string\"}}],\"inLanguage\":\"en-GB\"},{\"@type\":\"Organization\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/#organization\",\"name\":\"PREE\",\"url\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/\",\"logo\":{\"@type\":\"ImageObject\",\"inLanguage\":\"en-GB\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/#\\\/schema\\\/logo\\\/image\\\/\",\"url\":\"https:\\\/\\\/i0.wp.com\\\/preelit.com\\\/wp-content\\\/uploads\\\/2022\\\/01\\\/PREE-logo.png?fit=782%2C414&ssl=1\",\"contentUrl\":\"https:\\\/\\\/i0.wp.com\\\/preelit.com\\\/wp-content\\\/uploads\\\/2022\\\/01\\\/PREE-logo.png?fit=782%2C414&ssl=1\",\"width\":782,\"height\":414,\"caption\":\"PREE\"},\"image\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/#\\\/schema\\\/logo\\\/image\\\/\"},\"sameAs\":[\"https:\\\/\\\/www.instagram.com\\\/preelitmag\\\/\",\"https:\\\/\\\/www.youtube.com\\\/channel\\\/UCuiY23cFTFeSXuap5c8dreg\"]},{\"@type\":\"Person\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/#\\\/schema\\\/person\\\/4518f338ddbd9b8905be3abd07c656f1\",\"name\":\"ap\",\"image\":{\"@type\":\"ImageObject\",\"inLanguage\":\"en-GB\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/secure.gravatar.com\\\/avatar\\\/8f2ffa09d7223d04aa89db2b3cafec3ec5304fb83073abc3d51dd47bfd948c51?s=96&d=identicon&r=g\",\"url\":\"https:\\\/\\\/secure.gravatar.com\\\/avatar\\\/8f2ffa09d7223d04aa89db2b3cafec3ec5304fb83073abc3d51dd47bfd948c51?s=96&d=identicon&r=g\",\"contentUrl\":\"https:\\\/\\\/secure.gravatar.com\\\/avatar\\\/8f2ffa09d7223d04aa89db2b3cafec3ec5304fb83073abc3d51dd47bfd948c51?s=96&d=identicon&r=g\",\"caption\":\"ap\"},\"description\":\"writer, editor and walkabout\",\"sameAs\":[\"http:\\\/\\\/anniepaulose.wordpress.com\"],\"url\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/author\\\/anniepaulose\\\/\"}]}<\/script>\n<!-- \/ Yoast SEO plugin. -->","yoast_head_json":{"title":"Ti Kais (Chattel House) - PREE","robots":{"index":"index","follow":"follow","max-snippet":"max-snippet:-1","max-image-preview":"max-image-preview:large","max-video-preview":"max-video-preview:-1"},"canonical":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/14\/ti-kais-chattel-house\/","og_locale":"en_GB","og_type":"article","og_title":"Ti Kais (Chattel House) - PREE","og_description":"Celeste\u2019s mother had been deployed to Iraq. It was her first tour outside of the US, so Celeste was sent to stay with her Aunt until\u2026 The girl was used to moving around as a child. Since she was three, she had rarely lived in one place for over a year. And until today, she had never known that it was an option to carry one\u2019s house along when one moved.","og_url":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/14\/ti-kais-chattel-house\/","og_site_name":"PREE","article_published_time":"2026-08-14T14:01:48+00:00","article_modified_time":"2026-08-17T18:07:51+00:00","og_image":[{"width":1024,"height":496,"url":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/Screenshot-2026-08-17-at-7.44.32-AM-1024x496.png","type":"image\/png"}],"author":"ap","twitter_card":"summary_large_image","twitter_misc":{"Written by":"ap","Estimated reading time":"9 minutes"},"schema":{"@context":"https:\/\/schema.org","@graph":[{"@type":"Article","@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/14\/ti-kais-chattel-house\/#article","isPartOf":{"@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/14\/ti-kais-chattel-house\/"},"author":{"name":"ap","@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/#\/schema\/person\/4518f338ddbd9b8905be3abd07c656f1"},"headline":"Ti Kais (Chattel House)","datePublished":"2026-08-14T14:01:48+00:00","dateModified":"2026-08-17T18:07:51+00:00","mainEntityOfPage":{"@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/14\/ti-kais-chattel-house\/"},"wordCount":1989,"commentCount":0,"publisher":{"@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/#organization"},"image":{"@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/14\/ti-kais-chattel-house\/#primaryimage"},"thumbnailUrl":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/Screenshot-2026-08-17-at-7.44.32-AM.png?fit=2064%2C1000&ssl=1","articleSection":["\u00a0YAKIMA CUFFY-BAZIL","Fiction","PREE 15"],"inLanguage":"en-GB","potentialAction":[{"@type":"CommentAction","name":"Comment","target":["https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/14\/ti-kais-chattel-house\/#respond"]}]},{"@type":"WebPage","@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/14\/ti-kais-chattel-house\/","url":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/14\/ti-kais-chattel-house\/","name":"Ti Kais (Chattel House) - PREE","isPartOf":{"@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/#website"},"primaryImageOfPage":{"@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/14\/ti-kais-chattel-house\/#primaryimage"},"image":{"@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/14\/ti-kais-chattel-house\/#primaryimage"},"thumbnailUrl":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/Screenshot-2026-08-17-at-7.44.32-AM.png?fit=2064%2C1000&ssl=1","datePublished":"2026-08-14T14:01:48+00:00","dateModified":"2026-08-17T18:07:51+00:00","breadcrumb":{"@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/14\/ti-kais-chattel-house\/#breadcrumb"},"inLanguage":"en-GB","potentialAction":[{"@type":"ReadAction","target":["https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/14\/ti-kais-chattel-house\/"]}]},{"@type":"ImageObject","inLanguage":"en-GB","@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/14\/ti-kais-chattel-house\/#primaryimage","url":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/Screenshot-2026-08-17-at-7.44.32-AM.png?fit=2064%2C1000&ssl=1","contentUrl":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/Screenshot-2026-08-17-at-7.44.32-AM.png?fit=2064%2C1000&ssl=1","width":2064,"height":1000,"caption":"Traditional Barbados chattel house https:\/\/barbados.org\/chattel.htm"},{"@type":"BreadcrumbList","@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/14\/ti-kais-chattel-house\/#breadcrumb","itemListElement":[{"@type":"ListItem","position":1,"name":"Home","item":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/"},{"@type":"ListItem","position":2,"name":"Ti Kais (Chattel House)"}]},{"@type":"WebSite","@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/#website","url":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/","name":"PREE","description":"Caribbean. Writing.","publisher":{"@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/#organization"},"potentialAction":[{"@type":"SearchAction","target":{"@type":"EntryPoint","urlTemplate":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/?s={search_term_string}"},"query-input":{"@type":"PropertyValueSpecification","valueRequired":true,"valueName":"search_term_string"}}],"inLanguage":"en-GB"},{"@type":"Organization","@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/#organization","name":"PREE","url":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/","logo":{"@type":"ImageObject","inLanguage":"en-GB","@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/#\/schema\/logo\/image\/","url":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2022\/01\/PREE-logo.png?fit=782%2C414&ssl=1","contentUrl":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2022\/01\/PREE-logo.png?fit=782%2C414&ssl=1","width":782,"height":414,"caption":"PREE"},"image":{"@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/#\/schema\/logo\/image\/"},"sameAs":["https:\/\/www.instagram.com\/preelitmag\/","https:\/\/www.youtube.com\/channel\/UCuiY23cFTFeSXuap5c8dreg"]},{"@type":"Person","@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/#\/schema\/person\/4518f338ddbd9b8905be3abd07c656f1","name":"ap","image":{"@type":"ImageObject","inLanguage":"en-GB","@id":"https:\/\/secure.gravatar.com\/avatar\/8f2ffa09d7223d04aa89db2b3cafec3ec5304fb83073abc3d51dd47bfd948c51?s=96&d=identicon&r=g","url":"https:\/\/secure.gravatar.com\/avatar\/8f2ffa09d7223d04aa89db2b3cafec3ec5304fb83073abc3d51dd47bfd948c51?s=96&d=identicon&r=g","contentUrl":"https:\/\/secure.gravatar.com\/avatar\/8f2ffa09d7223d04aa89db2b3cafec3ec5304fb83073abc3d51dd47bfd948c51?s=96&d=identicon&r=g","caption":"ap"},"description":"writer, editor and walkabout","sameAs":["http:\/\/anniepaulose.wordpress.com"],"url":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/author\/anniepaulose\/"}]}},"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_likes_enabled":true,"jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p9tXKW-2ZM","jetpack_featured_media_url":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/Screenshot-2026-08-17-at-7.44.32-AM.png?fit=2064%2C1000&ssl=1","_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/11518","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/15102494"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=11518"}],"version-history":[{"count":6,"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/11518\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":11581,"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/11518\/revisions\/11581"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/11580"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=11518"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=11518"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=11518"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}},{"id":11511,"date":"2026-08-13T19:40:52","date_gmt":"2026-08-14T00:40:52","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/?p=11511"},"modified":"2026-08-14T19:24:12","modified_gmt":"2026-08-15T00:24:12","slug":"11511","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/13\/11511\/","title":{"rendered":"Ode to the John Crow; Directions to Maroon Cemetery\u00a0"},"content":{"rendered":"<p>TOPHER ALLEN<\/p>\n<p><strong>Ode to the John Crow<\/strong><\/p>\n<p style=\"text-align: right;\"><em>&#8220;I went (to survey the scene in the aftermath of Hurricane Melissa) on Friday and didn\u2019t see any john crows in the air and wondered if anything could be done about getting some in the area to take up some of the carcasses.&#8221;<br \/>\n<\/em>\u2014 Zahra Burton, Jamaican Journalist<\/p>\n<p>There is a particular kind of hunger that follows a hurricane:<br \/>\nnot empty bellies but empty mouths in awe, bare foundations<br \/>\nyearning for their walls, their migrated zinc roofs, refrigerators<br \/>\nnow giant fish caught in the net of mangroves, holes in the ground<br \/>\nvoid of roots, no air in the lungs of fowl.<\/p>\n<p>Goats have stiffened on their sides with teeth grinning,<\/p>\n<p>cows swelling, dogs are curled in cozy corners.<br \/>\nWe mistake mosquitoes for flies, flies arrive without invitation,<br \/>\nfor carcasses have outnumbered kerosene and car tires.<\/p>\n<p>And when the only thing being raised from the dead is a stench,<br \/>\nwe desire your help; we have opened a carrion-caf\u00e9,<br \/>\noffering you a buffet of our unburied. You who glide high and look low,<\/p>\n<p>you who are not Gods but angels of the fetid flesh.<\/p>\n<p>You after whom a pea is named not only for its black and red<br \/>\nhue but for its voodoo use. John Crow,<br \/>\nwe say your name with twisted mouths and knitted brows,<\/p>\n<p>as if your hunger is a sin and survival must be clean.<\/p>\n<p>We speak also of the white one, the rare one, the one that must<br \/>\ndescend and taste first, the one we call the Parson John Crow,<br \/>\nfor even among the despised we must create a pecking order.<br \/>\nWe say it prays before it eats, then the rest wreath around the meat.<\/p>\n<p><strong>Directions to Maroon Cemetery\u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n<p>Take the winding route up the mountain\u2019s windward side.<br \/>\nCareful, it is hilly on the left and precipice on the right;<br \/>\nif a man were to misstep he would grab at air.<br \/>\nFat boulders perch on the cliffs as if waiting<br \/>\nto stage an ambush. The path runs<br \/>\ninto-and-out-of knee-deep river courses.<br \/>\nThe stones are slippery, as though coated<br \/>\nwith coconut oil or pig fat.<\/p>\n<p>There is a stone-structure\u2014roofless and overrun with weeds.<br \/>\nCerasee vines have climbed the walls and clustered<br \/>\nover the windows like wreaths.<br \/>\nWild roots lead into and out of the exposed insides<br \/>\nlike entrails spilling from goat carcass.<\/p>\n<p>Walk until the rustling leaves sound like voices.<br \/>\nLook out for a round patch of flat land, nestled in the mountain\u2019s<br \/>\nbosom. Trees and shrubs are afraid to grow in said spot;<br \/>\na fire of its own mind would rise out of the ground<br \/>\nto devour every brown leaf and snag.<br \/>\nLook, but take nothing from this land.<\/p>\n\n\t\t<div class='author-shortcodes'>\n\t\t\t<div class='author-inner'>\n\t\t\t\t<div class='author-info'>\n\t\t\tTopher Allen is a poet and short story writer from Jamaica. His writing explores grief, mental health, and the layered cultural and historical experiences of his Caribbean upbringing. He is an Obsidian Foundation Fellow and Scottish Poetry Library feature poet. His work appears in the Nashville Review, Montreal Writes, Magma, adda, Poetry London, Ambit among other journals and anthologies. Topher won the Poet Laureate of Jamaica: Louise Bennett-Coverley Prize for Poetry in 2019 and was shortlisted for the London Magazine Poetry Prize in 2025.\n\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"<p>And when the only thing being raised from the dead is a stench,\u00a0<br \/>\nwe desire your help; we have opened a carrion-caf\u00e9,<br \/>\noffering you a buffet of our unburied. You who glide high and look low,<br \/>\nyou who are not Gods but angels of the fetid flesh.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":15102494,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_et_pb_use_builder":"","_et_pb_old_content":"","_et_gb_content_width":"","_coblocks_attr":"","_coblocks_dimensions":"","_coblocks_responsive_height":"","_coblocks_accordion_ie_support":"","_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_wpcom_ai_launchpad_first_post":false,"_jetpack_feature_clip_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"{title}\r\n\r\n{excerpt}\r\n\r\n{url}","jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":{"image_generator_settings":{"template":"highway","default_image_id":0,"font":"","enabled":false},"version":2},"_wpas_customize_per_network":false,"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false},"categories":[422,728594591,247690616],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-11511","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-poetry","category-pree-15","category-topher-allen","et-doesnt-have-format-content","et_post_format-et-post-format-standard"],"yoast_head":"<!-- This site is optimized with the Yoast SEO plugin v28.5 - https:\/\/yoast.com\/product\/yoast-seo-wordpress\/ -->\n<title>Ode to the John Crow; Directions to Maroon Cemetery\u00a0 - PREE<\/title>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/13\/11511\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_GB\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"Ode to the John Crow; Directions to Maroon Cemetery\u00a0 - PREE\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"And when the only thing being raised from the dead is a stench,\u00a0 we desire your help; we have opened a carrion-caf\u00e9, offering you a buffet of our unburied. You who glide high and look low, you who are not Gods but angels of the fetid flesh.\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:url\" content=\"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/13\/11511\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:site_name\" content=\"PREE\" \/>\n<meta property=\"article:published_time\" content=\"2026-08-14T00:40:52+00:00\" \/>\n<meta property=\"article:modified_time\" content=\"2026-08-15T00:24:12+00:00\" \/>\n<meta name=\"author\" content=\"ap\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:card\" content=\"summary_large_image\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:label1\" content=\"Written by\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:data1\" content=\"ap\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:label2\" content=\"Estimated reading time\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:data2\" content=\"3 minutes\" \/>\n<script type=\"application\/ld+json\" class=\"yoast-schema-graph\">{\"@context\":\"https:\\\/\\\/schema.org\",\"@graph\":[{\"@type\":\"Article\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/13\\\/11511\\\/#article\",\"isPartOf\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/13\\\/11511\\\/\"},\"author\":{\"name\":\"ap\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/#\\\/schema\\\/person\\\/4518f338ddbd9b8905be3abd07c656f1\"},\"headline\":\"Ode to the John Crow; Directions to Maroon Cemetery\u00a0\",\"datePublished\":\"2026-08-14T00:40:52+00:00\",\"dateModified\":\"2026-08-15T00:24:12+00:00\",\"mainEntityOfPage\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/13\\\/11511\\\/\"},\"wordCount\":548,\"commentCount\":1,\"publisher\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/#organization\"},\"articleSection\":[\"Poetry\",\"PREE 15\",\"Topher Allen\"],\"inLanguage\":\"en-GB\",\"potentialAction\":[{\"@type\":\"CommentAction\",\"name\":\"Comment\",\"target\":[\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/13\\\/11511\\\/#respond\"]}]},{\"@type\":\"WebPage\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/13\\\/11511\\\/\",\"url\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/13\\\/11511\\\/\",\"name\":\"Ode to the John Crow; Directions to Maroon Cemetery\u00a0 - PREE\",\"isPartOf\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/#website\"},\"datePublished\":\"2026-08-14T00:40:52+00:00\",\"dateModified\":\"2026-08-15T00:24:12+00:00\",\"breadcrumb\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/13\\\/11511\\\/#breadcrumb\"},\"inLanguage\":\"en-GB\",\"potentialAction\":[{\"@type\":\"ReadAction\",\"target\":[\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/13\\\/11511\\\/\"]}]},{\"@type\":\"BreadcrumbList\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/13\\\/11511\\\/#breadcrumb\",\"itemListElement\":[{\"@type\":\"ListItem\",\"position\":1,\"name\":\"Home\",\"item\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/\"},{\"@type\":\"ListItem\",\"position\":2,\"name\":\"Ode to the John Crow; Directions to Maroon Cemetery\u00a0\"}]},{\"@type\":\"WebSite\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/#website\",\"url\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/\",\"name\":\"PREE\",\"description\":\"Caribbean. Writing.\",\"publisher\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/#organization\"},\"potentialAction\":[{\"@type\":\"SearchAction\",\"target\":{\"@type\":\"EntryPoint\",\"urlTemplate\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/?s={search_term_string}\"},\"query-input\":{\"@type\":\"PropertyValueSpecification\",\"valueRequired\":true,\"valueName\":\"search_term_string\"}}],\"inLanguage\":\"en-GB\"},{\"@type\":\"Organization\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/#organization\",\"name\":\"PREE\",\"url\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/\",\"logo\":{\"@type\":\"ImageObject\",\"inLanguage\":\"en-GB\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/#\\\/schema\\\/logo\\\/image\\\/\",\"url\":\"https:\\\/\\\/i0.wp.com\\\/preelit.com\\\/wp-content\\\/uploads\\\/2022\\\/01\\\/PREE-logo.png?fit=782%2C414&ssl=1\",\"contentUrl\":\"https:\\\/\\\/i0.wp.com\\\/preelit.com\\\/wp-content\\\/uploads\\\/2022\\\/01\\\/PREE-logo.png?fit=782%2C414&ssl=1\",\"width\":782,\"height\":414,\"caption\":\"PREE\"},\"image\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/#\\\/schema\\\/logo\\\/image\\\/\"},\"sameAs\":[\"https:\\\/\\\/www.instagram.com\\\/preelitmag\\\/\",\"https:\\\/\\\/www.youtube.com\\\/channel\\\/UCuiY23cFTFeSXuap5c8dreg\"]},{\"@type\":\"Person\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/#\\\/schema\\\/person\\\/4518f338ddbd9b8905be3abd07c656f1\",\"name\":\"ap\",\"image\":{\"@type\":\"ImageObject\",\"inLanguage\":\"en-GB\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/secure.gravatar.com\\\/avatar\\\/8f2ffa09d7223d04aa89db2b3cafec3ec5304fb83073abc3d51dd47bfd948c51?s=96&d=identicon&r=g\",\"url\":\"https:\\\/\\\/secure.gravatar.com\\\/avatar\\\/8f2ffa09d7223d04aa89db2b3cafec3ec5304fb83073abc3d51dd47bfd948c51?s=96&d=identicon&r=g\",\"contentUrl\":\"https:\\\/\\\/secure.gravatar.com\\\/avatar\\\/8f2ffa09d7223d04aa89db2b3cafec3ec5304fb83073abc3d51dd47bfd948c51?s=96&d=identicon&r=g\",\"caption\":\"ap\"},\"description\":\"writer, editor and walkabout\",\"sameAs\":[\"http:\\\/\\\/anniepaulose.wordpress.com\"],\"url\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/author\\\/anniepaulose\\\/\"}]}<\/script>\n<!-- \/ Yoast SEO plugin. -->","yoast_head_json":{"title":"Ode to the John Crow; Directions to Maroon Cemetery\u00a0 - PREE","robots":{"index":"index","follow":"follow","max-snippet":"max-snippet:-1","max-image-preview":"max-image-preview:large","max-video-preview":"max-video-preview:-1"},"canonical":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/13\/11511\/","og_locale":"en_GB","og_type":"article","og_title":"Ode to the John Crow; Directions to Maroon Cemetery\u00a0 - PREE","og_description":"And when the only thing being raised from the dead is a stench,\u00a0 we desire your help; we have opened a carrion-caf\u00e9, offering you a buffet of our unburied. You who glide high and look low, you who are not Gods but angels of the fetid flesh.","og_url":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/13\/11511\/","og_site_name":"PREE","article_published_time":"2026-08-14T00:40:52+00:00","article_modified_time":"2026-08-15T00:24:12+00:00","author":"ap","twitter_card":"summary_large_image","twitter_misc":{"Written by":"ap","Estimated reading time":"3 minutes"},"schema":{"@context":"https:\/\/schema.org","@graph":[{"@type":"Article","@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/13\/11511\/#article","isPartOf":{"@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/13\/11511\/"},"author":{"name":"ap","@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/#\/schema\/person\/4518f338ddbd9b8905be3abd07c656f1"},"headline":"Ode to the John Crow; Directions to Maroon Cemetery\u00a0","datePublished":"2026-08-14T00:40:52+00:00","dateModified":"2026-08-15T00:24:12+00:00","mainEntityOfPage":{"@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/13\/11511\/"},"wordCount":548,"commentCount":1,"publisher":{"@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/#organization"},"articleSection":["Poetry","PREE 15","Topher Allen"],"inLanguage":"en-GB","potentialAction":[{"@type":"CommentAction","name":"Comment","target":["https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/13\/11511\/#respond"]}]},{"@type":"WebPage","@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/13\/11511\/","url":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/13\/11511\/","name":"Ode to the John Crow; Directions to Maroon Cemetery\u00a0 - PREE","isPartOf":{"@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/#website"},"datePublished":"2026-08-14T00:40:52+00:00","dateModified":"2026-08-15T00:24:12+00:00","breadcrumb":{"@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/13\/11511\/#breadcrumb"},"inLanguage":"en-GB","potentialAction":[{"@type":"ReadAction","target":["https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/13\/11511\/"]}]},{"@type":"BreadcrumbList","@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/13\/11511\/#breadcrumb","itemListElement":[{"@type":"ListItem","position":1,"name":"Home","item":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/"},{"@type":"ListItem","position":2,"name":"Ode to the John Crow; Directions to Maroon Cemetery\u00a0"}]},{"@type":"WebSite","@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/#website","url":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/","name":"PREE","description":"Caribbean. Writing.","publisher":{"@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/#organization"},"potentialAction":[{"@type":"SearchAction","target":{"@type":"EntryPoint","urlTemplate":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/?s={search_term_string}"},"query-input":{"@type":"PropertyValueSpecification","valueRequired":true,"valueName":"search_term_string"}}],"inLanguage":"en-GB"},{"@type":"Organization","@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/#organization","name":"PREE","url":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/","logo":{"@type":"ImageObject","inLanguage":"en-GB","@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/#\/schema\/logo\/image\/","url":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2022\/01\/PREE-logo.png?fit=782%2C414&ssl=1","contentUrl":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2022\/01\/PREE-logo.png?fit=782%2C414&ssl=1","width":782,"height":414,"caption":"PREE"},"image":{"@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/#\/schema\/logo\/image\/"},"sameAs":["https:\/\/www.instagram.com\/preelitmag\/","https:\/\/www.youtube.com\/channel\/UCuiY23cFTFeSXuap5c8dreg"]},{"@type":"Person","@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/#\/schema\/person\/4518f338ddbd9b8905be3abd07c656f1","name":"ap","image":{"@type":"ImageObject","inLanguage":"en-GB","@id":"https:\/\/secure.gravatar.com\/avatar\/8f2ffa09d7223d04aa89db2b3cafec3ec5304fb83073abc3d51dd47bfd948c51?s=96&d=identicon&r=g","url":"https:\/\/secure.gravatar.com\/avatar\/8f2ffa09d7223d04aa89db2b3cafec3ec5304fb83073abc3d51dd47bfd948c51?s=96&d=identicon&r=g","contentUrl":"https:\/\/secure.gravatar.com\/avatar\/8f2ffa09d7223d04aa89db2b3cafec3ec5304fb83073abc3d51dd47bfd948c51?s=96&d=identicon&r=g","caption":"ap"},"description":"writer, editor and walkabout","sameAs":["http:\/\/anniepaulose.wordpress.com"],"url":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/author\/anniepaulose\/"}]}},"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_likes_enabled":true,"jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/s9tXKW-11511","jetpack_featured_media_url":"","_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/11511","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/15102494"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=11511"}],"version-history":[{"count":6,"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/11511\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":11517,"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/11511\/revisions\/11517"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=11511"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=11511"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=11511"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}},{"id":11506,"date":"2026-08-13T19:35:00","date_gmt":"2026-08-14T00:35:00","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/?p=11506"},"modified":"2026-08-14T19:42:03","modified_gmt":"2026-08-15T00:42:03","slug":"nothing-moves-in-straight-lines","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/13\/nothing-moves-in-straight-lines\/","title":{"rendered":"NOTHING MOVES IN STRAIGHT LINES"},"content":{"rendered":"<p><span style=\"color: #0000ff;\">SHORTLISTED<\/span><\/p>\n<p>CHIDERA UDOCHUKWU-NDUKA<\/p>\n<p>My father drew spirals in the margins of his notebooks. Small ones at first before larger, looser ones that swept across pages about renal function and cardiac arrest. I found the books after he died, stacked in our basement in Toronto where they had lived for fifteen years, growing mold in the damp Canadian cold.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cWhy spirals, Papa?\u201d I had asked him once, watching him doodle during my childhood in Port Harcourt.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cBecause nothing moves in straight lines,\u201d he said. \u201cNot water, or people or time.&#8221;<\/p>\n<p>He was drawing the Niger Delta without knowing it. From above, our delta is all spirals, creeks branching into smaller creeks, rivers dividing and rejoining, water that cannot decide if it is salt or fresh, so it becomes both. The Omi River where I grew up moved in loops, curving back on itself like a snake eating its tail, like time refusing to be linear. I remember standing at its edge as a child, watching how the current would push forward, then pull back, then push again, never the same water twice, but always the same motion. My father would say the river was breathing, and I believed him because what else do you call that rhythm? That in-out, that give-take, that constant conversation between what comes and what goes?<\/p>\n<p>In Vodou cosmology, which I would not learn about until much later, the spirit Lasir\u00e8n also moves in spirals. She is the lwa of the sea, of mirrors, of women who refuse to be possessed by anything but water. In my father\u2019s Igbo cosmology, Mamiwata does the same. They are not the same goddess, but they understand the same truth: that water never forgets, even when it changes form. When I first read about Lasir\u00e8n in a library in Toronto, I felt a shock of recognition that had nothing to do with appropriation and everything to do with understanding that some truths are universal because water is universal. Displacement is universal. The ocean that connects Haiti to West Africa does not care about our human categories of nation and tribe and separate gods. The ocean is one body, spiraling around the planet, holding all our drowned and all our dreams in the same salt.<\/p>\n<p>This is an essay about spirals and the shape migration takes when you look at it honestly. It is about how Haitian Spiralism taught me to read my own Nigerian displacement and about how you can study a philosophy that emerged from a context completely different from yours and still find yourself reflected in its waters, still hear your own heartbeat in its drums.<\/p>\n<p>The Middle Passage moved in spirals too, though we pretend it was a straight line. We draw it on maps as arrows, Africa to Americas, a clean trajectory of violence. But the ships circled. They moved with currents and trade winds, looped around islands, doubled back for more cargo. And the people stolen, the bodies thrown overboard, they spiraled down through salt water, becoming something else. Becoming diaspora and the bones that Toni Morrison says the Atlantic remembers.<\/p>\n<p>My family&#8217;s migration was different; voluntary, privileged, recent. We left Nigeria in 2008 when I was fifteen. My father got a job at a Toronto hospital. We flew Air France, business class. I cannot compare this to the Middle Passage without being obscene, without erasing the fundamental violence of enslavement and pretending my father\u2019s choice to leave was anything like being stolen. But there is something about leaving that spirals regardless of how you leave. Something about time that refuses to move forward when you are always calculating: what time is it in Lagos? Is Mama awake? Would Chioma be getting ready for church? Would the market be open? Would the rain have started?<\/p>\n<p>I kept two clocks on my phone for years; Toronto time and Lagos time. I told myself that it helped me know when to call home. But really it was evidence of the spiral, proof that I was living in two temporalities at once, that linear time had failed me, that I was trapped in the eternal present of diaspora where you are always here and always there, always now and always then.<\/p>\n<p>In <em>Dezafi<\/em>, Frank\u00e9tienne writes about a zombie who regains consciousness and realizes he has been walking in circles. The zombie cannot escape the plantation because the bokor has drawn a salt line around it. The zombie can see beyond the line, can see freedom but his feet keep tracing the same path. Circle. Spiral. Return. I read <em>Dezafi<\/em> in translation (English from French from Krey\u00f2l, already a spiral) in a Toronto library where I was studying for pharmacy school like my father, continuing the loop. The zombie\u2019s realization felt like looking in a mirror. The salt line felt like the border between Nigeria and everywhere else, between who I was and who I was becoming, between the child who played in the Omi River and the adult who worked in a sterile Canadian hospital mixing compounds that had nothing to do with the herbal remedies my grandmother used to make.<\/p>\n<p>You can leave home. But home keeps pulling you back in concentric circles, tighter and tighter, until you realize you never actually left. You are the salt line; the one who drew the boundary you cannot cross. This is the first lesson of the spiral: that escape is an illusion.\u00a0 You carry home in your body like salt in your blood, like water in your cells. You can fly to Toronto or Paris or New York but you will still dream in Igbo, still cook jollof rice the way your mother taught you, still measure distances in Lagos traffic patterns even when you are standing on Yonge Street watching snow fall like nothing you ever knew in Nigeria.<\/p>\n<p>In 2010, when the earthquake shattered Port-au-Prince, I watched from Toronto. Watched the footage loop and spiral on CNN. The spiral of disaster porn, of Western cameras that only point at Haiti when it is breaking, that reduce a nation to its traumas, that cannot see resilience or beauty or the ordinary joy of people living their lives. I was seventeen, sitting in my parents&#8217; living room, watching Haiti become metaphor, watching it turn into a symbol, watching it disappear beneath the weight of other people&#8217;s narratives. I thought: this is what they would do to Nigeria too, if they cared enough to listen. This is what they do to all of us, reduce us to our disasters, our famines, our wars. Ignoring that Lagos is also laughter and markets bursting with colour and technological innovation and Afrobeat blasting through speakers and weddings that last for days. Forgetting that Port-au-Prince is also art and music and revolution and joy that survives everything thrown at it.<\/p>\n<p>But I also watched something else spiral into focus: Haitian artists insisting on another narrative. Artists who refused the single story of collapse and instead offered polyphony, simultaneity, the past and present speaking at once. I watched Haitian-American writers on social media pushing back against the disaster narrative, sharing poems and paintings and photographs of Haiti before, Haiti during, Haiti after, Haiti always. I started reading hungrily, desperately, trying to understand this place that felt familiar even though I had never been there. Trying to understand why watching Port-au-Prince crumble felt like watching something happen to my own home, my own people, my own self.<\/p>\n<p>Toni Morrison says that water has a memory. That the Atlantic Ocean remembers the Middle Passage, holds the bones of the drowned, carries their stories in its currents. If this is true and I believe it is, then every ocean is connected to every other ocean. The Atlantic that swallowed our ancestors flows into the Gulf of Mexico, into the Caribbean Sea, into the Niger Delta where I was born. Water spirals. It evaporates and rains and runs to the ocean and evaporates again. It is never lost, only transformed. This is what Lasir\u00e8n knows. This is what Mamiwata whispers to the children who sit by rivers, the ones who understand that identity is not a straight line but a spiral that loops through salt and fresh, masculine and feminine, here and there, what we are and what we are told to be.<\/p>\n<p>I am one of those children. I sat by the Omi River for years, hiding from children who called me names I didn&#8217;t yet have the language to defend myself against. The river never asked me to explain myself. The river never demanded I choose. Am I Nigerian or Canadian? The river said: you are water. You are both. You are the place where salt and fresh meet and refuse to separate.<\/p>\n<p>In Toronto, I learned to code-switch so smoothly I didn&#8217;t even notice I was doing it. Nigerian accent at home, Canadian flatness at work, something in between with friends who also lived between worlds. I learned to translate not just between languages but between entire worldviews, explaining to my white Canadian friends why I sent money home every month, explaining to my Nigerian family why I couldn&#8217;t just come back, why the life I&#8217;d built here mattered even if it looked like betrayal to them. Each conversation was a negotiation, each explanation a translation, each moment of switching between worlds a small death and rebirth. I was learning what it meant to be multiple, to refuse singularity, to embody the spiral in my daily life.<\/p>\n<p>The Spiral Jetty, Robert Smithson\u2019s land art in Utah&#8217;s Great Salt Lake, is 1,500 feet long and coils counterclockwise into water so salty nothing can live in it. When the water is low, you can walk the spiral from shore to center. When it floods, the spiral disappears but remains, waiting beneath the surface. I visited it in 2019, drove out to the middle of nowhere to stand at the edge of pink water and walk the spiral. It took fifteen minutes to reach the center, stepping carefully on black rocks that spiraled inward, inward, always inward. And when I got there? Nothing. Just the center of a spiral, more rock, and water lapping at stone. I turned around and walked back out, and the walk out took just as long, the same spiral in reverse, or maybe not reverse, maybe just the other side of the same motion.<\/p>\n<p>I think about this often. I think about structures that exist whether we can see them or not, how diaspora works like this, visible during low tide, submerged during high, but always there, shaping the landscape. Spiralism, as a literary philosophy, builds similar architecture. It refuses the Western insistence on rising action, climax, resolution. Instead, it offers recursive storytelling, fragments that circle back, narrators who contradict themselves because people contradict themselves. It understands that memory does not move in straight lines. That trauma and healing spirals. Return is not about going backward but about approaching the same point from a different angle, changed by the rotation.<\/p>\n<p>When my father died in 2018, I flew back to Port Harcourt for the funeral. The flight path was not direct. Toronto to Paris to Lagos to Port Harcourt. A spiral across the Atlantic, retracing a route my family had flown a decade before, but in reverse. Or not reverse, circular. We keep moving over the same waters, seeing them differently each time. On the plane, I read frank\u00e9tienne&#8217;s <em>Ultravocal<\/em>, a novel that spirals through voices and time periods and parallel realities, that refuses to stay in one narrative lane, that insists life is too complex for linear storytelling. I read it in French, struggling with words I half-remembered from high school, feeling the spiral of language, English to French to Krey\u00f2l to Igbo, all of them circling in my head, none of them quite sufficient for what I was trying to understand about grief and return and what it means to bury your father in soil you left behind.<\/p>\n<p>At the funeral, someone said, &#8220;You have come home.&#8221; I wanted to say: I never left. I am always leaving. These are the same action. But I just nodded and accepted condolences in Igbo and English, switching between them without thinking, performing the spiral of diaspora identity for an audience that didn&#8217;t realize they were watching a performance.<\/p>\n<p>There is a woman in my family, my father&#8217;s sister who left Nigeria for Haiti in the 1980s. She married a Haitian agronomist and moved to a village outside Gona\u00efves. We spoke about her in whispers, like she had joined a cult or died. \u201cShe went to Haiti,\u201d people said, the way you might say, \u201cShe went to the moon.\u201d as if Haiti was unimaginable, impossible, a place so foreign that choosing it over Nigeria was choosing madness over sanity, chaos over order. But I was always fascinated by her. By the idea that you could spiral so far from home that you landed somewhere entirely unexpected. You could be Nigerian and Haitian both. You could refuse the binary of here or there and insist on elsewhere.<\/p>\n<p>After my father&#8217;s funeral, I found her address in his papers. Letters they had exchanged over the years, her handwriting spiraling across pages in a mix of English and French, Igbo words scattered like seeds. I wrote to her. I said: I need to understand how you did it. How you built a life in a place that had nothing to do with where you started. She wrote back within a week. Her letter was short: &#8220;You want to know why I stayed? Because Haiti understood something Nigeria had forgotten. That we are all water people. That the Orisha and the Lwa speak the same language. That displacement is not forgetting, it is remembering in a different key.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>She sent me books. Ren\u00e9 Philoct\u00e8te. Jean-Claude Fignol\u00e9. Lilas Desquiron. I read them in Toronto, in my apartment where Lake Ontario lapped against the shore outside my window, where I could see the CN Tower spiraling into the sky. I learned that Spiralism emerged in the 1960s, during the Duvalier dictatorship, as a form of resistance. When you cannot speak directly, you speak in spirals. You hide meaning in recurrence, in the space between repetitions where change lives. You say the same thing over and over but differently each time, and in those differences, in those variations, the truth emerges like a photograph developing in a darkroom; slowly, gradually, until suddenly you can see what was there all along.<\/p>\n<p>In 2023, I went to Haiti. Not to visit my aunt, she had died the year before, swept away in flooding that the news barely covered because Haiti only matters to Western media when the disaster is spectacular enough. But to see the place she had chosen, the waters she had claimed. Port-au-Prince was nothing like Port Harcourt, and yet. The heat was the same humid weight. The way people moved through streets was the same negotiation between patience and urgency. The sound of French and Krey\u00f2l mixed like Pidgin and Igbo mix, languages layering over each other, creating new meanings in the spaces between words. The smell of the ocean, salt and fish and rot and life was exactly the same. I could have been standing on Bar Beach in Lagos. I could have been anywhere water meets land and people build lives in the margins.<\/p>\n<p>I took a tap-tap to Jacmel, the coastal town where my aunt had spent her final years. The driver played konpa music that reminded me of highlife, the guitar patterns spiraling around each other in ways that felt familiar even though I&#8217;d never heard these specific songs before. In Jacmel, I walked to the beach, black sand, volcanic, strange and stood at the edge watching the water spiral in and out, in and out. A woman was singing nearby, her voice rising and falling with the waves. I didn&#8217;t know the words but I felt I recognized the melody, the call-and-response pattern that exists in every African diasporic music I&#8217;ve ever heard. Later, someone told me it was a song to Lasir\u00e8n, asking her to return what the sea had taken.<\/p>\n<p><img data-recalc-dims=\"1\" loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" data-attachment-id=\"11534\" data-permalink=\"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/13\/nothing-moves-in-straight-lines\/seawater\/\" data-orig-file=\"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/Seawater-.jpg?fit=4032%2C3024&amp;ssl=1\" data-orig-size=\"4032,3024\" data-comments-opened=\"1\" data-image-meta=\"{&quot;aperture&quot;:&quot;1.6&quot;,&quot;credit&quot;:&quot;&quot;,&quot;camera&quot;:&quot;iPhone 13&quot;,&quot;caption&quot;:&quot;&quot;,&quot;created_timestamp&quot;:&quot;1753018926&quot;,&quot;copyright&quot;:&quot;&quot;,&quot;focal_length&quot;:&quot;5.1&quot;,&quot;iso&quot;:&quot;50&quot;,&quot;shutter_speed&quot;:&quot;0.00015398829688944&quot;,&quot;title&quot;:&quot;&quot;,&quot;orientation&quot;:&quot;1&quot;,&quot;alt&quot;:&quot;&quot;}\" data-image-title=\"Seawater\" data-image-description=\"\" data-image-caption=\"\" data-large-file=\"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/Seawater-.jpg?fit=1024%2C768&amp;ssl=1\" class=\"alignnone size-large wp-image-11534\" src=\"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/Seawater-.jpg?resize=1024%2C768&#038;ssl=1\" alt=\"\" width=\"1024\" height=\"768\" srcset=\"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/Seawater-.jpg?resize=1024%2C768&amp;ssl=1 1024w, https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/Seawater-.jpg?resize=300%2C225&amp;ssl=1 300w, https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/Seawater-.jpg?resize=768%2C576&amp;ssl=1 768w, https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/Seawater-.jpg?resize=1536%2C1152&amp;ssl=1 1536w, https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/Seawater-.jpg?resize=2048%2C1536&amp;ssl=1 2048w, https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/Seawater-.jpg?resize=1080%2C810&amp;ssl=1 1080w, https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/Seawater-.jpg?resize=600%2C450&amp;ssl=1 600w, https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/Seawater-.jpg?w=2160&amp;ssl=1 2160w, https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/Seawater-.jpg?w=3240&amp;ssl=1 3240w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1024px) 100vw, 1024px\" \/><\/p>\n<p>I stayed in Jacmel for three days. Each morning, I walked to the beach before sunrise and sat on the black sand, watching the sky turn from purple to pink to blue. The water was different every day, calm one morning, choppy the next, each iteration teaching me something about constancy and change. On the second day, an old woman approached me. She spoke in rapid Krey\u00f2l that I couldn&#8217;t follow, but she gestured at the water, at my skin, at her own, and I understood. She was saying: you belong here too. The ocean connects us. The water remembers. She pressed a small blue bottle into my hand, the kind used in Vodou ceremonies, the kind my aunt must have used and walked away before I could thank her. Inside the bottle was seawater and something else, something that looked like herbs or flowers or maybe just fragments of things the ocean had claimed and was now returning. I kept it. I keep it still, on my desk in Toronto, next to a jar of water from the Omi River, two bodies of water spiraling in glass, refusing to choose between sacred and profane, between there and here.<\/p>\n<p>Sometimes I open both bottles and pour a little of each into my palm. The water from Haiti is clearer, colder; it tastes like the Atlantic, like salt and distance. The water from Nigeria is darker, warmer, it carries the smell of mangroves and diesel, of home as it actually is, not as I remember it. I mix them together in my hand and watch them become one thing, indistinguishable, impossible to separate back into their origins. This is the practice of the spiral. This is what it means to refuse the binary, to insist on both, to become the delta in your own body.<\/p>\n<p>My mother calls sometimes and asks when I&#8217;m coming back. Not to visit but back permanently.\u00a0 Giving up this Toronto life and returning to the proper order of things. I used to get angry at these questions, used to feel the old guilt and defensiveness rising in my throat. But now I understand she&#8217;s asking the wrong question. There is no back. There is only the spiral, the continuous return that is also a departure, the going home that is also a leaving, the arrival that is also a preparation for the next journey.<\/p>\n<p>I write this essay in pieces, in the spaces between work shifts and family obligations, in the early morning before the city wakes up, in the late night when Lake Ontario is invisible but I can hear it breathing against the shore. I write it in English because that&#8217;s the language I think in now, even though the thoughts themselves are shaped by Igbo grammar, by the way my grandmother taught me to see the world and the river that raised me to understand fluidity as a form of strength. I write it for my aunt who drowned in Haiti, for my father who drew spirals without knowing why, for every kid sitting by a river somewhere learning that water doesn&#8217;t judge, that the delta is a sacred space, that you can be salt and fresh at the same time.<\/p>\n<p>I write it because Spiralism taught me that fragmentation is not failure. You don&#8217;t have to make sense in a straight line.\u00a0 You can circle back, contradict yourself, return to the same themes from different angles, and still be telling the truth. That the spiral is not a symbol of being lost, it&#8217;s a map of how we actually move through the world, how we actually live our lives, how we actually become ourselves.<\/p>\n<p>But Spiralism also taught me something about community, about collective survival. The philosophy didn&#8217;t emerge from one person sitting alone with their thoughts. It came from Frank\u00e9tienne, Ren\u00e9 Philoct\u00e8te, and Jean-Claude Fignol\u00e9 talking to each other, arguing, building on each other&#8217;s ideas, creating something together that none of them could have created alone. The spiral is not just individual, it&#8217;s communal. We spiral around each other, our trajectories intersecting and diverging and intersecting again, creating patterns larger than any single person&#8217;s journey.<\/p>\n<p>I see this in the black community in Toronto. We are all spiraling, some of us coming out, some of us going back in for safety, some of us somewhere in between. We are Nigerian and Jamaican and Somali and Ghanaian; we are first generation and second generation and somewhere lost between generations. We gather in someone\u2019s apartment and cook jollof rice three different ways and argue about which country makes it best, and in that argument is love, is recognition, is the understanding that we are all trying to hold onto home while building new homes, that we are all the delta, all the place where waters meet.<\/p>\n<p>One of my friends, Amara, is Haitian-Canadian. She came to Toronto the same year I did, fleeing a different kind of danger and carrying a different kind of grief. We met in 2015, both of us feeling out of place in the sea of whiteness and looking for our people. We became each other\u2019s people. She taught me Krey\u00f2l phrases. I taught her how to tie a wrapper. We made a tradition of meeting every January 12th, the anniversary of the earthquake, to pour libations to the water gods; Lasir\u00e8n and Mamiwata, who we decided were sisters separated by the Middle Passage, still calling to each other across the ocean.<\/p>\n<p>This is what the spiral looks like in practice. Not grand philosophy but small rituals or sweeping statements about diaspora but specific friendships, particular meals, actual water poured into actual earth. The spiral is in how Amara and I text each other in three languages, how we spiral between grief and joy and hold space for each other&#8217;s contradictions. The spiral is in how Nigerian friends and I gather monthly to read poetry and talk about home, how we are all trying to figure out what it means to be both, to refuse the binary, to live in the constant motion of becoming.<\/p>\n<p>Last year, we created a ritual of our own. Once a month, we meet at someone&#8217;s apartment, the location spirals through our community, rotating so everyone hosts eventually and we bring water. Not tap water, but water from home, if we&#8217;ve been back recently. Water from Lake Ontario if we haven&#8217;t. Water we&#8217;ve blessed or prayed over or simply carried with intention. We pour it all into a large bowl and take turns washing our hands in it, speaking our names, all our names, the ones we&#8217;ve chosen and the ones we&#8217;ve inherited, the ones that fit and the ones we are growing into.<\/p>\n<p>Then we cook. Everyone brings something from home, some recipe passed down or half-remembered or improvised from memory and longing. The kitchen becomes a kind of polyphony, multiple languages layering over each other, multiple smells spiraling together. Someone makes pounded yam the way their grandmother taught them. Someone else makes accra, Haitian fritters that taste like home even though none of us were born in Port-au-Prince. Someone brings Nigerian chin chin and someone else brings Jamaican sweet bread and we eat it all together, washing it down with hibiscus tea and ginger beer and sometimes, when someone&#8217;s had a particularly hard week, rum.<\/p>\n<p>After we eat, we tell stories. We do not do the sanitized versions we tell at work or to white friends who want to know about Africa but not really know. We tell the complicated stories, the ones that spiral. Stories about fathers who loved us but didn&#8217;t understand us. Mothers who understood but couldn&#8217;t always protect us. Cities we left because we had to, cities we yearn for even though going back would mean death or exile or slow suffocation.<\/p>\n<p>We tell stories about water, rivers, oceans and the Atlantic that connects us all. We talk about\u00a0 Mamiwata and Lasir\u00e8n and Yemoja and all the water goddesses who remember when the world was more fluid.<\/p>\n<p>These gatherings have become sacred to me in a way I never expected. They are my church, my mosque, my temple. They are where I practice the spiral, where I learn to live in the constant return. In these rooms, with these people, I don&#8217;t have to choose between Nigerian and Canadian, between past and present, between who I was and who I&#8217;m becoming. I can be the delta and I can hold it all.<\/p>\n<p>Amara says that in Vodou, water is the medium through which the lwa enter the physical world. They mount people, possess them, and the person becomes a vessel for the divine. I think about this often. How diaspora is a kind of possession, a haunting we carry in our bodies. I think about how every time I cook my grandmother&#8217;s soup or speak Igbo or pour libations, I am being mounted by history and by all the people who came before me and made it possible for me to exist here, now, alive and free in ways they could never have imagined.<\/p>\n<p>But I am also mounting them. Taking their stories into my body and transforming them, making them new, making them mine. This is the reciprocity of the spiral. This is what it means to be both inheritor and innovator, both tradition and revolution. I carry my ancestors with me, but I also carry the future, all the Nigerian kids who will come after me, who will Google \u201cNigerian&#8221; and find my writing, who will know they are not alone, that the spiral has been here before them and will be here after them.<\/p>\n<p>I thought about my father&#8217;s ashes, scattered in the Omi River and my aunt&#8217;s body, taken by flood waters, returned to the ocean that connects all of us. I remember all the African bodies the Atlantic holds and how water connects us even as it separates us.\u00a0 Spiralism is not just a Haitian philosophy but a diasporic one, a philosophy born from displacement and making beauty from fragmentation. We who are scattered, we who spiral through time and space and language, we who cannot go back but cannot move forward, we who exist in the eternal return, we understand what frank\u00e9tienne meant when he said the spiral is the essential form of existence. We are living proof of it. We are the spiral made flesh.<\/p>\n<p>I am writing this essay in my Toronto apartment. Outside, Lake Ontario is frozen, a vast white sheet that looks nothing like water but is water nonetheless, just transformed. Snow spirals down from a gray sky. In six months, the ice will melt and the water will move again, flowing east toward the Atlantic, eventually reaching the Caribbean, eventually touching the shores of Haiti and Nigeria both. My father was right. Nothing moves in straight lines. Not water, time, people, stories, grief, healing, or homecoming. Spiralism taught me to stop trying to force linearity onto my life and stop apologizing for not having a clear trajectory from there to here, from then to now. It taught me to understand that I can be Nigerian and Canadian, my father\u2019s daughter and my own person, all at once, without contradiction.<\/p>\n<p>The spiral teaches me something new every day. It teaches me that I can miss Nigeria while loving Toronto. I can grieve my father while celebrating the life he gave me.\u00a0 I can study Haitian philosophy while remaining rooted in my own displacement. The spiral says: you don&#8217;t have to choose. You can be the delta where contradictions meet and flow together, where opposites refuse to oppose, where multiplicity is not confusion but clarity.<\/p>\n<p>The spiral does not choose between center and circumference. It is always both, always moving outward while circling back, always approaching the same point from a new angle. This is what migration is. This is how we survive, not by going forward or backward, but by spiraling, by returning transformed, by letting the salt water and fresh water meet in our bodies and refusing to choose which one we are. We are the delta. We are the spiral. The spiral, as frank\u00e9tienne says, is the essential form of existence.<\/p>\n<p><em>Note: An earlier version of this essay was published on the platform <a href=\"https:\/\/liminallit.org\/\">Liminal Lit<\/a> \u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n\n\t\t<div class='author-shortcodes'>\n\t\t\t<div class='author-inner'>\n\t\t\t\t<div class='author-info'>\n\t\t\tChidera Udochukwu-Nduka is an award-winning Nigerian-Igbo writer, screenwriter, and creative professional. She won First Prize in the 2025 Iskanchi Magazine Prize and the Letters Category of the 2025 LIGHT Magazine Contest, and was runner-up in the 2024 South African Bloody Parchment Horrorfest. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Lemonwood Quarterly, JayLit, Blanket Gravity, Isele Magazine, Midnight &amp; Indigo, Brittle Paper, Harriet\u2019s House, Carmalaky, The Lagos Review, and other literary publications and anthologies.\n\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"<p>This is an essay about spirals and the shape migration takes when you look at it honestly. It is about how Haitian Spiralism taught me to read my own Nigerian displacement and about how you can study a philosophy that emerged from a context completely different from yours and still find yourself reflected in its waters, still hear your own heartbeat in its drums.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":15102494,"featured_media":11534,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_et_pb_use_builder":"","_et_pb_old_content":"","_et_gb_content_width":"","_coblocks_attr":"","_coblocks_dimensions":"","_coblocks_responsive_height":"","_coblocks_accordion_ie_support":"","_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_wpcom_ai_launchpad_first_post":false,"_jetpack_feature_clip_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"{title}\r\n\r\n{excerpt}\r\n\r\n{url}","jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":{"image_generator_settings":{"template":"highway","default_image_id":0,"font":"","enabled":false},"version":2},"_wpas_customize_per_network":false,"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false},"categories":[728594602,3748,728594591,728594599],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-11506","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-chidera-udochukwu-nduka","category-non-fiction","category-pree-15","category-shortlisted","et-has-post-format-content","et_post_format-et-post-format-standard"],"yoast_head":"<!-- This site is optimized with the Yoast SEO plugin v28.5 - https:\/\/yoast.com\/product\/yoast-seo-wordpress\/ -->\n<title>NOTHING MOVES IN STRAIGHT LINES - PREE<\/title>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/13\/nothing-moves-in-straight-lines\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_GB\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"NOTHING MOVES IN STRAIGHT LINES - PREE\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"This is an essay about spirals and the shape migration takes when you look at it honestly. It is about how Haitian Spiralism taught me to read my own Nigerian displacement and about how you can study a philosophy that emerged from a context completely different from yours and still find yourself reflected in its waters, still hear your own heartbeat in its drums.\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:url\" content=\"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/13\/nothing-moves-in-straight-lines\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:site_name\" content=\"PREE\" \/>\n<meta property=\"article:published_time\" content=\"2026-08-14T00:35:00+00:00\" \/>\n<meta property=\"article:modified_time\" content=\"2026-08-15T00:42:03+00:00\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:image\" content=\"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/Seawater--1024x768.jpg\" \/>\n\t<meta property=\"og:image:width\" content=\"1024\" \/>\n\t<meta property=\"og:image:height\" content=\"768\" \/>\n\t<meta property=\"og:image:type\" content=\"image\/jpeg\" \/>\n<meta name=\"author\" content=\"ap\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:card\" content=\"summary_large_image\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:label1\" content=\"Written by\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:data1\" content=\"ap\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:label2\" content=\"Estimated reading time\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:data2\" content=\"22 minutes\" \/>\n<script type=\"application\/ld+json\" class=\"yoast-schema-graph\">{\"@context\":\"https:\\\/\\\/schema.org\",\"@graph\":[{\"@type\":\"Article\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/13\\\/nothing-moves-in-straight-lines\\\/#article\",\"isPartOf\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/13\\\/nothing-moves-in-straight-lines\\\/\"},\"author\":{\"name\":\"ap\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/#\\\/schema\\\/person\\\/4518f338ddbd9b8905be3abd07c656f1\"},\"headline\":\"NOTHING MOVES IN STRAIGHT LINES\",\"datePublished\":\"2026-08-14T00:35:00+00:00\",\"dateModified\":\"2026-08-15T00:42:03+00:00\",\"mainEntityOfPage\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/13\\\/nothing-moves-in-straight-lines\\\/\"},\"wordCount\":4887,\"commentCount\":1,\"publisher\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/#organization\"},\"image\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/13\\\/nothing-moves-in-straight-lines\\\/#primaryimage\"},\"thumbnailUrl\":\"https:\\\/\\\/i0.wp.com\\\/preelit.com\\\/wp-content\\\/uploads\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/Seawater-.jpg?fit=4032%2C3024&ssl=1\",\"articleSection\":[\"CHIDERA UDOCHUKWU-NDUKA\",\"Non Fiction\",\"PREE 15\",\"SHORTLISTED\"],\"inLanguage\":\"en-GB\",\"potentialAction\":[{\"@type\":\"CommentAction\",\"name\":\"Comment\",\"target\":[\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/13\\\/nothing-moves-in-straight-lines\\\/#respond\"]}]},{\"@type\":\"WebPage\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/13\\\/nothing-moves-in-straight-lines\\\/\",\"url\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/13\\\/nothing-moves-in-straight-lines\\\/\",\"name\":\"NOTHING MOVES IN STRAIGHT LINES - PREE\",\"isPartOf\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/#website\"},\"primaryImageOfPage\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/13\\\/nothing-moves-in-straight-lines\\\/#primaryimage\"},\"image\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/13\\\/nothing-moves-in-straight-lines\\\/#primaryimage\"},\"thumbnailUrl\":\"https:\\\/\\\/i0.wp.com\\\/preelit.com\\\/wp-content\\\/uploads\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/Seawater-.jpg?fit=4032%2C3024&ssl=1\",\"datePublished\":\"2026-08-14T00:35:00+00:00\",\"dateModified\":\"2026-08-15T00:42:03+00:00\",\"breadcrumb\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/13\\\/nothing-moves-in-straight-lines\\\/#breadcrumb\"},\"inLanguage\":\"en-GB\",\"potentialAction\":[{\"@type\":\"ReadAction\",\"target\":[\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/13\\\/nothing-moves-in-straight-lines\\\/\"]}]},{\"@type\":\"ImageObject\",\"inLanguage\":\"en-GB\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/13\\\/nothing-moves-in-straight-lines\\\/#primaryimage\",\"url\":\"https:\\\/\\\/i0.wp.com\\\/preelit.com\\\/wp-content\\\/uploads\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/Seawater-.jpg?fit=4032%2C3024&ssl=1\",\"contentUrl\":\"https:\\\/\\\/i0.wp.com\\\/preelit.com\\\/wp-content\\\/uploads\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/Seawater-.jpg?fit=4032%2C3024&ssl=1\",\"width\":4032,\"height\":3024},{\"@type\":\"BreadcrumbList\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/13\\\/nothing-moves-in-straight-lines\\\/#breadcrumb\",\"itemListElement\":[{\"@type\":\"ListItem\",\"position\":1,\"name\":\"Home\",\"item\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/\"},{\"@type\":\"ListItem\",\"position\":2,\"name\":\"NOTHING MOVES IN STRAIGHT LINES\"}]},{\"@type\":\"WebSite\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/#website\",\"url\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/\",\"name\":\"PREE\",\"description\":\"Caribbean. Writing.\",\"publisher\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/#organization\"},\"potentialAction\":[{\"@type\":\"SearchAction\",\"target\":{\"@type\":\"EntryPoint\",\"urlTemplate\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/?s={search_term_string}\"},\"query-input\":{\"@type\":\"PropertyValueSpecification\",\"valueRequired\":true,\"valueName\":\"search_term_string\"}}],\"inLanguage\":\"en-GB\"},{\"@type\":\"Organization\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/#organization\",\"name\":\"PREE\",\"url\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/\",\"logo\":{\"@type\":\"ImageObject\",\"inLanguage\":\"en-GB\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/#\\\/schema\\\/logo\\\/image\\\/\",\"url\":\"https:\\\/\\\/i0.wp.com\\\/preelit.com\\\/wp-content\\\/uploads\\\/2022\\\/01\\\/PREE-logo.png?fit=782%2C414&ssl=1\",\"contentUrl\":\"https:\\\/\\\/i0.wp.com\\\/preelit.com\\\/wp-content\\\/uploads\\\/2022\\\/01\\\/PREE-logo.png?fit=782%2C414&ssl=1\",\"width\":782,\"height\":414,\"caption\":\"PREE\"},\"image\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/#\\\/schema\\\/logo\\\/image\\\/\"},\"sameAs\":[\"https:\\\/\\\/www.instagram.com\\\/preelitmag\\\/\",\"https:\\\/\\\/www.youtube.com\\\/channel\\\/UCuiY23cFTFeSXuap5c8dreg\"]},{\"@type\":\"Person\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/#\\\/schema\\\/person\\\/4518f338ddbd9b8905be3abd07c656f1\",\"name\":\"ap\",\"image\":{\"@type\":\"ImageObject\",\"inLanguage\":\"en-GB\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/secure.gravatar.com\\\/avatar\\\/8f2ffa09d7223d04aa89db2b3cafec3ec5304fb83073abc3d51dd47bfd948c51?s=96&d=identicon&r=g\",\"url\":\"https:\\\/\\\/secure.gravatar.com\\\/avatar\\\/8f2ffa09d7223d04aa89db2b3cafec3ec5304fb83073abc3d51dd47bfd948c51?s=96&d=identicon&r=g\",\"contentUrl\":\"https:\\\/\\\/secure.gravatar.com\\\/avatar\\\/8f2ffa09d7223d04aa89db2b3cafec3ec5304fb83073abc3d51dd47bfd948c51?s=96&d=identicon&r=g\",\"caption\":\"ap\"},\"description\":\"writer, editor and walkabout\",\"sameAs\":[\"http:\\\/\\\/anniepaulose.wordpress.com\"],\"url\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/author\\\/anniepaulose\\\/\"}]}<\/script>\n<!-- \/ Yoast SEO plugin. -->","yoast_head_json":{"title":"NOTHING MOVES IN STRAIGHT LINES - PREE","robots":{"index":"index","follow":"follow","max-snippet":"max-snippet:-1","max-image-preview":"max-image-preview:large","max-video-preview":"max-video-preview:-1"},"canonical":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/13\/nothing-moves-in-straight-lines\/","og_locale":"en_GB","og_type":"article","og_title":"NOTHING MOVES IN STRAIGHT LINES - PREE","og_description":"This is an essay about spirals and the shape migration takes when you look at it honestly. It is about how Haitian Spiralism taught me to read my own Nigerian displacement and about how you can study a philosophy that emerged from a context completely different from yours and still find yourself reflected in its waters, still hear your own heartbeat in its drums.","og_url":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/13\/nothing-moves-in-straight-lines\/","og_site_name":"PREE","article_published_time":"2026-08-14T00:35:00+00:00","article_modified_time":"2026-08-15T00:42:03+00:00","og_image":[{"width":1024,"height":768,"url":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/Seawater--1024x768.jpg","type":"image\/jpeg"}],"author":"ap","twitter_card":"summary_large_image","twitter_misc":{"Written by":"ap","Estimated reading time":"22 minutes"},"schema":{"@context":"https:\/\/schema.org","@graph":[{"@type":"Article","@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/13\/nothing-moves-in-straight-lines\/#article","isPartOf":{"@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/13\/nothing-moves-in-straight-lines\/"},"author":{"name":"ap","@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/#\/schema\/person\/4518f338ddbd9b8905be3abd07c656f1"},"headline":"NOTHING MOVES IN STRAIGHT LINES","datePublished":"2026-08-14T00:35:00+00:00","dateModified":"2026-08-15T00:42:03+00:00","mainEntityOfPage":{"@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/13\/nothing-moves-in-straight-lines\/"},"wordCount":4887,"commentCount":1,"publisher":{"@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/#organization"},"image":{"@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/13\/nothing-moves-in-straight-lines\/#primaryimage"},"thumbnailUrl":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/Seawater-.jpg?fit=4032%2C3024&ssl=1","articleSection":["CHIDERA UDOCHUKWU-NDUKA","Non Fiction","PREE 15","SHORTLISTED"],"inLanguage":"en-GB","potentialAction":[{"@type":"CommentAction","name":"Comment","target":["https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/13\/nothing-moves-in-straight-lines\/#respond"]}]},{"@type":"WebPage","@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/13\/nothing-moves-in-straight-lines\/","url":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/13\/nothing-moves-in-straight-lines\/","name":"NOTHING MOVES IN STRAIGHT LINES - PREE","isPartOf":{"@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/#website"},"primaryImageOfPage":{"@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/13\/nothing-moves-in-straight-lines\/#primaryimage"},"image":{"@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/13\/nothing-moves-in-straight-lines\/#primaryimage"},"thumbnailUrl":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/Seawater-.jpg?fit=4032%2C3024&ssl=1","datePublished":"2026-08-14T00:35:00+00:00","dateModified":"2026-08-15T00:42:03+00:00","breadcrumb":{"@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/13\/nothing-moves-in-straight-lines\/#breadcrumb"},"inLanguage":"en-GB","potentialAction":[{"@type":"ReadAction","target":["https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/13\/nothing-moves-in-straight-lines\/"]}]},{"@type":"ImageObject","inLanguage":"en-GB","@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/13\/nothing-moves-in-straight-lines\/#primaryimage","url":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/Seawater-.jpg?fit=4032%2C3024&ssl=1","contentUrl":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/Seawater-.jpg?fit=4032%2C3024&ssl=1","width":4032,"height":3024},{"@type":"BreadcrumbList","@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/13\/nothing-moves-in-straight-lines\/#breadcrumb","itemListElement":[{"@type":"ListItem","position":1,"name":"Home","item":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/"},{"@type":"ListItem","position":2,"name":"NOTHING MOVES IN STRAIGHT LINES"}]},{"@type":"WebSite","@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/#website","url":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/","name":"PREE","description":"Caribbean. Writing.","publisher":{"@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/#organization"},"potentialAction":[{"@type":"SearchAction","target":{"@type":"EntryPoint","urlTemplate":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/?s={search_term_string}"},"query-input":{"@type":"PropertyValueSpecification","valueRequired":true,"valueName":"search_term_string"}}],"inLanguage":"en-GB"},{"@type":"Organization","@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/#organization","name":"PREE","url":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/","logo":{"@type":"ImageObject","inLanguage":"en-GB","@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/#\/schema\/logo\/image\/","url":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2022\/01\/PREE-logo.png?fit=782%2C414&ssl=1","contentUrl":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2022\/01\/PREE-logo.png?fit=782%2C414&ssl=1","width":782,"height":414,"caption":"PREE"},"image":{"@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/#\/schema\/logo\/image\/"},"sameAs":["https:\/\/www.instagram.com\/preelitmag\/","https:\/\/www.youtube.com\/channel\/UCuiY23cFTFeSXuap5c8dreg"]},{"@type":"Person","@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/#\/schema\/person\/4518f338ddbd9b8905be3abd07c656f1","name":"ap","image":{"@type":"ImageObject","inLanguage":"en-GB","@id":"https:\/\/secure.gravatar.com\/avatar\/8f2ffa09d7223d04aa89db2b3cafec3ec5304fb83073abc3d51dd47bfd948c51?s=96&d=identicon&r=g","url":"https:\/\/secure.gravatar.com\/avatar\/8f2ffa09d7223d04aa89db2b3cafec3ec5304fb83073abc3d51dd47bfd948c51?s=96&d=identicon&r=g","contentUrl":"https:\/\/secure.gravatar.com\/avatar\/8f2ffa09d7223d04aa89db2b3cafec3ec5304fb83073abc3d51dd47bfd948c51?s=96&d=identicon&r=g","caption":"ap"},"description":"writer, editor and walkabout","sameAs":["http:\/\/anniepaulose.wordpress.com"],"url":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/author\/anniepaulose\/"}]}},"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_likes_enabled":true,"jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p9tXKW-2ZA","jetpack_featured_media_url":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/Seawater-.jpg?fit=4032%2C3024&ssl=1","_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/11506","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/15102494"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=11506"}],"version-history":[{"count":6,"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/11506\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":11536,"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/11506\/revisions\/11536"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/11534"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=11506"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=11506"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=11506"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}},{"id":11478,"date":"2026-08-12T14:03:52","date_gmt":"2026-08-12T19:03:52","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/?p=11478"},"modified":"2026-08-12T19:02:00","modified_gmt":"2026-08-13T00:02:00","slug":"brackish","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/12\/brackish\/","title":{"rendered":"Brackish"},"content":{"rendered":"<p><span style=\"color: #0000ff;\">SHORTLISTED<\/span><\/p>\n<p>CHRISTIAN EMECHETA<\/p>\n<p>I never thought I would leave Sainte-Lucie. Not because I loved it so much, though I did. But because I believed, the way a child believes the sun will rise, that the island would always be there. That the sea would stay where it was. That the coconut palms would keep standing after every storm, the way they always had.<\/p>\n<p>I was wrong about all of it.<\/p>\n<p>I would have loved other names, but my parents chose to name me Kael; Kael Prospere in full. I am writing this from a shipping container in Rotterdam, six thousand miles from the place I was born. The container has been converted into housing. They call it \u201ctransitional accommodation.\u201d Forty of us live in a row of these steel boxes on a gravel lot behind a logistics warehouse. The Dutch are polite about it. They bring us blankets when it rains, which is always. But you can see it in their eyes. They are waiting for us to leave.<\/p>\n<p>We have nowhere to go.<\/p>\n<p>The first hurricane that really shook us was not the worst. That came later. But it was the one that cracked the feeling of safety I had carried my whole life, the way you carry a dream in your heart without any doubt until life forces you to have a rethink.<\/p>\n<p>I was twenty-three. My wife, Solange, was pregnant with our second child. Our son, Matis, was three years old, running circles around my mother&#8217;s kitchen in Soufriere, chasing the ginger cat that lived under the porch. My father sat on the gallery, listening to the weather report on a radio held together with electrical tape. He turned the volume up when the broadcaster&#8217;s voice changed pitch.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cCategory four,\u201d my father said. He looked at me the way he always did when something serious was coming, not with fear but with a kind of tired expression. Like he had been expecting this his whole life.<\/p>\n<p>We boarded the windows, filled every bucket and bottle we could find, and moved the mattresses to the innermost room, away from the glass. Solange held Matis against her belly, singing quietly to keep him calm. Her voice was the steadiest thing in that house.<\/p>\n<p>The hurricane hit at two in the morning. I will not describe the sound because no words I have can do it justice. I will only say that when the roof peeled away from the kitchen, it sounded like the earth was tearing a page out of its own story.<\/p>\n<p>We survived. Everyone in my family survived. But when the sun came up and I walked outside, the village I knew was gone. Not damaged. Gone. The fishing boats that had lined the shore were scattered across the road like toys flung by a careless child. The school where I had learned to read was a pile of zinc sheets and broken concrete, exercise books soaked to pulp in the mud. Mangoes lay everywhere, ripped from trees by the wind, already stinking in the heat. Dogs wandered through the rubble, sniffing for things they might recognize. A refrigerator sat upright in the middle of the road, door hanging open, as if someone had placed it there on purpose. The breadfruit tree my neighbor planted when she was a girl lay on its side, roots pointing to the sky like limbs reaching for something beyond their reach.<\/p>\n<p>My father stood in the yard, hands on his hips, surveying the wreckage. He did not cry. He never cried. He just said, \u201cWell. We will build again.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>And we did. For a while.<\/p>\n<p style=\"text-align: center;\">***<\/p>\n<p>The second hurricane came fourteen months later. And the third, eight months after that. Each one a little stronger. Each recovery a little slower. The insurance companies stopped covering us after the second. The government in Castries sent aid, but it was never enough, and it always came with conditions. Loans from international banks. Agreements with foreign contractors. Promises we could not keep.<\/p>\n<p>A man from an outfit called Meridian Atlantic showed up in Soufriere about six weeks after the third storm. He wore a clean linen shirt and spoke with an American accent softened by years of living abroad. He had a proposal, he said. Meridian was a \u201cclimate resilience company.\u201d They wanted to help rebuild our coastline. Stabilize the hillsides. Install desalination units. All we had to do was sign a partnership agreement.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cWhat kind of partnership?\u201d my father asked, squinting at the glossy folder the man had placed on our wooden table.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cLong-term infrastructure investment,\u201d the man said. He smiled like a dentist about to pull a tooth. \u201cWe will handle the engineering while your community provides the workforce. In return, Meridian manages the coastal zone for a period of fifty years.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>Fifty years. My father laughed. Not because it was funny, but because he understood something I hadn&#8217;t yet. That when a rich man offers to save your house, he usually plans to keep it.<\/p>\n<p>We signed anyway. What choice did we have? The hillside above the village was sliding. The freshwater spring had gone brackish. Matis had a cough that would not quit, and Solange was due any day. We needed clean water. We needed walls.<\/p>\n<p>Meridian moved fast. Within weeks, heavy machinery rolled through the village. They poured concrete seawalls along the beach. They drilled wells and installed filtration systems branded with their logo. They brought in foreign engineers who walked around with tablets, measuring everything, speaking to each other in a language of acronyms and projections that none of us understood.<\/p>\n<p>My daughter, Sylvie, was born in a Meridian field clinic. The doctor was kind. She wrapped Sylvie in a blanket printed with the company logo and handed her to Solange, who laughed at the absurdity of it. Our daughter, branded at birth.<\/p>\n<p>For a while, things improved. The seawalls held. We drank clean water, and Meridian hired local men for construction and maintenance. I worked on a desalination crew, twelve hours a day, pulling salt from the sea so the pumps could push fresh water uphill to the holding tanks. The pay was modest but steady. Matis started school again. My mother planted a new garden.<\/p>\n<p>But the terms of the agreement revealed themselves slowly, the way rust reveals itself on a nail. Meridian owned the water infrastructure. They set the rates. When the village council objected to a price increase, a company representative reminded them, calmly, that the contract granted Meridian \u201coperational authority over all climate-adaptive systems within the designated zone.\u201d The designated zone, it turned out, covered the entire parish.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cYou can&#8217;t own the rain,\u201d my father said at a council meeting, his voice rising above the murmurs.<\/p>\n<p>The Meridian man tilted his head, as though considering a child&#8217;s question. \u201cWe don&#8217;t own the rain, Mr. Prospere. We own where it gathers.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>The geopolitics arrived quietly, the way termites arrive. You do not notice them until the floor gives way.<\/p>\n<p>A Chinese consortium offered to build a deep-water port on the northern coast. The Americans objected. They sent diplomats who made speeches about sovereignty and partnership. The British sent consultants who produced reports. The French sent nothing but opinions. Meanwhile, the sea kept rising, and the storms kept coming, and no one who sat in those air-conditioned conference rooms ever had to gut a flooded house at four in the morning.<\/p>\n<p>Sainte-Lucie was caught in the middle of something enormous, a game played by giants who did not care whether we drowned. Our prime minister flew to New York, to London, to Beijing, to Brussels, hat in hand each time, asking for money, for attention, for something more than speeches about \u201cclimate justice\u201d that never translated into action.<\/p>\n<p>I watched the news on my phone in the break room at the desalination plant. Delegates from small island nations stood at podiums and pleaded. They showed photographs of submerged villages, bleached coral, children drinking from contaminated wells. The cameras cut away to a panel of experts discussing carbon credits.<\/p>\n<p>My coworker, a big man from Dominica named Faustin, leaned over my shoulder and grunted. \u201cThey talk about us like we&#8217;re already dead.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>He was right. The world had already written us off. We were case studies. Statistics in a report. The canary in the coal mine, except no one planned to leave the mine.<\/p>\n<p>Meridian&#8217;s contract had a clause about labor mobility. If a worker demonstrated \u201cexceptional value,\u201d they could be transferred to a company project elsewhere, which came with better pay, housing and education for dependents. All you had to do was agree to a five-year placement and sign away your right to terminate.<\/p>\n<p>The human resources woman who pitched it to me had clearly done this many times. She sat across from me in the plant&#8217;s conference room and ran through the terms like a flight attendant describing emergency exits.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cYour family stays here. Full benefits. Meridian covers housing, schooling, medical. You go to the Netherlands. We have a major desalination and flood management project in the Rhine-Meuse delta. Your experience is exactly what they need.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cAnd if I say no?\u201d<\/p>\n<p>She paused. Not long. Just enough for me to understand.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cYour current position is being restructured. Budget reallocation. I&#8217;m sure you understand.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>I understood perfectly. They were squeezing us. The same way they are squeezing profit out of our dire condition. They are applying pressure until we lose our voice.<\/p>\n<p>I went home and told Solange. She sat on the edge of our bed, nursing Sylvie, and listened without interrupting. When I finished, she looked at me with those calm eyes that had held me together through three hurricanes.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cHow long?\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cFive years.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cAnd what happens to us if you don&#8217;t go?\u201d<\/p>\n<p>We both knew the answer. Meridian controlled the water. The housing. The clinic where Sylvie was born. They could tighten the screws whenever they wanted. If I refused, there would be consequences. Not dramatic ones. Just slow, bureaucratic suffocation. A rate increase here. A maintenance delay there. The quiet cruelty of a corporation that has enough power to break laws.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cGo,\u201d Solange said. \u201cWe&#8217;ll manage.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>I kissed my children that night like I was trying to memorize the feel of them. Matis, serious and still at seven, let me hold him longer than usual. Sylvie grabbed my ear and giggled. My mother made pepper pot and we ate together, the radio playing zouk in the background, the ginger cat purring under the table.<\/p>\n<p>My father walked me to the gate after dinner. He put his hand on my shoulder.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cYou come back,\u201d he said. \u201cYou hear me?\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cYes, sir.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cThis island has lost enough of its sons.\u201d<\/p>\n<p style=\"text-align: center;\">***<\/p>\n<p>Rotterdam was grey. That was my first and most lasting impression. Grey sky, grey water, grey buildings reflected in grey canals. Even the people seemed grey, bundled in dark coats, moving fast with their heads down, earbuds in, eyes on their phones, as though the city were a corridor they were hurrying through on the way to somewhere warmer. I had never been cold before, not truly cold, and the wind off the North Sea penetrated my jacket like it was made of paper. My teeth chattered for the first three weeks straight. My hands cracked and bled from the dry air and the industrial soap they gave us. I would lie in my bunk at night, listening to the rain drumming on the container roof, and close my eyes and pretend it was the rain back home, fat drops rattling the zinc, the smell of wet earth rising from the yard. But it never smelled right. Dutch rain smells like nothing. Like absence.<\/p>\n<p><img data-recalc-dims=\"1\" loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" data-attachment-id=\"11480\" data-permalink=\"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/12\/brackish\/rotterdam\/\" data-orig-file=\"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/Rotterdam.jpg?fit=4032%2C3024&amp;ssl=1\" data-orig-size=\"4032,3024\" data-comments-opened=\"1\" data-image-meta=\"{&quot;aperture&quot;:&quot;1.6&quot;,&quot;credit&quot;:&quot;&quot;,&quot;camera&quot;:&quot;iPhone 13&quot;,&quot;caption&quot;:&quot;&quot;,&quot;created_timestamp&quot;:&quot;1732971956&quot;,&quot;copyright&quot;:&quot;&quot;,&quot;focal_length&quot;:&quot;5.1&quot;,&quot;iso&quot;:&quot;80&quot;,&quot;shutter_speed&quot;:&quot;0.0081967213114754&quot;,&quot;title&quot;:&quot;&quot;,&quot;orientation&quot;:&quot;1&quot;,&quot;alt&quot;:&quot;&quot;}\" data-image-title=\"Rotterdam\" data-image-description=\"\" data-image-caption=\"\" data-large-file=\"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/Rotterdam.jpg?fit=1024%2C768&amp;ssl=1\" class=\"alignnone size-large wp-image-11480\" src=\"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/Rotterdam.jpg?resize=1024%2C768&#038;ssl=1\" alt=\"\" width=\"1024\" height=\"768\" srcset=\"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/Rotterdam.jpg?resize=1024%2C768&amp;ssl=1 1024w, https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/Rotterdam.jpg?resize=300%2C225&amp;ssl=1 300w, https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/Rotterdam.jpg?resize=768%2C576&amp;ssl=1 768w, https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/Rotterdam.jpg?resize=1536%2C1152&amp;ssl=1 1536w, https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/Rotterdam.jpg?resize=2048%2C1536&amp;ssl=1 2048w, https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/Rotterdam.jpg?resize=1080%2C810&amp;ssl=1 1080w, https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/Rotterdam.jpg?resize=600%2C450&amp;ssl=1 600w, https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/Rotterdam.jpg?w=2160&amp;ssl=1 2160w, https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/Rotterdam.jpg?w=3240&amp;ssl=1 3240w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1024px) 100vw, 1024px\" \/><\/p>\n<p>They put me on a flood barrier crew in the Europoort, maintaining the massive gates that kept the sea from swallowing the city. The work was familiar in its rhythms but alien in its scale. Everything here was enormous. The machines, the budgets, the infrastructure. The Dutch had been fighting the ocean for centuries. They had turned it into a science, an industry, a national identity.<\/p>\n<p>And now they were outsourcing the labor to people like me. Climate refugees who knew water because water had taken everything from us.<\/p>\n<p>I shared the container with a man named Ousmane from Senegal and two brothers from Kiribati whose names I could never pronounce correctly, though they were patient about it. We cooked on a shared hotplate and dried our clothes on a line strung between the containers, shirts and trousers stiffening in the cold like cardboard cutouts of the people we used to be. Ousmane made Thieboudienne from tinned fish and whatever vegetables he could find at the discount grocer. The brothers shared coconut biscuits their aunt sent from Auckland in padded envelopes. We ate together every night, the four of us hunched around a folding table, steam rising from the pot, condensed vapor running down the metal walls. At night, I called Solange on my old smartphone with a prepaid SIM card. The connection was bad. Her voice came through in fragments, like a radio between stations.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cMatis won first place in the spelling bee,\u201d she told me once, her voice breaking up. \u201cHe wanted&#8230; tell you&#8230; proud.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cTell him I&#8217;m proud of him,\u201d I said, pressing the phone against my ear as if I could push myself through it.<\/p>\n<p>The months turned into seasons, and the seasons blurred together. I sent money home. Meridian took their cut, of course. Processing fees. Transfer charges. Currency conversion. By the time my wages reached Soufriere, they had been picked clean. But it was enough to keep the lights on. Enough to keep Matis in school and Sylvie in shoes.<\/p>\n<p>I made friends on the crew. Ousmane had been a fisherman in Saint-Louis before the river changed course and swallowed his village. The brothers from Kiribati had watched their atoll shrink by a foot every year until there was nothing left but a sandbar and a memory. We were all here for the same reason: because the places we loved could no longer sustain us, and the places that could did not love us back.<\/p>\n<p>Faustin showed up six months after I did. Meridian had transferred him from a project in Martinique. He was thinner than I remembered, but his voice was the same, deep and knowing.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cThey got you too,\u201d he said, dropping his bag on the bunk beside mine.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cThey got all of us.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>He looked around the container, at the damp walls and the buzzing strip light. \u201cYou know what this reminds me of? The shelters back home. After the storms. Same walls. Same feeling.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>He was right. We had traded one kind of precariousness for another. The storms here were financial, bureaucratic, and political. But they followed the same logic. Hit the weakest first. Offer help with strings attached. Wait for desperation to do the negotiating for you.<\/p>\n<p>The protest started small. A dozen of us, standing outside the Meridian regional office in a business park near the port. Ousmane had organized it after they cut our overtime and raised the rent on the containers simultaneously. He made signs in three languages. Mine said, in English: WE ARE HUMANS LIKE YOU; WE ARE NOT DISPOSABLE.<\/p>\n<p>The Dutch workers at the barrier mostly ignored us. A few nodded. One woman brought us coffee. The local news sent a camera crew, and a reporter asked me why we were protesting.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cBecause we left our homes to keep this city running,\u201d I said, the cold biting my face. \u201cAnd they treat us like we aren\u2019t doing anything important. Something to be managed. Pushed out of sight.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>The clip went viral, if that is the right word for a thirty-second video that makes people briefly uncomfortable before they scroll to the next thing. A journalist from a Haitian newspaper called me. Then one from the Guardian. Then a woman from a Caribbean advocacy group based in London.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cYou&#8217;ve touched a nerve,\u201d she told me over the phone. \u201cPeople are starting to pay attention.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>But attention is not the same as action. I had learned that watching our prime minister beg at those conferences. The world could pay attention to our drowning islands while doing absolutely nothing to stop it.<\/p>\n<p>Meridian responded the way corporations always do. They issued a statement expressing their \u201ccommitment to worker welfare.\u201d They offered a five percent raise and an extra blanket for each container. They sent a diversity consultant to hold a workshop about \u201ccultural sensitivity in the workplace.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>Faustin attended the workshop and came back laughing so hard he had tears in his eyes.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cThe woman asked me to describe my &#8216;cultural perspective on the issue at hand.&#8217; I told her my cultural perspective is that my house is currently underwater.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>My father died on a Tuesday. Solange called in the middle of my shift, and I knew from the sound of her breathing before she said a word. He had gone to check on the garden after a squall and his heart stopped, right there among the tomato stakes and the pigeon peas. My mother found him on his back, eyes open, the sun reflecting on his face.<\/p>\n<p>I was not there. I was six thousand miles away, standing on a concrete platform above the Rhine, checking pressure gauges for a company that didn\u2019t care about my ordeals.<\/p>\n<p>Meridian denied my request for bereavement leave. The project was at a critical phase, they said. They offered a video call instead.<\/p>\n<p>I watched my father&#8217;s funeral on a six-inch screen, propped against a thermos in the break room. The connection kept freezing. My mother&#8217;s face pixelated into colored squares. The priest&#8217;s words arrived a half-second late, out of sync with his moving lips. Matis stood beside the coffin in a white shirt that was too big for him. Sylvie held Solange&#8217;s hand and looked at the camera with a playful expression.<\/p>\n<p>Something broke in me that day. Not suddenly, like a bone. More like a seawall giving way. A slow collapse, water pouring through the cracks, until what was left could no longer hold.<\/p>\n<p>I stopped going to work. Ousmane brought me food. Faustin sat with me in silence, which was the kindest thing anyone could do. The brothers from Kiribati sang a hymn in their language, soft and mournful, and I wept.<\/p>\n<p>When Meridian sent a warning letter about my absences, I folded it into a paper boat and set it in a puddle outside the container. Faustin watched it dissolve.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cWhat now?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cI don&#8217;t know.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cThat&#8217;s honest.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cHonest doesn&#8217;t pay the bills.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>Faustin sat down beside me on the gravel. The sky was its usual grey, but somewhere behind the clouds, the sun was there. You could almost feel it.<\/p>\n<p style=\"text-align: center;\">***<\/p>\n<p>The march in Rotterdam drew three thousand people. Climate refugees from thirty-seven countries, joined by Dutch students, union workers, church groups carrying hand-painted banners, and a brass band from Suriname that played so loud you could hear them from the Erasmus Bridge. The streets filled with color for the first time since I had arrived. Red and green and gold and blue, the colors of flags from nations the size of postage stamps, nations the world had decided were expendable. We walked from the container settlement through the business district, past the cafes where office workers pressed their faces against the glass, past the tram stops where commuters filmed us on their phones, all the way to the Meridian headquarters, a glass tower near the Maas that reflected the grey sky like a mirror reflecting nothing.<\/p>\n<p>I did not plan to speak. Ousmane was supposed to address the crowd. He had written notes on index cards, practiced in the container the night before, his deep voice filling the small space. But when we reached the tower and he turned to me, his eyes said what his mouth did not. I understood.<\/p>\n<p>I climbed onto a bench and looked out at the faces below. Senegalese fishermen. Marshallese teachers. Honduran farmers. Tuvaluan nurses. Haitians, Dominicans, Bajans, Vincentians. People from places most of the world could not find on a map. People whose nations were sinking, burning, blowing away.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cThey call us climate refugees,\u201d I said, my voice carrying over the crowd through a borrowed megaphone. \u201cThey call us migrants. Beneficiaries. Displaced persons. They have a hundred names for us, and none of them are the right one.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>Faustin whistled. Someone drummed on a bucket.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cThe right name is this: we are the people who built the world that is now throwing us away. We mined the bauxite. We grew the sugar. We pumped the oil. And when the bill came due, they sent it to our shores.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>The crowd surged forward. Signs bobbed above their heads. WE ARE NOT DISPOSABLE. SOVEREIGNTY IS NOT FOR SALE&#8230;<\/p>\n<p>\u201cI left my home so my children could have a life. I left my wife so my son could go to school. I missed my father&#8217;s funeral so this city could stay afloat. And they tell me I should be grateful.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>Something mirrored my statement in the crowd. A sound that was not quite a cheer, more like a collective exhale. The sound of people who have been holding their breath for years.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cI am not grateful. I am angry. And I am here.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>The doors of the Meridian tower opened. A woman in a dark suit walked out, flanked by security. She looked at the crowd, then at me. Her expression was controlled. But I saw something masked behind it.<\/p>\n<p>She walked toward me with calculated steps. The crowd parted. Security tensed. She stopped a few feet away and studied my face. I studied hers. There was something familiar in the set of her jaw, the way she held her shoulders, a stubbornness I recognized because I saw it every morning in the mirror.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cMr. Prospere,\u201d she said. \u201cMy name is Nadiya Armand. I am the regional director of Meridian Atlantic.\u201d She paused. \u201cI believe we have family in common.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>My mind went blank. Then my mind flashed back to my mother&#8217;s cousin who had married a Frenchman and moved to Guadeloupe forty years ago. The daughter who had gone to university in Paris. The granddaughter whose name my mother mentioned sometimes, with a mixture of pride and loss.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cNadiya,\u201d I said. The name felt strange and familiar at once, like a word in a language I had spoken as a child and forgotten.<\/p>\n<p>She held out her hand. Behind her, the glass tower stood. Behind me, three thousand people observed in suspense. The North Sea wind kept blowing, carrying the salty scent of an ocean that connected and divided us in equal measure.<\/p>\n<p>I took her hand. I did not let go.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cWe need to talk,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cYes,\u201d she said. \u201cWe do.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>I turned to the crowd, still holding Nadiya&#8217;s hand, and raised our joined fists above my head. The crowd erupted. I felt the sound move through my chest like a wave, like the wind that tears roofs from houses and scatters boats across roads.<\/p>\n<p>But this time, the storm was ours. And we would decide where it went.<\/p>\n<p>That night, Solange called. The connection was clear for once. Matis had a new tooth. Sylvie had learned to write her name. The ginger cat had kittens.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cAre you all right?\u201d she asked.<\/p>\n<p>I looked out the container door at the gravel lot, let out a deep sigh, and responded.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cI&#8217;m getting there,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n<p>And for the first time in a long time, I believed it.<\/p>\n\n\t\t<div class='author-shortcodes'>\n\t\t\t<div class='author-inner'>\n\t\t\t\t<div class='author-image'>\n\t\t\t<img src='' alt='' \/>\n\t\t\t<div class='author-overlay'><\/div>\n\t\t<\/div> \n\t\t<div class='author-info'>\n\t\t\tChristian Emecheta is a Nigerian writer and self-awareness advocate. A two-time shortlisted nominee for the Nigerian Students Poetry Prize and a recipient of the BAOBAB Award (2019), he was also shortlisted for the Joe Ushie Literature Foundation Award in 2026 and is an Obsidian Foundation Fellow (2025). His fiction and poetry have been featured in numerous publications, including Arts Lounge Magazine, Brussels Review, Rattle Magazine, the Gauteng City Region Observatory (GCRO), Palm Branch Publishing, to name a few. Christian finds inspiration through reading, film, and the boundless landscapes of his imagination.\n\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"<p>I would have loved other names, but my parents chose to name me Kael; Kael Prospere in full. I am writing this from a shipping container in Rotterdam, six thousand miles from the place I was born. The container has been converted into housing. They call it \u201ctransitional accommodation.\u201d<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":15102494,"featured_media":11480,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_et_pb_use_builder":"","_et_pb_old_content":"","_et_gb_content_width":"","_coblocks_attr":"","_coblocks_dimensions":"","_coblocks_responsive_height":"","_coblocks_accordion_ie_support":"","_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_wpcom_ai_launchpad_first_post":false,"_jetpack_feature_clip_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"{title}\r\n\r\n{excerpt}\r\n\r\n{url}","jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":{"image_generator_settings":{"template":"highway","default_image_id":0,"font":"","enabled":false},"version":2},"_wpas_customize_per_network":false,"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false},"categories":[728594596,1747,728594591,728594599],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-11478","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-christian-emecheta","category-fiction","category-pree-15","category-shortlisted","et-has-post-format-content","et_post_format-et-post-format-standard"],"yoast_head":"<!-- This site is optimized with the Yoast SEO plugin v28.5 - https:\/\/yoast.com\/product\/yoast-seo-wordpress\/ -->\n<title>Brackish - PREE<\/title>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/12\/brackish\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_GB\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"Brackish - PREE\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"I would have loved other names, but my parents chose to name me Kael; Kael Prospere in full. I am writing this from a shipping container in Rotterdam, six thousand miles from the place I was born. The container has been converted into housing. They call it \u201ctransitional accommodation.\u201d\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:url\" content=\"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/12\/brackish\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:site_name\" content=\"PREE\" \/>\n<meta property=\"article:published_time\" content=\"2026-08-12T19:03:52+00:00\" \/>\n<meta property=\"article:modified_time\" content=\"2026-08-13T00:02:00+00:00\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:image\" content=\"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/Rotterdam-1024x768.jpg\" \/>\n\t<meta property=\"og:image:width\" content=\"1024\" \/>\n\t<meta property=\"og:image:height\" content=\"768\" \/>\n\t<meta property=\"og:image:type\" content=\"image\/jpeg\" \/>\n<meta name=\"author\" content=\"ap\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:card\" content=\"summary_large_image\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:label1\" content=\"Written by\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:data1\" content=\"ap\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:label2\" content=\"Estimated reading time\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:data2\" content=\"19 minutes\" \/>\n<script type=\"application\/ld+json\" class=\"yoast-schema-graph\">{\"@context\":\"https:\\\/\\\/schema.org\",\"@graph\":[{\"@type\":\"Article\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/12\\\/brackish\\\/#article\",\"isPartOf\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/12\\\/brackish\\\/\"},\"author\":{\"name\":\"ap\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/#\\\/schema\\\/person\\\/4518f338ddbd9b8905be3abd07c656f1\"},\"headline\":\"Brackish\",\"datePublished\":\"2026-08-12T19:03:52+00:00\",\"dateModified\":\"2026-08-13T00:02:00+00:00\",\"mainEntityOfPage\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/12\\\/brackish\\\/\"},\"wordCount\":4066,\"commentCount\":1,\"publisher\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/#organization\"},\"image\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/12\\\/brackish\\\/#primaryimage\"},\"thumbnailUrl\":\"https:\\\/\\\/i0.wp.com\\\/preelit.com\\\/wp-content\\\/uploads\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/Rotterdam.jpg?fit=4032%2C3024&ssl=1\",\"articleSection\":[\"CHRISTIAN EMECHETA\",\"Fiction\",\"PREE 15\",\"SHORTLISTED\"],\"inLanguage\":\"en-GB\",\"potentialAction\":[{\"@type\":\"CommentAction\",\"name\":\"Comment\",\"target\":[\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/12\\\/brackish\\\/#respond\"]}]},{\"@type\":\"WebPage\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/12\\\/brackish\\\/\",\"url\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/12\\\/brackish\\\/\",\"name\":\"Brackish - PREE\",\"isPartOf\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/#website\"},\"primaryImageOfPage\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/12\\\/brackish\\\/#primaryimage\"},\"image\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/12\\\/brackish\\\/#primaryimage\"},\"thumbnailUrl\":\"https:\\\/\\\/i0.wp.com\\\/preelit.com\\\/wp-content\\\/uploads\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/Rotterdam.jpg?fit=4032%2C3024&ssl=1\",\"datePublished\":\"2026-08-12T19:03:52+00:00\",\"dateModified\":\"2026-08-13T00:02:00+00:00\",\"breadcrumb\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/12\\\/brackish\\\/#breadcrumb\"},\"inLanguage\":\"en-GB\",\"potentialAction\":[{\"@type\":\"ReadAction\",\"target\":[\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/12\\\/brackish\\\/\"]}]},{\"@type\":\"ImageObject\",\"inLanguage\":\"en-GB\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/12\\\/brackish\\\/#primaryimage\",\"url\":\"https:\\\/\\\/i0.wp.com\\\/preelit.com\\\/wp-content\\\/uploads\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/Rotterdam.jpg?fit=4032%2C3024&ssl=1\",\"contentUrl\":\"https:\\\/\\\/i0.wp.com\\\/preelit.com\\\/wp-content\\\/uploads\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/Rotterdam.jpg?fit=4032%2C3024&ssl=1\",\"width\":4032,\"height\":3024},{\"@type\":\"BreadcrumbList\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/12\\\/brackish\\\/#breadcrumb\",\"itemListElement\":[{\"@type\":\"ListItem\",\"position\":1,\"name\":\"Home\",\"item\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/\"},{\"@type\":\"ListItem\",\"position\":2,\"name\":\"Brackish\"}]},{\"@type\":\"WebSite\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/#website\",\"url\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/\",\"name\":\"PREE\",\"description\":\"Caribbean. Writing.\",\"publisher\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/#organization\"},\"potentialAction\":[{\"@type\":\"SearchAction\",\"target\":{\"@type\":\"EntryPoint\",\"urlTemplate\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/?s={search_term_string}\"},\"query-input\":{\"@type\":\"PropertyValueSpecification\",\"valueRequired\":true,\"valueName\":\"search_term_string\"}}],\"inLanguage\":\"en-GB\"},{\"@type\":\"Organization\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/#organization\",\"name\":\"PREE\",\"url\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/\",\"logo\":{\"@type\":\"ImageObject\",\"inLanguage\":\"en-GB\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/#\\\/schema\\\/logo\\\/image\\\/\",\"url\":\"https:\\\/\\\/i0.wp.com\\\/preelit.com\\\/wp-content\\\/uploads\\\/2022\\\/01\\\/PREE-logo.png?fit=782%2C414&ssl=1\",\"contentUrl\":\"https:\\\/\\\/i0.wp.com\\\/preelit.com\\\/wp-content\\\/uploads\\\/2022\\\/01\\\/PREE-logo.png?fit=782%2C414&ssl=1\",\"width\":782,\"height\":414,\"caption\":\"PREE\"},\"image\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/#\\\/schema\\\/logo\\\/image\\\/\"},\"sameAs\":[\"https:\\\/\\\/www.instagram.com\\\/preelitmag\\\/\",\"https:\\\/\\\/www.youtube.com\\\/channel\\\/UCuiY23cFTFeSXuap5c8dreg\"]},{\"@type\":\"Person\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/#\\\/schema\\\/person\\\/4518f338ddbd9b8905be3abd07c656f1\",\"name\":\"ap\",\"image\":{\"@type\":\"ImageObject\",\"inLanguage\":\"en-GB\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/secure.gravatar.com\\\/avatar\\\/8f2ffa09d7223d04aa89db2b3cafec3ec5304fb83073abc3d51dd47bfd948c51?s=96&d=identicon&r=g\",\"url\":\"https:\\\/\\\/secure.gravatar.com\\\/avatar\\\/8f2ffa09d7223d04aa89db2b3cafec3ec5304fb83073abc3d51dd47bfd948c51?s=96&d=identicon&r=g\",\"contentUrl\":\"https:\\\/\\\/secure.gravatar.com\\\/avatar\\\/8f2ffa09d7223d04aa89db2b3cafec3ec5304fb83073abc3d51dd47bfd948c51?s=96&d=identicon&r=g\",\"caption\":\"ap\"},\"description\":\"writer, editor and walkabout\",\"sameAs\":[\"http:\\\/\\\/anniepaulose.wordpress.com\"],\"url\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/author\\\/anniepaulose\\\/\"}]}<\/script>\n<!-- \/ Yoast SEO plugin. -->","yoast_head_json":{"title":"Brackish - PREE","robots":{"index":"index","follow":"follow","max-snippet":"max-snippet:-1","max-image-preview":"max-image-preview:large","max-video-preview":"max-video-preview:-1"},"canonical":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/12\/brackish\/","og_locale":"en_GB","og_type":"article","og_title":"Brackish - PREE","og_description":"I would have loved other names, but my parents chose to name me Kael; Kael Prospere in full. I am writing this from a shipping container in Rotterdam, six thousand miles from the place I was born. The container has been converted into housing. They call it \u201ctransitional accommodation.\u201d","og_url":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/12\/brackish\/","og_site_name":"PREE","article_published_time":"2026-08-12T19:03:52+00:00","article_modified_time":"2026-08-13T00:02:00+00:00","og_image":[{"width":1024,"height":768,"url":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/Rotterdam-1024x768.jpg","type":"image\/jpeg"}],"author":"ap","twitter_card":"summary_large_image","twitter_misc":{"Written by":"ap","Estimated reading time":"19 minutes"},"schema":{"@context":"https:\/\/schema.org","@graph":[{"@type":"Article","@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/12\/brackish\/#article","isPartOf":{"@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/12\/brackish\/"},"author":{"name":"ap","@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/#\/schema\/person\/4518f338ddbd9b8905be3abd07c656f1"},"headline":"Brackish","datePublished":"2026-08-12T19:03:52+00:00","dateModified":"2026-08-13T00:02:00+00:00","mainEntityOfPage":{"@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/12\/brackish\/"},"wordCount":4066,"commentCount":1,"publisher":{"@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/#organization"},"image":{"@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/12\/brackish\/#primaryimage"},"thumbnailUrl":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/Rotterdam.jpg?fit=4032%2C3024&ssl=1","articleSection":["CHRISTIAN EMECHETA","Fiction","PREE 15","SHORTLISTED"],"inLanguage":"en-GB","potentialAction":[{"@type":"CommentAction","name":"Comment","target":["https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/12\/brackish\/#respond"]}]},{"@type":"WebPage","@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/12\/brackish\/","url":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/12\/brackish\/","name":"Brackish - PREE","isPartOf":{"@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/#website"},"primaryImageOfPage":{"@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/12\/brackish\/#primaryimage"},"image":{"@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/12\/brackish\/#primaryimage"},"thumbnailUrl":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/Rotterdam.jpg?fit=4032%2C3024&ssl=1","datePublished":"2026-08-12T19:03:52+00:00","dateModified":"2026-08-13T00:02:00+00:00","breadcrumb":{"@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/12\/brackish\/#breadcrumb"},"inLanguage":"en-GB","potentialAction":[{"@type":"ReadAction","target":["https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/12\/brackish\/"]}]},{"@type":"ImageObject","inLanguage":"en-GB","@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/12\/brackish\/#primaryimage","url":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/Rotterdam.jpg?fit=4032%2C3024&ssl=1","contentUrl":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/Rotterdam.jpg?fit=4032%2C3024&ssl=1","width":4032,"height":3024},{"@type":"BreadcrumbList","@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/12\/brackish\/#breadcrumb","itemListElement":[{"@type":"ListItem","position":1,"name":"Home","item":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/"},{"@type":"ListItem","position":2,"name":"Brackish"}]},{"@type":"WebSite","@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/#website","url":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/","name":"PREE","description":"Caribbean. Writing.","publisher":{"@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/#organization"},"potentialAction":[{"@type":"SearchAction","target":{"@type":"EntryPoint","urlTemplate":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/?s={search_term_string}"},"query-input":{"@type":"PropertyValueSpecification","valueRequired":true,"valueName":"search_term_string"}}],"inLanguage":"en-GB"},{"@type":"Organization","@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/#organization","name":"PREE","url":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/","logo":{"@type":"ImageObject","inLanguage":"en-GB","@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/#\/schema\/logo\/image\/","url":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2022\/01\/PREE-logo.png?fit=782%2C414&ssl=1","contentUrl":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2022\/01\/PREE-logo.png?fit=782%2C414&ssl=1","width":782,"height":414,"caption":"PREE"},"image":{"@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/#\/schema\/logo\/image\/"},"sameAs":["https:\/\/www.instagram.com\/preelitmag\/","https:\/\/www.youtube.com\/channel\/UCuiY23cFTFeSXuap5c8dreg"]},{"@type":"Person","@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/#\/schema\/person\/4518f338ddbd9b8905be3abd07c656f1","name":"ap","image":{"@type":"ImageObject","inLanguage":"en-GB","@id":"https:\/\/secure.gravatar.com\/avatar\/8f2ffa09d7223d04aa89db2b3cafec3ec5304fb83073abc3d51dd47bfd948c51?s=96&d=identicon&r=g","url":"https:\/\/secure.gravatar.com\/avatar\/8f2ffa09d7223d04aa89db2b3cafec3ec5304fb83073abc3d51dd47bfd948c51?s=96&d=identicon&r=g","contentUrl":"https:\/\/secure.gravatar.com\/avatar\/8f2ffa09d7223d04aa89db2b3cafec3ec5304fb83073abc3d51dd47bfd948c51?s=96&d=identicon&r=g","caption":"ap"},"description":"writer, editor and walkabout","sameAs":["http:\/\/anniepaulose.wordpress.com"],"url":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/author\/anniepaulose\/"}]}},"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_likes_enabled":true,"jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/s9tXKW-brackish","jetpack_featured_media_url":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/Rotterdam.jpg?fit=4032%2C3024&ssl=1","_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/11478","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/15102494"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=11478"}],"version-history":[{"count":5,"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/11478\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":11484,"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/11478\/revisions\/11484"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/11480"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=11478"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=11478"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=11478"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}},{"id":11498,"date":"2026-08-12T13:55:33","date_gmt":"2026-08-12T18:55:33","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/?p=11498"},"modified":"2026-08-12T14:04:44","modified_gmt":"2026-08-12T19:04:44","slug":"11498","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/12\/11498\/","title":{"rendered":"Village League"},"content":{"rendered":"<p>SHASTRI SOOKDEO<\/p>\n<p>Now I did always feel I could have make it as a cricketer. But the problem is it never had no big set of cricket to play in the village. We always had a nice ground and I really feel is one of the best one in the whole of Central. But all we could have play was in the village league and them. And nobody ever come and check for we. It had plenty fellas who went and play for big club all in Town and down South and thing. But you see me, I never wanted to go so far and play. To tell you the truth, even the club they have right in Central too far for me to go down and train two and three times a week. Me and this training thing was never friends. But I still telling you, even without training, I could have handle myself on any field. Is just I never get no chance.<\/p>\n<p>Since everybody gone I can\u2019t even get village cricket to play again. The grounds only there for cow and goat to walk and eat out the grass and shit all on the pitch. I see now, in front the pavilion, like somebody decide to plant lettuce. I can\u2019t give them wrong. Because the likelihood of any cricket small, so why not use the land. It done there wasting.<\/p>\n<p>It had a time a fast bowler I used to play with in the village team call Stone come check me. He wasn\u2019t so fast but he used to bowl a heavy ball so when it hit the bat, it feel like a big stone hit it. When we used to play in the league we never tell that story, so people believe is Stones we calling him because he is a brave fella. Lucky for he that he used to bat so deep that nobody ever realised he \u2018fraid fast bowling like cockroach \u2018fraid fowl. Because even though things done change in big league cricket, we never shame weself by doing thing like bringing pace when a tail ender batting.<\/p>\n<p>Anyway, he come from New York first time in years because he now get a green card. I don\u2019t know how it does work over there, but like it have squatter\u2019s rights for green card too.\u00a0 Because as far as I know, he hide and went and was living illegal in somebody garden shed the whole time. But I didn\u2019t ask him all that.<\/p>\n<p>He say, \u201cThings nice in New York.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cMan, if things was so nice in New York, then why you speed and come here as you get a chance?\u201d I hold back a steups and tell him.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cHome is home. Must want to come back and see the place. But the place change.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cYou feel it go remain how it was just for you, or what?\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cYou know what I mean. It don\u2019t have to be so bad as how it is. Watch the state the cricket field in and nobody to play. In New York, we begging for space.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cIt have cricket up there?\u201d That surprise me.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cIt must have cricket. Half of the West Indies over there. And all them Indian and Pakistani too. I feel more people does be playing cricket than baseball.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cThe level good?\u201d I was curious. \u201cYou roughing up men over there?\u201d<\/p>\n<p>I didn\u2019t really feel the level could have be too high. I mean, is America and no matter who went, the fellas who was really good would have stay and play they cricket in they home country. You can\u2019t be good and then go to a country that don\u2019t take on cricket. If you was really good somebody would have hand you a contract and tell you stay.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cThe level poor. All that cut-ass we used to get in the village league, if we went and play in New York with that same team we win out the league and them easy. Me and you alone would have share up all the wickets.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cIt too bad you have to play in a weak league so.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>But really, I only half feel it was good for him because he choose to go, so he get lucky to play some cricket. But the next half of me feel real sour because he gone and he still playing cricket and getting a chance to play like he a star there, while I can\u2019t even see to reach a game. I don\u2019t know if he lying or not, but if he could be picking up plenty wickets then I sure to and all. Because for all the heavy ball he does bowl he can\u2019t swing the thing even if the whole sky full of clouds.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cAll them Indian fellas I does play with always tell me they want to come down in the West Indies and play,\u201d he tell me. \u201cThem still feel we does play hard and party hard.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cThey don\u2019t know is only rum and misfield you does get here,\u201d I tell him, already laughing at my own joke.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cBut serious thing, I really want to bring down a eleven to play. I know you want to take a knock if I could organise the thing.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>I hear this thing and couldn\u2019t believe it. This man couldn\u2019t tie he own shoelace when I did know him and now he playing manager. Once we tell him put on a wicket keeping pad to go and bat with for a joke and he really gone and do it. When he get a hard lash in he shin he still didn\u2019t realise he wearing the wrong thing. And this is the kind of fella who want to plan thing.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cAll you have to do is tell me when. I ready,\u201d I tell him. But I didn\u2019t believe this was a match that was ever going and happen.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cI need a little help from you to organise down here if you have the time. You remember Fat Man who used to score for we?\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cI must remember Fat Man. I think it still have some of he score book and them in the pavilion. Where he living these days?\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cI really don\u2019t know. But I have a number for him. Call him. He was the master at organising.\u201d<\/p>\n<p style=\"text-align: center;\">***<\/p>\n<p>When I call Fat Man, he eh even ask me how I going or nothing. He start to talk like we does talk every day. First thing he telling me is he go organise everything like if he done know what going on. And so the only thing for me to do is make the team. I done don\u2019t like that talk because I know I could play for any team, far less any kind of team Fat Man and Stones organising. But I hush my mouth until he tell me where he want me to come and train.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cAll the way down in 500 you want me go?\u201d<\/p>\n<p>This man feel I don\u2019t read the newspapers because it don\u2019t have no way I was going down there. If I wanted to find myself in trouble, I couldn\u2019t find a better place for it in the whole of Central.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cDon\u2019t play like it far nah.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cYou see I have a car? I go have to tote all my big bag of gears in a taxi. And I hear taxi don\u2019t even go there these days because they \u2018fraid.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cNah man, that\u2019s just talk. And don\u2019t bother about no gears and thing. You walk with your whites and a box and we go fix you up with everything. Is bowl you coming to bowl anyway.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cYou feel I can\u2019t bat or what?\u201d<\/p>\n<p>In all honesty, I really can\u2019t bat too good. Even when I was young I hardly coulda see the ball in time to hit it when men bowling fast. Now that never matter too much because most of the fellas in the league had the pace of molasses going down a hill. Anybody with any real pace get pick up by a big club early no matter how deep down in a village league they was. One thing it have value for in the West Indies, since always, is pace.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cYou bat if you want to bat, nah. But you know is bowling you have to do.\u201d<\/p>\n<p style=\"text-align: center;\">***<\/p>\n<p>When I went down in 500, I wear all the oldest clothes I could find and I put on my whites under them. I try and ask the taxi driver to drop me right outside the grounds but he wasn\u2019t going off the regular route. Not for nothing. I couldn\u2019t give him wrong. When he drop me by the corner, I walk so fast I nearly run.<\/p>\n<p>Fat Man did done sit down on a chair by the nets. He face eh change at all but he get more fat now. Before he was the kind of fat where \u00a0you make the joke that all runs is single with him. But like he living good since he gone from the village because he get so fat I doubt he could even stand up for long without getting tired.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cYou know how to play cricket yet?\u201d Fat Man tell me when I reach.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cIf me eh learn before, what make you feel I know now?\u201d<\/p>\n<p>Sometimes when you meet up people from back in the day, it doesn\u2019t have nothing you could talk to them about. People who gone and they whole life change so much, they doesn\u2019t really have nothing in common with you again but the old days. And plenty people don\u2019t like to talk about back in the day. I could understand that.<\/p>\n<p>But with Fat Man, just like with Stone, I find I could drop straight back in a talk like we always used to have. It have people like that too. No matter how much time pass, you could always move with them like if no kind of time pass at all.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cIs I alone taking a net today or what?\u201d I ask Fat Man.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cYeah, is just you. The eleven so far is only you and Stone. We have to find a next nine. Stone say he go bring men down from New York when he coming.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cBut if is me alone you have, I could bowl how bad and you still have to put me.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cBowl, nah. We only have to put you on the field. If you bowl enough shit in the nets, you go find yourself stand up in third man whole game and not a over for you.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>Fat Man was talking like he was running the side. But he always used to talk so. He never could have play too good. But he had a good eye. If he see you had a problem, he go tell you exactly what to do to fix it. More often than not if you listen you go come out better. He could have make a good coach if coaching was only sitting down and watching.<\/p>\n<p>I start to bowl, and all the while Fat Man laughing because I come to train in my whites.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cLike you feel is game you come to play or what? Or all your short pants have hole?\u201d<\/p>\n<p>I just bowl and didn\u2019t stop to tell him nothing. Truth is, I like to train exactly how I go be for the match. If that mean plenty time I reach to play with dirt and mud all over my clothes already, is alright.<\/p>\n<p>When I start to bowl, my finger and them feel like it make out of concrete and I could have hardly grip the ball properly. Not a ball turn in about the first fifty I send down. I nearly tell myself is the pitch but I know better than that. Because it don\u2019t have no pitch down here that not spinning unless you in North. When I was playing regular I could have spin old ball or new ball, it didn\u2019t matter. But it does take a while to catch back yourself.<\/p>\n<p>The whole time Fat Man laughing at how I struggling.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cLike we go really have to play you as a specialist fielder. Or we go call you right-arm very slow.\u201d<\/p>\n<p><img data-recalc-dims=\"1\" loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" data-attachment-id=\"11445\" data-permalink=\"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/10\/the-fisherman\/cricket-club\/\" data-orig-file=\"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/Cricket-club.jpeg?fit=640%2C480&amp;ssl=1\" data-orig-size=\"640,480\" data-comments-opened=\"1\" data-image-meta=\"{&quot;aperture&quot;:&quot;2.8&quot;,&quot;credit&quot;:&quot;&quot;,&quot;camera&quot;:&quot;Canon PowerShot SD770 IS&quot;,&quot;caption&quot;:&quot;&quot;,&quot;created_timestamp&quot;:&quot;1322499072&quot;,&quot;copyright&quot;:&quot;&quot;,&quot;focal_length&quot;:&quot;6.2&quot;,&quot;iso&quot;:&quot;200&quot;,&quot;shutter_speed&quot;:&quot;0.125&quot;,&quot;title&quot;:&quot;&quot;,&quot;orientation&quot;:&quot;1&quot;,&quot;alt&quot;:&quot;&quot;}\" data-image-title=\"Cricket club\" data-image-description=\"\" data-image-caption=\"\" data-large-file=\"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/Cricket-club.jpeg?fit=640%2C480&amp;ssl=1\" class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-11445\" src=\"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/Cricket-club.jpeg?resize=640%2C480&#038;ssl=1\" alt=\"\" width=\"640\" height=\"480\" srcset=\"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/Cricket-club.jpeg?w=640&amp;ssl=1 640w, https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/Cricket-club.jpeg?resize=300%2C225&amp;ssl=1 300w, https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/Cricket-club.jpeg?resize=600%2C450&amp;ssl=1 600w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 640px) 100vw, 640px\" \/><\/p>\n<p>After a while I start to turn a few. I could feel my age coming for me. Because I not so old, but when I was in my prime I could have bowl whole day. Now, my shoulder giving me little trouble and I feeling it plenty when I bowling. So I ease up a little bit and gone to drink some water.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cTell me, how I bowling? Bowling for wickets or bowling for stick?\u201d I ask Fat Man.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cI see you still don\u2019t have no variation.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cGood ball don\u2019t need to vary. Line and length.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cYou could still bowl. Is only practice you lacking, don\u2019t worry.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>Now, I wasn\u2019t so worried because I feel like bowling wasn\u2019t something you could forget. But when Fat Man tell you something about you technique, is something to take serious, so I feel better once I hear him say that.<\/p>\n<p style=\"text-align: center;\">***<\/p>\n<p>Few days after is me and he alone in the nets again.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cBut you don\u2019t have to watch me every time, you know. Don\u2019t worry. It don\u2019t have nothing here to thief,\u201d I tell him laughing.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cSomebody have to make sure and tell you when you bowling for licks, in case you don\u2019t realise and feel you is a star.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>I bowl for a little while and I catch the rhythm faster the second time. It still take me a little while before I get some to spin but not so long. But my shoulder giving me pressure still. Last time, it hurt whole day after, so I say is better I don\u2019t push it.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cFat Man, how the team looking?\u201d I tell him when I sit down.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cRight now it looking like I might have to draft a few men from somewhere. But we go find a eleven, don\u2019t worry. Stone done get he Indian and Pakistan fellas to come down. I hear so much want to come they had to turn away men.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cBest Stone go and work for United Nations. I thought India and Pakistan don\u2019t do nothing together.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cWhen you living abroad, is only strangers. When is so, even the neighbour who you vex with whole time home, you ready to down and touch they foot there.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>Fat Man talk like he know all about living abroad. I don\u2019t know if he really went and live abroad or he just talking like he know. Because he is a man who does play like he know everything about everything. I feel is only talk because men who go abroad don\u2019t come back to live again.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cWe go want you open the bowling,\u201d Fat Man tell me.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cBut you can\u2019t see is spin I bowling or what?\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cWhen is the last time you watch cricket. Spinners opening bowling these days.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cI can\u2019t turn new ball again. I catching horrors to turn old ball.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cLine and length, ent? Is not so you tell me? If you could hit the spot for me, I guarantee you three wickets.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>The way he tell me that, sound suspicious one time. Because plenty time people does say if you bowl good you go get wickets but to guarantee the exact number, people don\u2019t talk so. I mean, they might say is a sure thing you go get the five-wicket haul but three? Nobody go guarantee you three wickets. If you was talking to yourself serious you wouldn\u2019t even call three wickets exact so.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cThree wickets? So why not five?\u201d I did tell him.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cDon\u2019t get greedy now. Three is not enough?\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cTen is enough. But serious thing, you buying and selling wickets or what? How you giving away three just so?\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cYou telling me you don\u2019t deserve three? Is none you want? You even want to bowl self?\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cI didn\u2019t just now tell you is ten I want? And you feel I here working like a donkey to stand up in the field and not bowl? Talk some sense nah, Fat Man. Tell me what really going on.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cYou have to hush your mouth about anything. Nothing we talk here could go past these nets,\u201d Fat Man tell me.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cBut you know I is a man who don\u2019t run mouth. Don\u2019t study that.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>Fat Man is a man who can\u2019t tell a story in a straight line. If I had to repeat it word for word what he did say, it go take about half an hour before we even come near the point. Because he is the kind of man if you ask him what the time is, you go hear a story about when people could have tell time by the sun and then why we need time for and by the time you done the time you ask for was a hour before. The man story does have more wrong turn than one of them Pakistani leg-spinners.<\/p>\n<p>So the point of what Fat Man did say, taking away all the wrong turn and side story, was that is not just men coming to play cricket. Them Indian and them like to play cricket. All of we know that. But them over like to bet on the cricket and all. Now we like to bet on the cricket too. But in India they ban them from betting and you know when they say you can\u2019t do something, it does make you want to do it ten times more. So when them fellas get to New York, them betting on everything. Whether is India playing Pakistan or whether is a primary-school match, them ready to bet. But the thing is, after you start betting a while, some fellas realise is not betting they like, is winning they like.<\/p>\n<p>Now when you betting, it have nothing like a guarantee. You must lose. Just like when you playing cricket, is not every match you go win. None of we can\u2019t guarantee a win for nobody. Even if is India playing Hong Kong and you know 99% of the time India go do the thing halfway and win easy, it go have one time Hong Kong go get away.<\/p>\n<p>I used to fraid gambling like I fraid rum. Some people can\u2019t stop. When you lose money one time on what was supposed to be a sure thing, it does hurt you. You doesn\u2019t forget it so. And is like every one of them fellas have a thing like that on they mind. Because the way Fat Man say it, is like they want to guarantee they bets. Them want to script the whole thing like is a film.<\/p>\n<p>For me, I don\u2019t see the point in that at all. If you playing cricket, is to see what could happen, not to know what going to happen. I wondering why I go waste my time and burn in the hot sun when I don\u2019t have no say in the matter. I did done ready to gone from this fix but then the man start to talk money and I had to really listen good.<\/p>\n<p>First thing is he start to talk in US dollars so is already big money after you convert that. But the amount he talking \u2018bout, even if you was living in America it would have still be good money. The kind of money you don\u2019t hear \u2018bout in village cricket. Forget hear, is the kind of money you don\u2019t even dream about.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cBut why them men want to come and put that kind of money in we hand. Them don\u2019t know we,\u201d I ask Fat Man.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cSerious thing, them wouldn\u2019t have no time for we. But things kind of hot for them in America. You know them have rule for everything there. So the word about the betting get out and they \u2018fraid if they keep going, police go hold them,\u201d Fat Man say. \u201cAnd for we, is big money, but them don\u2019t even consider that kind of money.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cBut why here?\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cIs Stones and the rest of your partners and them. Them give them the talk that here don\u2019t have no kind of rules and money does go long. And that\u2019s not a lie. So this match\u2014this is to check if they could start something.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cHow they know we go listen?\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cFor that kind of dollars, you wouldn\u2019t listen?\u201d<\/p>\n<p style=\"text-align: center;\">***<\/p>\n<p>When Fat Man tell me all this thing, it didn\u2019t have long again before the match and I really hurt my head trying to see if I should drop out. Now I don\u2019t have plenty honesty and I don\u2019t always do the correct thing. But you have to be real stupid to always follow rule when you living in a place like this, because everybody go pass you while you stand up in line like you supposed to be doing. But that\u2019s life and on the cricket field, is a whole different thing altogether. Cricket, you supposed to do the correct thing. I is a man always try and walk when I was out and never appeal for nothing that I didn\u2019t feel was wicket.<\/p>\n<p>So it hurt me plenty to have to think about playing this fake cricket. But money short with me and all. Money short my whole life. And is just one time I want to see what it go be like to have a little something in my pocket.<\/p>\n<p>***<\/p>\n<p>I could tell you a little bit about the match, but it go really be a little bit. Because I don\u2019t remember nothing except the field was green and the sun was hot. I know I bowl and I know I didn\u2019t bat. But I can\u2019t tell you if I bowl good, who was there and what went on. Because my mind was thinking about what I go do with the money whole time.<\/p>\n<p>I know the correct thing to do. It eh hard to know the right thing but knowing and doing is two different thing altogether. The correct thing is to take the money and do something with it. Cricket gone and pass me over because I never want to go too far. It must have other young boys in the area who don\u2019t even get a chance to play no cricket and have talent hide away. The right thing is to have cricket playing again. To sponsor a league or organise some coach and them to come down and hold a camp. That is the best thing for everybody.<\/p>\n<p>But I have to study what is the best thing for me.<\/p>\n\n\t\t<div class='author-shortcodes'>\n\t\t\t<div class='author-inner'>\n\t\t\t\t<div class='author-info'>\n\t\t\tShastri Sookdeo grew up in Trinidad and Tobago but currently lives in The Netherlands. His non-fiction has been published in The Squall and The Write Review, and fiction in The Caribbean Writer, Moko and Antigonish Review. Sookdeo is currently working on a novel and holds a Create and Explore Grant from the Canada Council for the Arts.\n\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"<p>Sometimes when you meet up people from back in the day, it doesn\u2019t have nothing you could talk to them about. People who gone and they whole life change so much, they doesn\u2019t really have nothing in common with you again but the old days. And plenty people don\u2019t like to talk about back in the day. I could understand that.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":15102494,"featured_media":11445,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_et_pb_use_builder":"","_et_pb_old_content":"","_et_gb_content_width":"","_coblocks_attr":"","_coblocks_dimensions":"","_coblocks_responsive_height":"","_coblocks_accordion_ie_support":"","_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_wpcom_ai_launchpad_first_post":false,"_jetpack_feature_clip_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"{title}\r\n\r\n{excerpt}\r\n\r\n{url}","jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":{"image_generator_settings":{"template":"highway","default_image_id":0,"font":"","enabled":false},"version":2},"_wpas_customize_per_network":false,"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false},"categories":[1747,728594591,728594598],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-11498","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-fiction","category-pree-15","category-shastri-sookdeo","et-has-post-format-content","et_post_format-et-post-format-standard"],"yoast_head":"<!-- This site is optimized with the Yoast SEO plugin v28.5 - https:\/\/yoast.com\/product\/yoast-seo-wordpress\/ -->\n<title>Village League - PREE<\/title>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/12\/11498\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_GB\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"Village League - PREE\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"Sometimes when you meet up people from back in the day, it doesn\u2019t have nothing you could talk to them about. People who gone and they whole life change so much, they doesn\u2019t really have nothing in common with you again but the old days. And plenty people don\u2019t like to talk about back in the day. I could understand that.\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:url\" content=\"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/12\/11498\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:site_name\" content=\"PREE\" \/>\n<meta property=\"article:published_time\" content=\"2026-08-12T18:55:33+00:00\" \/>\n<meta property=\"article:modified_time\" content=\"2026-08-12T19:04:44+00:00\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:image\" content=\"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/Cricket-club.jpeg\" \/>\n\t<meta property=\"og:image:width\" content=\"640\" \/>\n\t<meta property=\"og:image:height\" content=\"480\" \/>\n\t<meta property=\"og:image:type\" content=\"image\/jpeg\" \/>\n<meta name=\"author\" content=\"ap\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:card\" content=\"summary_large_image\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:label1\" content=\"Written by\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:data1\" content=\"ap\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:label2\" content=\"Estimated reading time\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:data2\" content=\"18 minutes\" \/>\n<script type=\"application\/ld+json\" class=\"yoast-schema-graph\">{\"@context\":\"https:\\\/\\\/schema.org\",\"@graph\":[{\"@type\":\"Article\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/12\\\/11498\\\/#article\",\"isPartOf\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/12\\\/11498\\\/\"},\"author\":{\"name\":\"ap\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/#\\\/schema\\\/person\\\/4518f338ddbd9b8905be3abd07c656f1\"},\"headline\":\"Village League\",\"datePublished\":\"2026-08-12T18:55:33+00:00\",\"dateModified\":\"2026-08-12T19:04:44+00:00\",\"mainEntityOfPage\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/12\\\/11498\\\/\"},\"wordCount\":3939,\"commentCount\":1,\"publisher\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/#organization\"},\"image\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/12\\\/11498\\\/#primaryimage\"},\"thumbnailUrl\":\"https:\\\/\\\/i0.wp.com\\\/preelit.com\\\/wp-content\\\/uploads\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/Cricket-club.jpeg?fit=640%2C480&ssl=1\",\"articleSection\":[\"Fiction\",\"PREE 15\",\"SHASTRI SOOKDEO\"],\"inLanguage\":\"en-GB\",\"potentialAction\":[{\"@type\":\"CommentAction\",\"name\":\"Comment\",\"target\":[\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/12\\\/11498\\\/#respond\"]}]},{\"@type\":\"WebPage\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/12\\\/11498\\\/\",\"url\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/12\\\/11498\\\/\",\"name\":\"Village League - PREE\",\"isPartOf\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/#website\"},\"primaryImageOfPage\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/12\\\/11498\\\/#primaryimage\"},\"image\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/12\\\/11498\\\/#primaryimage\"},\"thumbnailUrl\":\"https:\\\/\\\/i0.wp.com\\\/preelit.com\\\/wp-content\\\/uploads\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/Cricket-club.jpeg?fit=640%2C480&ssl=1\",\"datePublished\":\"2026-08-12T18:55:33+00:00\",\"dateModified\":\"2026-08-12T19:04:44+00:00\",\"breadcrumb\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/12\\\/11498\\\/#breadcrumb\"},\"inLanguage\":\"en-GB\",\"potentialAction\":[{\"@type\":\"ReadAction\",\"target\":[\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/12\\\/11498\\\/\"]}]},{\"@type\":\"ImageObject\",\"inLanguage\":\"en-GB\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/12\\\/11498\\\/#primaryimage\",\"url\":\"https:\\\/\\\/i0.wp.com\\\/preelit.com\\\/wp-content\\\/uploads\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/Cricket-club.jpeg?fit=640%2C480&ssl=1\",\"contentUrl\":\"https:\\\/\\\/i0.wp.com\\\/preelit.com\\\/wp-content\\\/uploads\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/Cricket-club.jpeg?fit=640%2C480&ssl=1\",\"width\":640,\"height\":480},{\"@type\":\"BreadcrumbList\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/12\\\/11498\\\/#breadcrumb\",\"itemListElement\":[{\"@type\":\"ListItem\",\"position\":1,\"name\":\"Home\",\"item\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/\"},{\"@type\":\"ListItem\",\"position\":2,\"name\":\"Village League\"}]},{\"@type\":\"WebSite\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/#website\",\"url\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/\",\"name\":\"PREE\",\"description\":\"Caribbean. Writing.\",\"publisher\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/#organization\"},\"potentialAction\":[{\"@type\":\"SearchAction\",\"target\":{\"@type\":\"EntryPoint\",\"urlTemplate\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/?s={search_term_string}\"},\"query-input\":{\"@type\":\"PropertyValueSpecification\",\"valueRequired\":true,\"valueName\":\"search_term_string\"}}],\"inLanguage\":\"en-GB\"},{\"@type\":\"Organization\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/#organization\",\"name\":\"PREE\",\"url\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/\",\"logo\":{\"@type\":\"ImageObject\",\"inLanguage\":\"en-GB\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/#\\\/schema\\\/logo\\\/image\\\/\",\"url\":\"https:\\\/\\\/i0.wp.com\\\/preelit.com\\\/wp-content\\\/uploads\\\/2022\\\/01\\\/PREE-logo.png?fit=782%2C414&ssl=1\",\"contentUrl\":\"https:\\\/\\\/i0.wp.com\\\/preelit.com\\\/wp-content\\\/uploads\\\/2022\\\/01\\\/PREE-logo.png?fit=782%2C414&ssl=1\",\"width\":782,\"height\":414,\"caption\":\"PREE\"},\"image\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/#\\\/schema\\\/logo\\\/image\\\/\"},\"sameAs\":[\"https:\\\/\\\/www.instagram.com\\\/preelitmag\\\/\",\"https:\\\/\\\/www.youtube.com\\\/channel\\\/UCuiY23cFTFeSXuap5c8dreg\"]},{\"@type\":\"Person\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/#\\\/schema\\\/person\\\/4518f338ddbd9b8905be3abd07c656f1\",\"name\":\"ap\",\"image\":{\"@type\":\"ImageObject\",\"inLanguage\":\"en-GB\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/secure.gravatar.com\\\/avatar\\\/8f2ffa09d7223d04aa89db2b3cafec3ec5304fb83073abc3d51dd47bfd948c51?s=96&d=identicon&r=g\",\"url\":\"https:\\\/\\\/secure.gravatar.com\\\/avatar\\\/8f2ffa09d7223d04aa89db2b3cafec3ec5304fb83073abc3d51dd47bfd948c51?s=96&d=identicon&r=g\",\"contentUrl\":\"https:\\\/\\\/secure.gravatar.com\\\/avatar\\\/8f2ffa09d7223d04aa89db2b3cafec3ec5304fb83073abc3d51dd47bfd948c51?s=96&d=identicon&r=g\",\"caption\":\"ap\"},\"description\":\"writer, editor and walkabout\",\"sameAs\":[\"http:\\\/\\\/anniepaulose.wordpress.com\"],\"url\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/author\\\/anniepaulose\\\/\"}]}<\/script>\n<!-- \/ Yoast SEO plugin. -->","yoast_head_json":{"title":"Village League - PREE","robots":{"index":"index","follow":"follow","max-snippet":"max-snippet:-1","max-image-preview":"max-image-preview:large","max-video-preview":"max-video-preview:-1"},"canonical":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/12\/11498\/","og_locale":"en_GB","og_type":"article","og_title":"Village League - PREE","og_description":"Sometimes when you meet up people from back in the day, it doesn\u2019t have nothing you could talk to them about. People who gone and they whole life change so much, they doesn\u2019t really have nothing in common with you again but the old days. And plenty people don\u2019t like to talk about back in the day. I could understand that.","og_url":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/12\/11498\/","og_site_name":"PREE","article_published_time":"2026-08-12T18:55:33+00:00","article_modified_time":"2026-08-12T19:04:44+00:00","og_image":[{"width":640,"height":480,"url":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/Cricket-club.jpeg","type":"image\/jpeg"}],"author":"ap","twitter_card":"summary_large_image","twitter_misc":{"Written by":"ap","Estimated reading time":"18 minutes"},"schema":{"@context":"https:\/\/schema.org","@graph":[{"@type":"Article","@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/12\/11498\/#article","isPartOf":{"@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/12\/11498\/"},"author":{"name":"ap","@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/#\/schema\/person\/4518f338ddbd9b8905be3abd07c656f1"},"headline":"Village League","datePublished":"2026-08-12T18:55:33+00:00","dateModified":"2026-08-12T19:04:44+00:00","mainEntityOfPage":{"@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/12\/11498\/"},"wordCount":3939,"commentCount":1,"publisher":{"@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/#organization"},"image":{"@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/12\/11498\/#primaryimage"},"thumbnailUrl":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/Cricket-club.jpeg?fit=640%2C480&ssl=1","articleSection":["Fiction","PREE 15","SHASTRI SOOKDEO"],"inLanguage":"en-GB","potentialAction":[{"@type":"CommentAction","name":"Comment","target":["https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/12\/11498\/#respond"]}]},{"@type":"WebPage","@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/12\/11498\/","url":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/12\/11498\/","name":"Village League - PREE","isPartOf":{"@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/#website"},"primaryImageOfPage":{"@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/12\/11498\/#primaryimage"},"image":{"@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/12\/11498\/#primaryimage"},"thumbnailUrl":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/Cricket-club.jpeg?fit=640%2C480&ssl=1","datePublished":"2026-08-12T18:55:33+00:00","dateModified":"2026-08-12T19:04:44+00:00","breadcrumb":{"@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/12\/11498\/#breadcrumb"},"inLanguage":"en-GB","potentialAction":[{"@type":"ReadAction","target":["https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/12\/11498\/"]}]},{"@type":"ImageObject","inLanguage":"en-GB","@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/12\/11498\/#primaryimage","url":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/Cricket-club.jpeg?fit=640%2C480&ssl=1","contentUrl":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/Cricket-club.jpeg?fit=640%2C480&ssl=1","width":640,"height":480},{"@type":"BreadcrumbList","@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/12\/11498\/#breadcrumb","itemListElement":[{"@type":"ListItem","position":1,"name":"Home","item":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/"},{"@type":"ListItem","position":2,"name":"Village League"}]},{"@type":"WebSite","@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/#website","url":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/","name":"PREE","description":"Caribbean. Writing.","publisher":{"@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/#organization"},"potentialAction":[{"@type":"SearchAction","target":{"@type":"EntryPoint","urlTemplate":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/?s={search_term_string}"},"query-input":{"@type":"PropertyValueSpecification","valueRequired":true,"valueName":"search_term_string"}}],"inLanguage":"en-GB"},{"@type":"Organization","@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/#organization","name":"PREE","url":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/","logo":{"@type":"ImageObject","inLanguage":"en-GB","@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/#\/schema\/logo\/image\/","url":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2022\/01\/PREE-logo.png?fit=782%2C414&ssl=1","contentUrl":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2022\/01\/PREE-logo.png?fit=782%2C414&ssl=1","width":782,"height":414,"caption":"PREE"},"image":{"@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/#\/schema\/logo\/image\/"},"sameAs":["https:\/\/www.instagram.com\/preelitmag\/","https:\/\/www.youtube.com\/channel\/UCuiY23cFTFeSXuap5c8dreg"]},{"@type":"Person","@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/#\/schema\/person\/4518f338ddbd9b8905be3abd07c656f1","name":"ap","image":{"@type":"ImageObject","inLanguage":"en-GB","@id":"https:\/\/secure.gravatar.com\/avatar\/8f2ffa09d7223d04aa89db2b3cafec3ec5304fb83073abc3d51dd47bfd948c51?s=96&d=identicon&r=g","url":"https:\/\/secure.gravatar.com\/avatar\/8f2ffa09d7223d04aa89db2b3cafec3ec5304fb83073abc3d51dd47bfd948c51?s=96&d=identicon&r=g","contentUrl":"https:\/\/secure.gravatar.com\/avatar\/8f2ffa09d7223d04aa89db2b3cafec3ec5304fb83073abc3d51dd47bfd948c51?s=96&d=identicon&r=g","caption":"ap"},"description":"writer, editor and walkabout","sameAs":["http:\/\/anniepaulose.wordpress.com"],"url":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/author\/anniepaulose\/"}]}},"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_likes_enabled":true,"jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/s9tXKW-11498","jetpack_featured_media_url":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/Cricket-club.jpeg?fit=640%2C480&ssl=1","_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/11498","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/15102494"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=11498"}],"version-history":[{"count":5,"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/11498\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":11503,"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/11498\/revisions\/11503"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/11445"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=11498"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=11498"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=11498"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}},{"id":11492,"date":"2026-08-12T13:38:35","date_gmt":"2026-08-12T18:38:35","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/?p=11492"},"modified":"2026-08-12T14:01:24","modified_gmt":"2026-08-12T19:01:24","slug":"11492","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/12\/11492\/","title":{"rendered":"Voyage in Three Parts"},"content":{"rendered":"<p>YASMINA CABRERA<\/p>\n<p>I<\/p>\n<p>When I was four years old a golden sun<br \/>\nHung from my father\u2019s throat<br \/>\nWith my pinky I counted each ray<br \/>\nNo one else could tell but<br \/>\nWhen it winked at me<br \/>\nI knew the truth of who he was<br \/>\nHelios come down from his chariot<br \/>\nTo watch me grow into myself<\/p>\n<p>This was when he split sugarcane<br \/>\nIn half and I would eat it from his hands<br \/>\nThis was when the boys would sell water in small bags<br \/>\nSo that if you were thirsty you would have to drink<br \/>\nTheir fingerprints too<\/p>\n<p>This was when my mother\u2019s hair hung low<br \/>\nAlmost at her feet<br \/>\nLike a jet black train that announced her return<br \/>\nThis was when my father cleaned out the closet<br \/>\nTall mahogany doors<br \/>\nAnd found a poem written to her by a man we did not know<\/p>\n<p>My father laughed<br \/>\nLike the sun does every time a candle is lit<br \/>\nMy mother blushed<br \/>\nWell I was four years old I did not know<br \/>\nThat power is a dance<\/p>\n<p>II<\/p>\n<p>On the day that my father was born<br \/>\nHe threw up his mother\u2019s milk<br \/>\nAnd would not open his eyes<br \/>\nHis mother trembled as she held him<br \/>\nBecause she knew he would not live<br \/>\nThis was when glances could poison<br \/>\nAnd you could not know which of the ladies<br \/>\nYou went to church with prayed<br \/>\nThat you would die<br \/>\nBefore you took your first breath<br \/>\nThis is now<br \/>\nFor I was born with his mother\u2019s nose, her wide forehead,<br \/>\nand her unforgiving tongue<br \/>\nLike her, my memory is long<br \/>\nAnd that which you wish dead<br \/>\nOnly grows again and more stubborn<br \/>\nOn the day that my father almost died<br \/>\nIt was the first day that he had been alive<br \/>\nHis mother took him to a medicine woman<br \/>\nWho cleansed his little body<br \/>\nWith smoke, and ashes, and his mother\u2019s sweat<br \/>\n\u201cIf he lives past noon\u201d she said<br \/>\n\u201cBring him to me, and we will cleanse him again.\u201d<br \/>\nThis was when<br \/>\nI exhaled<br \/>\nOver a drop of the oil they used to anoint his head<\/p>\n<p>III<\/p>\n<p>And when my mother was born<br \/>\nHer father would only speak in morse code<br \/>\nDots and slashes that cut<br \/>\nWith precision<br \/>\nHe raised me too but<br \/>\nThis was after half his stomach had been removed<br \/>\nMaybe I was the beginning of his redemption<br \/>\nThough really it was because he only had half his guts<br \/>\nAnd my mother had grown tall and cold and had flown<br \/>\nHalfway across the world with that glinting black curtain<br \/>\nThat surrounds her<br \/>\nThe fear of her was strong<br \/>\nShe could leave her infant in his home<br \/>\nAnd know she would not be touched<br \/>\nBut part of it had to have been love<br \/>\nHe kissed a lizard on the mouth<br \/>\nSo that I would not cry<br \/>\nHe used a machete<br \/>\nTo shave a coconut<br \/>\nHe hacked it open<br \/>\nAnd gave me its water to drink<\/p>\n\n\t\t<div class='author-shortcodes'>\n\t\t\t<div class='author-inner'>\n\t\t\t\t<div class='author-info'>\n\t\t\tYasmina Maria Cabrera (she\/her) is a writer born in The Bronx and raised in Santo Domingo. She comes from a long line of oral storytellers, fabulists, and weavers of tall tales. Her loved ones speak to her in dreams, Nature speaks to her in waking life. She\u2019s trying to be a better listener. She\u2019s a Brooklyn Poets Fellowship finalist. She holds a B.A in English, with concentrations in Africana Studies and Latina\/o Studies, from Williams College.\n\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"<p>This was when my mother\u2019s hair hung low<br \/>\nAlmost at her feet<br \/>\nLike a jet black train that announced her return<br \/>\nThis was when my father cleaned out the closet<br \/>\nTall mahogany doors<br \/>\nAnd found a poem written to her by a man we did not know<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":15102494,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_et_pb_use_builder":"","_et_pb_old_content":"","_et_gb_content_width":"","_coblocks_attr":"","_coblocks_dimensions":"","_coblocks_responsive_height":"","_coblocks_accordion_ie_support":"","_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_wpcom_ai_launchpad_first_post":false,"_jetpack_feature_clip_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"{title}\r\n\r\n{excerpt}\r\n\r\n{url}","jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":{"image_generator_settings":{"template":"highway","default_image_id":0,"font":"","enabled":false},"version":2},"_wpas_customize_per_network":false,"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false},"categories":[422,728594591,728594597],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-11492","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-poetry","category-pree-15","category-yasmina-cabrera","et-doesnt-have-format-content","et_post_format-et-post-format-standard"],"yoast_head":"<!-- This site is optimized with the Yoast SEO plugin v28.5 - https:\/\/yoast.com\/product\/yoast-seo-wordpress\/ -->\n<title>Voyage in Three Parts - PREE<\/title>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/12\/11492\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_GB\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"Voyage in Three Parts - PREE\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"This was when my mother\u2019s hair hung low Almost at her feet Like a jet black train that announced her return This was when my father cleaned out the closet Tall mahogany doors And found a poem written to her by a man we did not know\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:url\" content=\"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/12\/11492\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:site_name\" content=\"PREE\" \/>\n<meta property=\"article:published_time\" content=\"2026-08-12T18:38:35+00:00\" \/>\n<meta property=\"article:modified_time\" content=\"2026-08-12T19:01:24+00:00\" \/>\n<meta name=\"author\" content=\"ap\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:card\" content=\"summary_large_image\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:label1\" content=\"Written by\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:data1\" content=\"ap\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:label2\" content=\"Estimated reading time\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:data2\" content=\"3 minutes\" \/>\n<script type=\"application\/ld+json\" class=\"yoast-schema-graph\">{\"@context\":\"https:\\\/\\\/schema.org\",\"@graph\":[{\"@type\":\"Article\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/12\\\/11492\\\/#article\",\"isPartOf\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/12\\\/11492\\\/\"},\"author\":{\"name\":\"ap\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/#\\\/schema\\\/person\\\/4518f338ddbd9b8905be3abd07c656f1\"},\"headline\":\"Voyage in Three Parts\",\"datePublished\":\"2026-08-12T18:38:35+00:00\",\"dateModified\":\"2026-08-12T19:01:24+00:00\",\"mainEntityOfPage\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/12\\\/11492\\\/\"},\"wordCount\":585,\"commentCount\":1,\"publisher\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/#organization\"},\"articleSection\":[\"Poetry\",\"PREE 15\",\"YASMINA CABRERA\"],\"inLanguage\":\"en-GB\",\"potentialAction\":[{\"@type\":\"CommentAction\",\"name\":\"Comment\",\"target\":[\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/12\\\/11492\\\/#respond\"]}]},{\"@type\":\"WebPage\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/12\\\/11492\\\/\",\"url\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/12\\\/11492\\\/\",\"name\":\"Voyage in Three Parts - PREE\",\"isPartOf\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/#website\"},\"datePublished\":\"2026-08-12T18:38:35+00:00\",\"dateModified\":\"2026-08-12T19:01:24+00:00\",\"breadcrumb\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/12\\\/11492\\\/#breadcrumb\"},\"inLanguage\":\"en-GB\",\"potentialAction\":[{\"@type\":\"ReadAction\",\"target\":[\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/12\\\/11492\\\/\"]}]},{\"@type\":\"BreadcrumbList\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/12\\\/11492\\\/#breadcrumb\",\"itemListElement\":[{\"@type\":\"ListItem\",\"position\":1,\"name\":\"Home\",\"item\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/\"},{\"@type\":\"ListItem\",\"position\":2,\"name\":\"Voyage in Three Parts\"}]},{\"@type\":\"WebSite\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/#website\",\"url\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/\",\"name\":\"PREE\",\"description\":\"Caribbean. Writing.\",\"publisher\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/#organization\"},\"potentialAction\":[{\"@type\":\"SearchAction\",\"target\":{\"@type\":\"EntryPoint\",\"urlTemplate\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/?s={search_term_string}\"},\"query-input\":{\"@type\":\"PropertyValueSpecification\",\"valueRequired\":true,\"valueName\":\"search_term_string\"}}],\"inLanguage\":\"en-GB\"},{\"@type\":\"Organization\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/#organization\",\"name\":\"PREE\",\"url\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/\",\"logo\":{\"@type\":\"ImageObject\",\"inLanguage\":\"en-GB\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/#\\\/schema\\\/logo\\\/image\\\/\",\"url\":\"https:\\\/\\\/i0.wp.com\\\/preelit.com\\\/wp-content\\\/uploads\\\/2022\\\/01\\\/PREE-logo.png?fit=782%2C414&ssl=1\",\"contentUrl\":\"https:\\\/\\\/i0.wp.com\\\/preelit.com\\\/wp-content\\\/uploads\\\/2022\\\/01\\\/PREE-logo.png?fit=782%2C414&ssl=1\",\"width\":782,\"height\":414,\"caption\":\"PREE\"},\"image\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/#\\\/schema\\\/logo\\\/image\\\/\"},\"sameAs\":[\"https:\\\/\\\/www.instagram.com\\\/preelitmag\\\/\",\"https:\\\/\\\/www.youtube.com\\\/channel\\\/UCuiY23cFTFeSXuap5c8dreg\"]},{\"@type\":\"Person\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/#\\\/schema\\\/person\\\/4518f338ddbd9b8905be3abd07c656f1\",\"name\":\"ap\",\"image\":{\"@type\":\"ImageObject\",\"inLanguage\":\"en-GB\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/secure.gravatar.com\\\/avatar\\\/8f2ffa09d7223d04aa89db2b3cafec3ec5304fb83073abc3d51dd47bfd948c51?s=96&d=identicon&r=g\",\"url\":\"https:\\\/\\\/secure.gravatar.com\\\/avatar\\\/8f2ffa09d7223d04aa89db2b3cafec3ec5304fb83073abc3d51dd47bfd948c51?s=96&d=identicon&r=g\",\"contentUrl\":\"https:\\\/\\\/secure.gravatar.com\\\/avatar\\\/8f2ffa09d7223d04aa89db2b3cafec3ec5304fb83073abc3d51dd47bfd948c51?s=96&d=identicon&r=g\",\"caption\":\"ap\"},\"description\":\"writer, editor and walkabout\",\"sameAs\":[\"http:\\\/\\\/anniepaulose.wordpress.com\"],\"url\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/author\\\/anniepaulose\\\/\"}]}<\/script>\n<!-- \/ Yoast SEO plugin. -->","yoast_head_json":{"title":"Voyage in Three Parts - PREE","robots":{"index":"index","follow":"follow","max-snippet":"max-snippet:-1","max-image-preview":"max-image-preview:large","max-video-preview":"max-video-preview:-1"},"canonical":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/12\/11492\/","og_locale":"en_GB","og_type":"article","og_title":"Voyage in Three Parts - PREE","og_description":"This was when my mother\u2019s hair hung low Almost at her feet Like a jet black train that announced her return This was when my father cleaned out the closet Tall mahogany doors And found a poem written to her by a man we did not know","og_url":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/12\/11492\/","og_site_name":"PREE","article_published_time":"2026-08-12T18:38:35+00:00","article_modified_time":"2026-08-12T19:01:24+00:00","author":"ap","twitter_card":"summary_large_image","twitter_misc":{"Written by":"ap","Estimated reading time":"3 minutes"},"schema":{"@context":"https:\/\/schema.org","@graph":[{"@type":"Article","@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/12\/11492\/#article","isPartOf":{"@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/12\/11492\/"},"author":{"name":"ap","@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/#\/schema\/person\/4518f338ddbd9b8905be3abd07c656f1"},"headline":"Voyage in Three Parts","datePublished":"2026-08-12T18:38:35+00:00","dateModified":"2026-08-12T19:01:24+00:00","mainEntityOfPage":{"@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/12\/11492\/"},"wordCount":585,"commentCount":1,"publisher":{"@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/#organization"},"articleSection":["Poetry","PREE 15","YASMINA CABRERA"],"inLanguage":"en-GB","potentialAction":[{"@type":"CommentAction","name":"Comment","target":["https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/12\/11492\/#respond"]}]},{"@type":"WebPage","@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/12\/11492\/","url":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/12\/11492\/","name":"Voyage in Three Parts - PREE","isPartOf":{"@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/#website"},"datePublished":"2026-08-12T18:38:35+00:00","dateModified":"2026-08-12T19:01:24+00:00","breadcrumb":{"@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/12\/11492\/#breadcrumb"},"inLanguage":"en-GB","potentialAction":[{"@type":"ReadAction","target":["https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/12\/11492\/"]}]},{"@type":"BreadcrumbList","@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/12\/11492\/#breadcrumb","itemListElement":[{"@type":"ListItem","position":1,"name":"Home","item":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/"},{"@type":"ListItem","position":2,"name":"Voyage in Three Parts"}]},{"@type":"WebSite","@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/#website","url":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/","name":"PREE","description":"Caribbean. Writing.","publisher":{"@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/#organization"},"potentialAction":[{"@type":"SearchAction","target":{"@type":"EntryPoint","urlTemplate":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/?s={search_term_string}"},"query-input":{"@type":"PropertyValueSpecification","valueRequired":true,"valueName":"search_term_string"}}],"inLanguage":"en-GB"},{"@type":"Organization","@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/#organization","name":"PREE","url":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/","logo":{"@type":"ImageObject","inLanguage":"en-GB","@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/#\/schema\/logo\/image\/","url":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2022\/01\/PREE-logo.png?fit=782%2C414&ssl=1","contentUrl":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2022\/01\/PREE-logo.png?fit=782%2C414&ssl=1","width":782,"height":414,"caption":"PREE"},"image":{"@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/#\/schema\/logo\/image\/"},"sameAs":["https:\/\/www.instagram.com\/preelitmag\/","https:\/\/www.youtube.com\/channel\/UCuiY23cFTFeSXuap5c8dreg"]},{"@type":"Person","@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/#\/schema\/person\/4518f338ddbd9b8905be3abd07c656f1","name":"ap","image":{"@type":"ImageObject","inLanguage":"en-GB","@id":"https:\/\/secure.gravatar.com\/avatar\/8f2ffa09d7223d04aa89db2b3cafec3ec5304fb83073abc3d51dd47bfd948c51?s=96&d=identicon&r=g","url":"https:\/\/secure.gravatar.com\/avatar\/8f2ffa09d7223d04aa89db2b3cafec3ec5304fb83073abc3d51dd47bfd948c51?s=96&d=identicon&r=g","contentUrl":"https:\/\/secure.gravatar.com\/avatar\/8f2ffa09d7223d04aa89db2b3cafec3ec5304fb83073abc3d51dd47bfd948c51?s=96&d=identicon&r=g","caption":"ap"},"description":"writer, editor and walkabout","sameAs":["http:\/\/anniepaulose.wordpress.com"],"url":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/author\/anniepaulose\/"}]}},"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_likes_enabled":true,"jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/s9tXKW-11492","jetpack_featured_media_url":"","_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/11492","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/15102494"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=11492"}],"version-history":[{"count":5,"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/11492\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":11497,"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/11492\/revisions\/11497"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=11492"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=11492"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=11492"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}},{"id":11485,"date":"2026-08-12T13:28:06","date_gmt":"2026-08-12T18:28:06","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/?p=11485"},"modified":"2026-08-12T14:54:00","modified_gmt":"2026-08-12T19:54:00","slug":"through-babylon-and-other-poems","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/12\/through-babylon-and-other-poems\/","title":{"rendered":"Through Babylon and Other Poems"},"content":{"rendered":"<p><span style=\"color: #0000ff;\">SHORTLISTED<\/span><\/p>\n<p>GEORGIO RUSSELL<\/p>\n<h3>Through Babylon<\/h3>\n<p style=\"text-align: right;\">Gold has become the color of distance,<br \/>\nand of your sorrow.<\/p>\n<p style=\"text-align: right;\">Jay Wright<em>, Journey to the Place of Ghosts<\/em><\/p>\n<p>We were the last to leave the green minibus<br \/>\nand join the mob and babel of that plaza<br \/>\nwhere the down and uptown folks force a marriage<br \/>\nbetween terminals, pedestrians and their patois rife<br \/>\nas the flies that tried to find a light<br \/>\nalong my face. The smut scent of wet earth<br \/>\nextended a vow of flowers across the new parish<br \/>\nas well, almost unanimous, petrichor<br \/>\nsmuggled in with the passenger chatter<br \/>\nat the source of our travel, Ocho Rios<br \/>\nand its coda notes of rain. I held my blue<br \/>\numbrella parallel to my leg<br \/>\nlike rifles at the patrolling soldiers\u2019 sides.<\/p>\n<p>We started at the foot of the clocktower<br \/>\nnear the notorious taxi pilots, parked<br \/>\nand barking fares in a wild rivalry.<br \/>\nAlong that walk toward the bank<br \/>\nand other errands, I heard and saw<br \/>\nthe city dissected, the rawness<br \/>\nbelow what a good brochure<br \/>\nmight show. The idle lions of reggae<br \/>\nglued the lesser sounds together:<br \/>\nthe krik and krak of a trolley\u2019s<br \/>\nold joints, the indecisive hiss<br \/>\nof plastic, ol\u00e9s sung loud<br \/>\nby rummy men, blessing Barcelona.<\/p>\n<p>Farther down, a quarrel lifted like a blunt<br \/>\ncutlass, high as a higgler\u2019s outcry<br \/>\nfor Christ. A patty\u2019s paper casket rode<br \/>\na minor hemorrhage of water<br \/>\ntoward a storm drain, clotted with losses<br \/>\nborne that day and days before.<br \/>\nI heard and dropped a proverb boasting<br \/>\nhope for the world, the speaker seen<br \/>\nfrom the street, a woman from a higher time.<br \/>\nHer mouth mashed in a dark pout,<br \/>\nthe lantern unlit on the sill beside her<br \/>\na faded incantation, she played<br \/>\nthe veiny matador, raising the red<br \/>\ndrench of her nightie beyond<br \/>\nthe rusty grille that barred her<br \/>\nwindow, flashing the tears in that fabric<br \/>\nto bait the high bull of the sun.<\/p>\n<p>Nobody I saw had paused to study<br \/>\nthe entropy, no awe for the ordinary<br \/>\nhour, the murderous urban order,<br \/>\nwhose final prophet was a doorway<br \/>\nto several abandoned storeys, whose<br \/>\nbreath was the urine sighed<br \/>\nonto the streets. The smell of exile<br \/>\ngilded the spices, people, and posthumous<br \/>\npromise of rain, and there, before<br \/>\nthat hovel, my lover, who once lived<br \/>\nin that place she labeled <em>Babylon<br \/>\n<\/em>remembered the gold rings<br \/>\nI had never removed all semester.<\/p>\n<p>She rushed to peel each band<br \/>\nand stow them in her handbag, rescue<br \/>\nmy fingers from the secret<br \/>\nscythes inside the crowd, alarm<br \/>\nand lecture in her dialect, the hasty<br \/>\nsummary of blood spilled before<br \/>\nby muggers who would trade those karats<br \/>\nto quench what angers moved inside.<br \/>\nSatan had come anew to stage his comedies<br \/>\nin Kingston, ever-present<br \/>\nbehind the scenery, the penury,<br \/>\nlike the mountain there with its overcast<br \/>\ncrown folding your vision<br \/>\nin all directions, spectral and archaic.<\/p>\n<p>For the rest of that walk, the fear<br \/>\nmy love had given me<br \/>\nmade me hide my hands from them<br \/>\nin the lock of my pockets,<br \/>\nas any migrant or Midas might have,<\/p>\n<p>as if anything I touched<br \/>\nwould become coated with the glories<br \/>\nthey were seeking, and they,<br \/>\nbelieving then that I could provide<br \/>\nsuch light, such deliverance,<br \/>\nwould sever my hand<br \/>\nand use it to clutch forever<br \/>\nthe squalid organ of their city.<\/p>\n<h3>Blue Season<\/h3>\n<p><strong>I<\/strong><\/p>\n<p>With black sight, with skin black as faith,<br \/>\nwe walked along the dark hallway<br \/>\nin the wake of our father&#8217;s flooded steps<br \/>\nwhile outside the tiled house, whose<br \/>\neyes we lidded with plywood<br \/>\nin the dry light, the first of three storms<br \/>\nour region would see that season<br \/>\nmade an awaited invasion. A stubborn<br \/>\npercussion knuckled through the rooftop<\/p>\n<p>we feared the winds would scalp, exposing<br \/>\nthe roachy nature of our quick survival<br \/>\nscurry. Two days\u2019 deluge \u2014 the lamp<br \/>\nin the larger bedroom had fallen barren,<br \/>\nbatteries defunct in each flashlight, a ceiling<br \/>\nleak above the bed exiling five bodies<br \/>\ninto passage. My father in front of the wade<br \/>\nline, inching the canal toward a new<br \/>\nilluminated nation: the den, that evening,<\/p>\n<p>was a Canaan of candlelights, the far scent<br \/>\nof its cinnamon a beacon half-parting<br \/>\nthe opacity \u2014 he voiced a few alarms<br \/>\ndown the one-lane corridor, a warning<br \/>\nof things amorphous in the water<br \/>\nwe maneuvered, reaching behind and forward<br \/>\nfor each other, the way the lost<br \/>\nwill grope their own breath for god.<br \/>\nOur mother, at the tailend, told us to wing six arms<\/p>\n<p>against the walls, to prop our progress better<br \/>\nin the blindness \u2014 soon we saw<br \/>\nthat jarred light jig upon a surface, behind<br \/>\na handsewn curtain stapled jamb to jamb<br \/>\nas mice that entered with the rain ran<br \/>\nin weaves between our feet. It was a dark<br \/>\ngrown noisy with the knowledge<br \/>\nthat a weaker hurricane had caved<br \/>\na neighbor&#8217;s livelihood in, lifted the dead<\/p>\n<p>from their rest, the seas eager to offer<br \/>\nservice and scatter the spirit \u2014 a dark<br \/>\nhaving come to full consensus<br \/>\nat the crafting of our safety, those boards<br \/>\nwe helped our father fix, armor against the sago<br \/>\npalms seeded after yesteryear&#8217;s weather.<br \/>\nThey begged sanctuary, banging<br \/>\nthe wood while the farther trees surrendered<br \/>\nloud amputations to the conquering.<\/p>\n<p><strong>II<\/strong><\/p>\n<p>Jaundice of noon, and the yard was strewn<br \/>\nwith the storm chaff and the roads<br \/>\nrashy with debris and other children<br \/>\nwalking the tightrope of grounded,<br \/>\ncrisscross conifers. Phone poles lay<br \/>\ntoppled next to potholes<br \/>\nand puddles, and the panorama was dim<br \/>\nas the island\u2019s outage, a secular Lent<br \/>\nwe disobeyed, eating canned food and fruits<\/p>\n<p>basketed after the menopause of their uprooted<br \/>\nkingdoms. Mother took the twins to town<br \/>\nto buy wellbeing, and they had gone<br \/>\nlike Noah&#8217;s dove as well to camera<br \/>\nthe damage. I swept the prelude of our drowning<br \/>\nover the doorsill, beneath coo-crazy pigeons<br \/>\nhidden in the eaves,<br \/>\nonce in a while pausing my broom to prove<\/p>\n<p>how tragedy tugs one\u2019s gaze, the confetti<br \/>\nof that annual carnival caught<br \/>\nin every eyeball, like endless melanin flecks<br \/>\ninside a bloodshot archipelago \u2014<br \/>\nand this was no moment to lament<br \/>\nwhat loss was undiscovered, the news<br \/>\nof known names under muscles of rubble \u2014<br \/>\nthe second crusade would come<br \/>\nfrom the East in quick weeks, and so my father<\/p>\n<p>was a stoic below a steely fog<br \/>\nof clouds, securing the shingles<br \/>\nfor when the next weeping drummed our sleep.<br \/>\nA far calypso scored the repair, those sticky sagos<br \/>\nnear the windows still sturdy as the beams<br \/>\nmy father showed me when this home<br \/>\nwas still in the bone phase. Later, mother<br \/>\nreturned with patois report, and her passion<br \/>\nhonored the native hurt and the flat lands\u2019<\/p>\n<p>learned scowls \u2014 again the shallow graves robbed,<br \/>\na small morgue\u2019s worth of poverty<br \/>\nleveled inland, smorgasbord for seabirds<br \/>\nwhile the shanties standing on stilts fell<br \/>\ncripple, hauled away by water \u2014 but this<br \/>\nwas already history, this ritual lashing,<br \/>\nthe route those blas\u00e9 masters traveled to breed<br \/>\nagony rutted in our bones, cradle of blood.<\/p>\n<p><strong>III<\/strong><br \/>\nSurrounded by new lanterns, the ceiling<br \/>\nseemingly healed in spite of long stains<br \/>\nin the stucco, we were a cluster<br \/>\naligned on a queen size, strung together<br \/>\nwith our sweat, held in the howl and bully<br \/>\nof one recurring curse \u2014 my kin<br \/>\nwas any who heard those hammers slam,<br \/>\nwho waited in partial darkness<br \/>\nfor morning to mention which parish<\/p>\n<p>or what body the night had swallowed<br \/>\ninto ghosthood \u2014 we lay ourselves<br \/>\nso clueless of tomorrow, the day we&#8217;d we lose<br \/>\nthis home to the yearly threat<br \/>\nof empire, lead our fearful shadows<\/p>\n<p>into shelters, the odor of moldy clothing<br \/>\na proper omen: that foreign pox would ruin us<br \/>\nsoon, begin the long bane of plundered light.<br \/>\nThe lost will often conjure god,<br \/>\nand that particular time my father decided<br \/>\nto hold the faux gold of his saxophone.<br \/>\nThen our mother sprang her soprano praise<br \/>\nwhile we, three kids who stink of kerosene,<br \/>\nchoired and clapped a coup d&#8217;\u00e9tat, the storm<\/p>\n<p>belittled by the sun of our salvation<br \/>\nsongs \u2014 hours we mustered the sound<br \/>\nof simple worship, our blues easing<br \/>\nthe blue season, and all this fat faith intact<br \/>\nuntil, from heaven, more water poured<\/p>\n<p>to pause performance, recall to us<br \/>\nhow close we were to corpses<br \/>\nin the hissing rain. Instead of heading to the den<br \/>\nagain, misfortune made our torsos<br \/>\ntambourines of laughter, and we let<br \/>\nthe new leaks brim as if, in a minute,<br \/>\nthe roof would peel a full cesarean, finally,<br \/>\nand hands would lower soon<br \/>\nto lift us from unnatural blackness.<\/p>\n<h3>Bone-Bingo<\/h3>\n<p>That year a violence made the ocean<br \/>\nsurge and spoon the humans out the shallow<br \/>\nground of a churchyard, the hurricane in question<br \/>\nspreading our dead among the miscellany,<br \/>\nbanana leaves and zinc, a broken galore left<br \/>\non the roads like crepe paper after parade.<br \/>\nI saw those ditches pictured in the island<br \/>\ndiction. In this re-telling, I become a griot<br \/>\nmyself, speaking on soily voids, the frazzled<br \/>\ngrass, acres unfurling like the shrouds<br \/>\nthat kept each body unbitten by bug<br \/>\nor crow, the stony chiseled epitaphs<br \/>\nshuffled about, such that those who died<br \/>\nbefore us were misquoted quite often.<\/p>\n<p><!-- obsidian --><\/p>\n<p>Front page, locals were collecting the bones,<br \/>\nthe first gleaners who had found<br \/>\ntheir own spines folded, forensic in the post<br \/>\n-mortem of a storm, bending to compose the past<br \/>\nagain. After the gazettes, all news gave over<br \/>\nto the grapevine, and we grew up hearing<br \/>\nhow the elders\u2019 eyes had turned to give them<br \/>\nx-ray vision, having spied a pelvis in the gumbo<br \/>\nlimbo tree, a foot the floods had cut<br \/>\nand conveyed to settle in a stray\u2019s stash,<br \/>\nthe plosive weight of a ribcage<br \/>\nfound in the bramble, hut for the coqu\u00eds<br \/>\nkeening names in severed notes.<br \/>\nThey sang those iambs to guide<br \/>\nthe night parties looking, with propane,<br \/>\nfor remains to place in the old sanctuary,<br \/>\nwhere none have prayed in a century<br \/>\nand boxes square as books line the dusty<br \/>\nlinen carpet, holding the bones<br \/>\nthat lay for years in patient generations.<\/p>\n<p>So absurd, that searching, my people<br \/>\nmade a game to cope with it,<br \/>\ncalling victory at the skull chunk<br \/>\nin the lagoon, <em>bingo <\/em>to the hawksbill<br \/>\ncrawling the bank with a partial<br \/>\npatella, some aboriginal jutting<br \/>\nfrom its beak, the femurs they looked for<br \/>\nin palmettos by the tourist cabana,<br \/>\na coccyx blending with the conch<br \/>\nand quahog\u2019s hearses in the sand.<\/p>\n<p>They buried that vigilance in the genes<br \/>\nof their children, my father who said<br \/>\n<em>bingo <\/em>because he saw your cigarette<br \/>\nas one of few phalanges, a naked pinkie<br \/>\ndangling coolly out the corner<br \/>\nof your mouth, and me who calls<br \/>\nthose pillars before the Government<br \/>\nHouse a line of giant tibia.<br \/>\nFossils from the former current emerge<br \/>\neven now, this shibboleth long<br \/>\nas language, though we rarely discover<br \/>\na full frame, intact as a word<br \/>\nthat keeps both body and meaning<br \/>\ndespite the calendar&#8217;s code-switch.<\/p>\n<p>I used to wonder why, after so long,<br \/>\nthe bones kept being found<br \/>\nand felt a fallacy trouble me, as if some juju<br \/>\non the land had made these fractures<br \/>\nappear every year, so long<br \/>\nas we were looking, evidence of old<br \/>\nviolence sprung from our quest<br \/>\nto piecemeal memory<br \/>\nback together, no end in sight<br \/>\nto such recovery. But just last June,<br \/>\non my walk to junior Jonkonu,<br \/>\ntoward the cowbells clanging a merry<br \/>\nmood, I found by the cove<br \/>\nwhere a child\u2019s perfect decay<br \/>\nonce came to light<br \/>\nanother cr\u00e8che of kids<br \/>\nswimming laughter<br \/>\nand for time enough forgot<br \/>\nthat urge to analyze history, the old gyre<br \/>\nlong gone and frog-song sweeter here<br \/>\nwhere faith and festivals abide beside our bones.<\/p>\n\n\t\t<div class='author-shortcodes'>\n\t\t\t<div class='author-inner'>\n\t\t\t\t<div class='author-image'>\n\t\t\t<img src='' alt='' \/>\n\t\t\t<div class='author-overlay'><\/div>\n\t\t<\/div> \n\t\t<div class='author-info'>\n\t\t\tGeorgio Russell is an award-winning Bahamian poet and alumnus of the University of the West Indies, Jamaica. He is a fellow of the Obsidian Foundation and the Undocupoets. His poems have appeared in\u00a0Frontier Poetry,\u00a0The London Magazine,\u00a0and\u00a0POETRY,\u00a0among many others. He believes that Braithwaite and Walcott were equals.\n\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"<p>That year a violence made the ocean<br \/>\nsurge and spoon the humans out the shallow<br \/>\nground of a churchyard, the hurricane in question<br \/>\nspreading our dead among the miscellany,<br \/>\nbanana leaves and zinc, a broken galore left<br \/>\non the roads like crepe paper after parade.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":15102494,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_et_pb_use_builder":"","_et_pb_old_content":"","_et_gb_content_width":"","_coblocks_attr":"","_coblocks_dimensions":"","_coblocks_responsive_height":"","_coblocks_accordion_ie_support":"","_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_wpcom_ai_launchpad_first_post":false,"_jetpack_feature_clip_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"{title}\r\n\r\n{excerpt}\r\n\r\n{url}","jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":{"image_generator_settings":{"template":"highway","default_image_id":0,"font":"","enabled":false},"version":2},"_wpas_customize_per_network":false,"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false},"categories":[718546753,422,728594591,728594599],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-11485","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-georgio-russell","category-poetry","category-pree-15","category-shortlisted","et-doesnt-have-format-content","et_post_format-et-post-format-standard"],"yoast_head":"<!-- This site is optimized with the Yoast SEO plugin v28.5 - https:\/\/yoast.com\/product\/yoast-seo-wordpress\/ -->\n<title>Through Babylon and Other Poems - PREE<\/title>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/12\/through-babylon-and-other-poems\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_GB\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"Through Babylon and Other Poems - PREE\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"That year a violence made the ocean surge and spoon the humans out the shallow ground of a churchyard, the hurricane in question spreading our dead among the miscellany, banana leaves and zinc, a broken galore left on the roads like crepe paper after parade.\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:url\" content=\"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/12\/through-babylon-and-other-poems\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:site_name\" content=\"PREE\" \/>\n<meta property=\"article:published_time\" content=\"2026-08-12T18:28:06+00:00\" \/>\n<meta property=\"article:modified_time\" content=\"2026-08-12T19:54:00+00:00\" \/>\n<meta name=\"author\" content=\"ap\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:card\" content=\"summary_large_image\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:label1\" content=\"Written by\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:data1\" content=\"ap\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:label2\" content=\"Estimated reading time\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:data2\" content=\"9 minutes\" \/>\n<script type=\"application\/ld+json\" class=\"yoast-schema-graph\">{\"@context\":\"https:\\\/\\\/schema.org\",\"@graph\":[{\"@type\":\"Article\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/12\\\/through-babylon-and-other-poems\\\/#article\",\"isPartOf\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/12\\\/through-babylon-and-other-poems\\\/\"},\"author\":{\"name\":\"ap\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/#\\\/schema\\\/person\\\/4518f338ddbd9b8905be3abd07c656f1\"},\"headline\":\"Through Babylon and Other Poems\",\"datePublished\":\"2026-08-12T18:28:06+00:00\",\"dateModified\":\"2026-08-12T19:54:00+00:00\",\"mainEntityOfPage\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/12\\\/through-babylon-and-other-poems\\\/\"},\"wordCount\":2015,\"commentCount\":0,\"publisher\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/#organization\"},\"articleSection\":[\"GEORGIO RUSSELL\",\"Poetry\",\"PREE 15\",\"SHORTLISTED\"],\"inLanguage\":\"en-GB\",\"potentialAction\":[{\"@type\":\"CommentAction\",\"name\":\"Comment\",\"target\":[\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/12\\\/through-babylon-and-other-poems\\\/#respond\"]}]},{\"@type\":\"WebPage\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/12\\\/through-babylon-and-other-poems\\\/\",\"url\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/12\\\/through-babylon-and-other-poems\\\/\",\"name\":\"Through Babylon and Other Poems - PREE\",\"isPartOf\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/#website\"},\"datePublished\":\"2026-08-12T18:28:06+00:00\",\"dateModified\":\"2026-08-12T19:54:00+00:00\",\"breadcrumb\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/12\\\/through-babylon-and-other-poems\\\/#breadcrumb\"},\"inLanguage\":\"en-GB\",\"potentialAction\":[{\"@type\":\"ReadAction\",\"target\":[\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/12\\\/through-babylon-and-other-poems\\\/\"]}]},{\"@type\":\"BreadcrumbList\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/12\\\/through-babylon-and-other-poems\\\/#breadcrumb\",\"itemListElement\":[{\"@type\":\"ListItem\",\"position\":1,\"name\":\"Home\",\"item\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/\"},{\"@type\":\"ListItem\",\"position\":2,\"name\":\"Through Babylon and Other Poems\"}]},{\"@type\":\"WebSite\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/#website\",\"url\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/\",\"name\":\"PREE\",\"description\":\"Caribbean. Writing.\",\"publisher\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/#organization\"},\"potentialAction\":[{\"@type\":\"SearchAction\",\"target\":{\"@type\":\"EntryPoint\",\"urlTemplate\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/?s={search_term_string}\"},\"query-input\":{\"@type\":\"PropertyValueSpecification\",\"valueRequired\":true,\"valueName\":\"search_term_string\"}}],\"inLanguage\":\"en-GB\"},{\"@type\":\"Organization\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/#organization\",\"name\":\"PREE\",\"url\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/\",\"logo\":{\"@type\":\"ImageObject\",\"inLanguage\":\"en-GB\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/#\\\/schema\\\/logo\\\/image\\\/\",\"url\":\"https:\\\/\\\/i0.wp.com\\\/preelit.com\\\/wp-content\\\/uploads\\\/2022\\\/01\\\/PREE-logo.png?fit=782%2C414&ssl=1\",\"contentUrl\":\"https:\\\/\\\/i0.wp.com\\\/preelit.com\\\/wp-content\\\/uploads\\\/2022\\\/01\\\/PREE-logo.png?fit=782%2C414&ssl=1\",\"width\":782,\"height\":414,\"caption\":\"PREE\"},\"image\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/#\\\/schema\\\/logo\\\/image\\\/\"},\"sameAs\":[\"https:\\\/\\\/www.instagram.com\\\/preelitmag\\\/\",\"https:\\\/\\\/www.youtube.com\\\/channel\\\/UCuiY23cFTFeSXuap5c8dreg\"]},{\"@type\":\"Person\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/#\\\/schema\\\/person\\\/4518f338ddbd9b8905be3abd07c656f1\",\"name\":\"ap\",\"image\":{\"@type\":\"ImageObject\",\"inLanguage\":\"en-GB\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/secure.gravatar.com\\\/avatar\\\/8f2ffa09d7223d04aa89db2b3cafec3ec5304fb83073abc3d51dd47bfd948c51?s=96&d=identicon&r=g\",\"url\":\"https:\\\/\\\/secure.gravatar.com\\\/avatar\\\/8f2ffa09d7223d04aa89db2b3cafec3ec5304fb83073abc3d51dd47bfd948c51?s=96&d=identicon&r=g\",\"contentUrl\":\"https:\\\/\\\/secure.gravatar.com\\\/avatar\\\/8f2ffa09d7223d04aa89db2b3cafec3ec5304fb83073abc3d51dd47bfd948c51?s=96&d=identicon&r=g\",\"caption\":\"ap\"},\"description\":\"writer, editor and walkabout\",\"sameAs\":[\"http:\\\/\\\/anniepaulose.wordpress.com\"],\"url\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/author\\\/anniepaulose\\\/\"}]}<\/script>\n<!-- \/ Yoast SEO plugin. -->","yoast_head_json":{"title":"Through Babylon and Other Poems - PREE","robots":{"index":"index","follow":"follow","max-snippet":"max-snippet:-1","max-image-preview":"max-image-preview:large","max-video-preview":"max-video-preview:-1"},"canonical":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/12\/through-babylon-and-other-poems\/","og_locale":"en_GB","og_type":"article","og_title":"Through Babylon and Other Poems - PREE","og_description":"That year a violence made the ocean surge and spoon the humans out the shallow ground of a churchyard, the hurricane in question spreading our dead among the miscellany, banana leaves and zinc, a broken galore left on the roads like crepe paper after parade.","og_url":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/12\/through-babylon-and-other-poems\/","og_site_name":"PREE","article_published_time":"2026-08-12T18:28:06+00:00","article_modified_time":"2026-08-12T19:54:00+00:00","author":"ap","twitter_card":"summary_large_image","twitter_misc":{"Written by":"ap","Estimated reading time":"9 minutes"},"schema":{"@context":"https:\/\/schema.org","@graph":[{"@type":"Article","@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/12\/through-babylon-and-other-poems\/#article","isPartOf":{"@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/12\/through-babylon-and-other-poems\/"},"author":{"name":"ap","@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/#\/schema\/person\/4518f338ddbd9b8905be3abd07c656f1"},"headline":"Through Babylon and Other Poems","datePublished":"2026-08-12T18:28:06+00:00","dateModified":"2026-08-12T19:54:00+00:00","mainEntityOfPage":{"@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/12\/through-babylon-and-other-poems\/"},"wordCount":2015,"commentCount":0,"publisher":{"@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/#organization"},"articleSection":["GEORGIO RUSSELL","Poetry","PREE 15","SHORTLISTED"],"inLanguage":"en-GB","potentialAction":[{"@type":"CommentAction","name":"Comment","target":["https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/12\/through-babylon-and-other-poems\/#respond"]}]},{"@type":"WebPage","@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/12\/through-babylon-and-other-poems\/","url":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/12\/through-babylon-and-other-poems\/","name":"Through Babylon and Other Poems - PREE","isPartOf":{"@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/#website"},"datePublished":"2026-08-12T18:28:06+00:00","dateModified":"2026-08-12T19:54:00+00:00","breadcrumb":{"@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/12\/through-babylon-and-other-poems\/#breadcrumb"},"inLanguage":"en-GB","potentialAction":[{"@type":"ReadAction","target":["https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/12\/through-babylon-and-other-poems\/"]}]},{"@type":"BreadcrumbList","@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/12\/through-babylon-and-other-poems\/#breadcrumb","itemListElement":[{"@type":"ListItem","position":1,"name":"Home","item":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/"},{"@type":"ListItem","position":2,"name":"Through Babylon and Other Poems"}]},{"@type":"WebSite","@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/#website","url":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/","name":"PREE","description":"Caribbean. Writing.","publisher":{"@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/#organization"},"potentialAction":[{"@type":"SearchAction","target":{"@type":"EntryPoint","urlTemplate":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/?s={search_term_string}"},"query-input":{"@type":"PropertyValueSpecification","valueRequired":true,"valueName":"search_term_string"}}],"inLanguage":"en-GB"},{"@type":"Organization","@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/#organization","name":"PREE","url":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/","logo":{"@type":"ImageObject","inLanguage":"en-GB","@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/#\/schema\/logo\/image\/","url":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2022\/01\/PREE-logo.png?fit=782%2C414&ssl=1","contentUrl":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2022\/01\/PREE-logo.png?fit=782%2C414&ssl=1","width":782,"height":414,"caption":"PREE"},"image":{"@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/#\/schema\/logo\/image\/"},"sameAs":["https:\/\/www.instagram.com\/preelitmag\/","https:\/\/www.youtube.com\/channel\/UCuiY23cFTFeSXuap5c8dreg"]},{"@type":"Person","@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/#\/schema\/person\/4518f338ddbd9b8905be3abd07c656f1","name":"ap","image":{"@type":"ImageObject","inLanguage":"en-GB","@id":"https:\/\/secure.gravatar.com\/avatar\/8f2ffa09d7223d04aa89db2b3cafec3ec5304fb83073abc3d51dd47bfd948c51?s=96&d=identicon&r=g","url":"https:\/\/secure.gravatar.com\/avatar\/8f2ffa09d7223d04aa89db2b3cafec3ec5304fb83073abc3d51dd47bfd948c51?s=96&d=identicon&r=g","contentUrl":"https:\/\/secure.gravatar.com\/avatar\/8f2ffa09d7223d04aa89db2b3cafec3ec5304fb83073abc3d51dd47bfd948c51?s=96&d=identicon&r=g","caption":"ap"},"description":"writer, editor and walkabout","sameAs":["http:\/\/anniepaulose.wordpress.com"],"url":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/author\/anniepaulose\/"}]}},"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_likes_enabled":true,"jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p9tXKW-2Zf","jetpack_featured_media_url":"","_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/11485","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/15102494"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=11485"}],"version-history":[{"count":8,"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/11485\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":11505,"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/11485\/revisions\/11505"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=11485"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=11485"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=11485"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}},{"id":11450,"date":"2026-08-10T13:18:09","date_gmt":"2026-08-10T18:18:09","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/?p=11450"},"modified":"2026-08-12T14:07:38","modified_gmt":"2026-08-12T19:07:38","slug":"the-education-of-marlene-joseph","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/10\/the-education-of-marlene-joseph\/","title":{"rendered":"The Education of Marlene Joseph"},"content":{"rendered":"<p><span style=\"color: #0000ff;\">SHORTLISTED<\/span><\/p>\n<p>OLUWANIFEMI BAKARE<\/p>\n<p>The recorder is the size of a matchbox and the journalist sets it on the table between them like it is an agreement they have both signed.<\/p>\n<p>Marlene looks at it. She has seen these before. She knows what they take and what they leave.<\/p>\n<p>&#8220;Thank you so much for agreeing to speak with me,&#8221; the journalist says. Her name is C\u00e9line Beaumont and she is thirty-two and she is from Lyon and her French has that particular metropolitan smoothness that Marlene&#8217;s mother would have called <em>the French of people who never needed another language.<\/em> Her Creole, which she attempted in the first thirty seconds of their meeting, was the Creole of a woman who learned it to seem like less of what she is. &#8220;I know you&#8217;re busy.&#8221;<\/p>\n<p>&#8220;I&#8217;m always busy,&#8221; Marlene says. &#8220;That&#8217;s not why I almost didn&#8217;t come.&#8221;<\/p>\n<p>C\u00e9line smiles carefully. She has a careful smile, the kind that has been trained to receive difficult things without flinching, which is not the same as understanding them. She has a notebook too, beside the recorder, with tabs in three colours. Marlene notices the tabs. She notices everything. This is not a virtue. It is what living in this country does to the body \u2014 tunes it to threat frequencies until everything registers, until rest is just a gap between registrations.<\/p>\n<p>&#8220;Why did you almost not come?&#8221; C\u00e9line asks.<\/p>\n<p>&#8220;Because I read your last piece.&#8221;<\/p>\n<p>A pause. The recorder&#8217;s small red light blinks.<\/p>\n<p>&#8220;The one about the school in Cit\u00e9 Soleil,&#8221; Marlene says. &#8220;The teacher there \u2014 Monique. You described her as <em>extraordinarily resilient.<\/em>&#8221;<\/p>\n<p>&#8220;I meant it as\u2014&#8221;<\/p>\n<p>&#8220;I know what you meant it as,&#8221; Marlene says. &#8220;That&#8217;s why I almost didn&#8217;t come.&#8221;<\/p>\n<p style=\"text-align: center;\">***<\/p>\n<p>Outside the window, Marlene can see a tap-tap stopped on the road below, painted yellow and red, <em>DIEU PROT\u00c8GE<\/em> across its back in tall letters. She has taught forty-one students this year. Thirty-eight showed up consistently. Of those, six have parents who were also her students, from before 2010, from the school that stood where the school now stands, which is a different building in the same wound.<\/p>\n<p>She does not say this to C\u00e9line.<\/p>\n<p>She orders coffee. C\u00e9line orders water with gas and then looks momentarily embarrassed by it, which is the most honest thing she will do all morning.<\/p>\n<p>&#8220;Tell me about your work,&#8221; C\u00e9line says. &#8220;What does a typical day look like?&#8221;<\/p>\n<p><em>A typical day.<\/em> Marlene turns the phrase in her mouth. A typical day is waking before five because the generator runs from five to nine and she needs that window for everything that requires electricity, which is most things that connect her to the world that people like C\u00e9line assume is everyone&#8217;s world. A typical day is the twenty-minute walk to school because the money she saves on transport is money she can put toward the chalk she buys herself because the ministry allocation ran out in October. A typical day is thirty-eight children in a room built for twenty-five, and the heat, and Widline in the front row who is ten and reads at a level that would embarrass children in Lyon, who reads with her whole body tilted toward the page as if leaning into a wind.<\/p>\n<p><img data-recalc-dims=\"1\" loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" data-attachment-id=\"11446\" data-permalink=\"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/10\/the-fisherman\/forget-me-tap-tap\/\" data-orig-file=\"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/forget-me-tap-tap.jpeg?fit=4032%2C3024&amp;ssl=1\" data-orig-size=\"4032,3024\" data-comments-opened=\"1\" data-image-meta=\"{&quot;aperture&quot;:&quot;2.2&quot;,&quot;credit&quot;:&quot;&quot;,&quot;camera&quot;:&quot;iPhone SE&quot;,&quot;caption&quot;:&quot;&quot;,&quot;created_timestamp&quot;:&quot;1465651778&quot;,&quot;copyright&quot;:&quot;&quot;,&quot;focal_length&quot;:&quot;4.15&quot;,&quot;iso&quot;:&quot;32&quot;,&quot;shutter_speed&quot;:&quot;0.033333333333333&quot;,&quot;title&quot;:&quot;&quot;,&quot;orientation&quot;:&quot;1&quot;,&quot;alt&quot;:&quot;&quot;}\" data-image-title=\"forget me tap tap\" data-image-description=\"\" data-image-caption=\"\" data-large-file=\"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/forget-me-tap-tap.jpeg?fit=1024%2C768&amp;ssl=1\" class=\"alignnone size-large wp-image-11446\" src=\"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/forget-me-tap-tap.jpeg?resize=1024%2C768&#038;ssl=1\" alt=\"\" width=\"1024\" height=\"768\" srcset=\"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/forget-me-tap-tap.jpeg?resize=1024%2C768&amp;ssl=1 1024w, https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/forget-me-tap-tap.jpeg?resize=300%2C225&amp;ssl=1 300w, https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/forget-me-tap-tap.jpeg?resize=768%2C576&amp;ssl=1 768w, https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/forget-me-tap-tap.jpeg?resize=1536%2C1152&amp;ssl=1 1536w, https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/forget-me-tap-tap.jpeg?resize=2048%2C1536&amp;ssl=1 2048w, https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/forget-me-tap-tap.jpeg?resize=1080%2C810&amp;ssl=1 1080w, https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/forget-me-tap-tap.jpeg?resize=600%2C450&amp;ssl=1 600w, https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/forget-me-tap-tap.jpeg?w=2160&amp;ssl=1 2160w, https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/forget-me-tap-tap.jpeg?w=3240&amp;ssl=1 3240w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1024px) 100vw, 1024px\" \/><\/p>\n<p>&#8220;I teach,&#8221; Marlene says. &#8220;I prepare lessons. I assess. I go home. I prepare again.&#8221;<\/p>\n<p>&#8220;And after everything the country has been through \u2014&#8221; C\u00e9line pauses, chooses her words with the care of someone defusing something, &#8220;\u2014 the earthquakes, the political situation, the \u2014 you&#8217;ve continued. You&#8217;ve kept going. That kind of resilience \u2014&#8221;<\/p>\n<p>&#8220;There it is,&#8221; Marlene says.<\/p>\n<p>C\u00e9line blinks. &#8220;Excuse me?&#8221;<\/p>\n<p>&#8220;That word.&#8221; Marlene wraps both hands around her coffee cup. &#8220;You people love that word. You know why you love it?&#8221;<\/p>\n<p>The recorder blinks. C\u00e9line&#8217;s pen is still.<\/p>\n<p>&#8220;Because it costs you nothing,&#8221; Marlene says. &#8220;Resilience. It&#8217;s a very cheap compliment. It means: we have noticed that you are still alive despite everything we have failed to prevent or fix or pay for, and we find that remarkable, and we would like to write it down.&#8221; She looks at C\u00e9line. &#8220;Monique is not resilient. Monique is exhausted. There is a difference. I am not resilient. I am here because my children are here and I am their teacher and if I leave, who teaches them? That is not resilience. That is the absence of an alternative.&#8221;<\/p>\n<p>C\u00e9line writes something. Marlene watches her write it.<\/p>\n<p>&#8220;I don&#8217;t mean it pejoratively,&#8221; C\u00e9line says. &#8220;I genuinely admire\u2014&#8221;<\/p>\n<p>&#8220;Your admiration,&#8221; Marlene says, &#8220;is not something I have worked toward.&#8221;<\/p>\n<p style=\"text-align: center;\">***<\/p>\n<p>Silence. Real silence, the kind that resets a conversation. Outside, the tap-tap has not moved. <em>DIEU PROT\u00c8GE.<\/em> Marlene wonders sometimes what it means that this country calls on God so publicly, plasters Him on every vehicle and wall, whether it is faith or whether it is an ongoing argument, a refusal to release Him from His obligations.<\/p>\n<p>She was fourteen when her father explained to her why Haiti was poor. He was not a political man \u2014 he was a man who fixed motors, who smelled of grease and had hands that could feel a problem before they saw it \u2014 but that evening he had been drinking and he told her: <em>the French made us pay for our own freedom.<\/em> She had not understood then. She understood now. One hundred and fifty million francs, a sum calibrated to punish a people for the audacity of not wanting to be property. Paid over a century. Still paying, some economists said, in the compound logic of what that debt had foreclosed \u2014 infrastructure, education, the basic machinery of a functioning state.<\/p>\n<p>She has never said this to a journalist. She has watched other people say it and watched the articles that followed, careful and contextualized and ultimately filed under <em>complex history<\/em> where it could be acknowledged without consequence.<\/p>\n<p>&#8220;Can I ask,&#8221; C\u00e9line says, &#8220;what keeps you going? Personally. What is it that\u2014&#8221;<\/p>\n<p>&#8220;Widline,&#8221; Marlene says.<\/p>\n<p>&#8220;Sorry?&#8221;<\/p>\n<p>&#8220;There&#8217;s a girl in my class. Widline. She is ten. She found a book somewhere \u2014 I don&#8217;t know where, a market stall, somebody&#8217;s house \u2014 a French novel, <em>Le Petit Prince<\/em>, you know it \u2014&#8221; she watches C\u00e9line nod, <em>of course<\/em> &#8220;\u2014 and she read it in two days and then she came to me and said: <em>Ma\u00eetresse, the little prince is sad because nobody sees him properly.<\/em> She&#8217;s ten.&#8221; Marlene pauses. &#8220;She read that book and she found the loneliness in it. She found the specific loneliness of being unseen.&#8221; She looks at the table. &#8220;I&#8217;m not going to leave Widline.&#8221;<\/p>\n<p>C\u00e9line is writing fast. Marlene knows this will be in the piece. She knows how it will sit in the piece \u2014 the anecdote, the child with the book, the devoted teacher. She knows it will be the emotional center, the part that makes readers in Lyon and Paris feel something, feel that complex warm feeling that is concern and relief braided together, the feeling of: <em>there is still beauty there, still hope, still\u2014<\/em><\/p>\n<p>&#8220;You&#8217;re going to use that,&#8221; Marlene says.<\/p>\n<p>C\u00e9line looks up.<\/p>\n<p>&#8220;The Widline story. You&#8217;re going to put it near the end. Maybe the last paragraph. Something like: <em>but it is in her students that Marlene Joseph finds her reason to continue.<\/em> Something like that.&#8221;<\/p>\n<p>C\u00e9line&#8217;s mouth opens slightly.<\/p>\n<p>&#8220;It&#8217;s fine,&#8221; Marlene says. &#8220;It&#8217;s true. I&#8217;m not accusing you of lying. I&#8217;m telling you what you&#8217;ll do with the truth.&#8221; She takes a sip of coffee. It has gone lukewarm. &#8220;And the people who read it will feel good. They&#8217;ll feel like Haiti is \u2014 manageable. Like it is a place of suffering but also of beauty, of resilience \u2014&#8221; she does not flinch at the word this time, deploys it flat as a stone, &#8220;\u2014 and they&#8217;ll share it on their phones and say <em>this moved me<\/em> and then they&#8217;ll go and eat dinner and the dinner will be good and that will be the end of their relationship with Widline.&#8221;<\/p>\n<p>C\u00e9line sets her pen down. This, Marlene notes, is new.<\/p>\n<p>&#8220;What would you want them to do?&#8221; C\u00e9line says. And her voice is different.<\/p>\n<p>Marlene considers.<\/p>\n<p>Outside, the tap-tap finally moves.<\/p>\n<p>&#8220;I want them to understand that Widline is not here for their feelings,&#8221; she says. &#8220;She is here because she was born here and this is her country and her country has been managed &#8212; let&#8217;s say \u2014 by interests that are not hers, for two hundred years, and she will be a grown woman managing the consequences of that before she ever understands that it didn&#8217;t have to be this way.&#8221; She pauses. &#8220;I want them to understand that my teaching her is not a beautiful story. It is the minimum. It is the absolute floor of what a society owes a child. And we are operating at the floor. We have always been at the floor. And people write beautiful articles about us standing on the floor and call it resilience and I am \u2014&#8221; she stops.<\/p>\n<p>&#8220;You&#8217;re what?&#8221; C\u00e9line says, quietly.<\/p>\n<p>Marlene looks at her. At this young woman from Lyon with her color-tabbed notebook and her careful smile, who is not, Marlene decides in this moment, a bad person. Who may even be a good person. Who is sitting across from her at nine in the morning in a hotel whose rates she could not afford, genuinely asking.<\/p>\n<p>&#8220;Tired,&#8221; Marlene says. &#8220;I&#8217;m tired.&#8221;<\/p>\n<p>It is not what she was going to say. What she was going to say was <em>furious.<\/em> She changed it at the last moment and she cannot tell you why except that <em>tired<\/em> is also true and fury, she has learned, is a fire that needs feeding and she needs that fuel for other things.<\/p>\n<p>Afterwards, in the street, the heat comes down like a verdict.<\/p>\n<p style=\"text-align: center;\">***<\/p>\n<p>Marlene walks back toward school. She passes a wall where someone has painted, in large white letters, something in Creole that has been partially painted over by someone else, so that only part of it remains: <em>nou pa\u2014<\/em> we are not. We are not. The rest is grey paint; the rest is someone&#8217;s decision about what should not be said.<\/p>\n<p><em>Nou pa.<\/em><\/p>\n<p>She teaches at one o&#8217;clock. Widline will be in the front row, tilted toward whatever Marlene brings. The others will be loud and then settle and then be loud again and she will move through it the way she always moves through it, from the front of the room, from the only position available to her.<\/p>\n<p>The article will come out in six weeks. She knows this without being told. It will be titled something like <em>Rebuilding from the Inside<\/em> or <em>A Classroom in the Ruins<\/em> and it will have a photograph, probably the one C\u00e9line took at the end without asking, when Marlene was looking out the window, which will look contemplative and strong, which will look, in other words, resilient.<\/p>\n<p>Marlene will not read it.<\/p>\n<p>She has a lesson to plan.<\/p>\n<p><em>Nou pa fin.<\/em><\/p>\n<p>We are not finished.<\/p>\n<p>The grey paint cannot hold everything.<\/p>\n\n\t\t<div class='author-shortcodes'>\n\t\t\t<div class='author-inner'>\n\t\t\t\t<div class='author-image'>\n\t\t\t<img src='' alt='' \/>\n\t\t\t<div class='author-overlay'><\/div>\n\t\t<\/div> \n\t\t<div class='author-info'>\n\t\t\tOluwanifemi Bakare is a Nigerian writer currently in school. His work investigates the human condition with a strange and particular eye \u2014 drawn to the absurd, the overlooked, and the things people do when they think no one is watching. He writes fiction, essays, poetry and screenplays. He loves films and the filmmaking process with an embarrassing sincerity. His work has appeared in Claudine, DishSoap Quarterly, Punocracy, Afreada, and Akpata Magazine.\n\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"<p>A typical day is the twenty-minute walk to school because the money she saves on transport is money she can put toward the chalk she buys herself because the ministry allocation ran out in October. A typical day is thirty-eight children in a room built for twenty-five, and the heat, and Widline in the front row who is ten and reads at a level that would embarrass children in Lyon, who reads with her whole body tilted toward the page as if leaning into a wind.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":15102494,"featured_media":11446,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_et_pb_use_builder":"","_et_pb_old_content":"","_et_gb_content_width":"","_coblocks_attr":"","_coblocks_dimensions":"","_coblocks_responsive_height":"","_coblocks_accordion_ie_support":"","_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_wpcom_ai_launchpad_first_post":false,"_jetpack_feature_clip_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"{title}\r\n\r\n{excerpt}\r\n\r\n{url}","jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":{"image_generator_settings":{"template":"highway","default_image_id":0,"font":"","enabled":false},"version":2},"_wpas_customize_per_network":false,"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false},"categories":[1747,728594595,728594591,728594599],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-11450","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-fiction","category-oluwanifemi-bakare","category-pree-15","category-shortlisted","et-has-post-format-content","et_post_format-et-post-format-standard"],"yoast_head":"<!-- This site is optimized with the Yoast SEO plugin v28.5 - https:\/\/yoast.com\/product\/yoast-seo-wordpress\/ -->\n<title>The Education of Marlene Joseph - PREE<\/title>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/10\/the-education-of-marlene-joseph\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_GB\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"The Education of Marlene Joseph - PREE\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"A typical day is the twenty-minute walk to school because the money she saves on transport is money she can put toward the chalk she buys herself because the ministry allocation ran out in October. A typical day is thirty-eight children in a room built for twenty-five, and the heat, and Widline in the front row who is ten and reads at a level that would embarrass children in Lyon, who reads with her whole body tilted toward the page as if leaning into a wind.\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:url\" content=\"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/10\/the-education-of-marlene-joseph\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:site_name\" content=\"PREE\" \/>\n<meta property=\"article:published_time\" content=\"2026-08-10T18:18:09+00:00\" \/>\n<meta property=\"article:modified_time\" content=\"2026-08-12T19:07:38+00:00\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:image\" content=\"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/forget-me-tap-tap.jpeg\" \/>\n\t<meta property=\"og:image:width\" content=\"4032\" \/>\n\t<meta property=\"og:image:height\" content=\"3024\" \/>\n\t<meta property=\"og:image:type\" content=\"image\/jpeg\" \/>\n<meta name=\"author\" content=\"ap\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:card\" content=\"summary_large_image\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:label1\" content=\"Written by\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:data1\" content=\"ap\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:label2\" content=\"Estimated reading time\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:data2\" content=\"9 minutes\" \/>\n<script type=\"application\/ld+json\" class=\"yoast-schema-graph\">{\"@context\":\"https:\\\/\\\/schema.org\",\"@graph\":[{\"@type\":\"Article\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/10\\\/the-education-of-marlene-joseph\\\/#article\",\"isPartOf\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/10\\\/the-education-of-marlene-joseph\\\/\"},\"author\":{\"name\":\"ap\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/#\\\/schema\\\/person\\\/4518f338ddbd9b8905be3abd07c656f1\"},\"headline\":\"The Education of Marlene Joseph\",\"datePublished\":\"2026-08-10T18:18:09+00:00\",\"dateModified\":\"2026-08-12T19:07:38+00:00\",\"mainEntityOfPage\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/10\\\/the-education-of-marlene-joseph\\\/\"},\"wordCount\":1972,\"commentCount\":2,\"publisher\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/#organization\"},\"image\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/10\\\/the-education-of-marlene-joseph\\\/#primaryimage\"},\"thumbnailUrl\":\"https:\\\/\\\/i0.wp.com\\\/preelit.com\\\/wp-content\\\/uploads\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/forget-me-tap-tap.jpeg?fit=4032%2C3024&ssl=1\",\"articleSection\":[\"Fiction\",\"OLUWANIFEMI BAKARE\",\"PREE 15\",\"SHORTLISTED\"],\"inLanguage\":\"en-GB\",\"potentialAction\":[{\"@type\":\"CommentAction\",\"name\":\"Comment\",\"target\":[\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/10\\\/the-education-of-marlene-joseph\\\/#respond\"]}]},{\"@type\":\"WebPage\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/10\\\/the-education-of-marlene-joseph\\\/\",\"url\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/10\\\/the-education-of-marlene-joseph\\\/\",\"name\":\"The Education of Marlene Joseph - PREE\",\"isPartOf\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/#website\"},\"primaryImageOfPage\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/10\\\/the-education-of-marlene-joseph\\\/#primaryimage\"},\"image\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/10\\\/the-education-of-marlene-joseph\\\/#primaryimage\"},\"thumbnailUrl\":\"https:\\\/\\\/i0.wp.com\\\/preelit.com\\\/wp-content\\\/uploads\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/forget-me-tap-tap.jpeg?fit=4032%2C3024&ssl=1\",\"datePublished\":\"2026-08-10T18:18:09+00:00\",\"dateModified\":\"2026-08-12T19:07:38+00:00\",\"breadcrumb\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/10\\\/the-education-of-marlene-joseph\\\/#breadcrumb\"},\"inLanguage\":\"en-GB\",\"potentialAction\":[{\"@type\":\"ReadAction\",\"target\":[\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/10\\\/the-education-of-marlene-joseph\\\/\"]}]},{\"@type\":\"ImageObject\",\"inLanguage\":\"en-GB\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/10\\\/the-education-of-marlene-joseph\\\/#primaryimage\",\"url\":\"https:\\\/\\\/i0.wp.com\\\/preelit.com\\\/wp-content\\\/uploads\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/forget-me-tap-tap.jpeg?fit=4032%2C3024&ssl=1\",\"contentUrl\":\"https:\\\/\\\/i0.wp.com\\\/preelit.com\\\/wp-content\\\/uploads\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/forget-me-tap-tap.jpeg?fit=4032%2C3024&ssl=1\",\"width\":4032,\"height\":3024},{\"@type\":\"BreadcrumbList\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/2026\\\/08\\\/10\\\/the-education-of-marlene-joseph\\\/#breadcrumb\",\"itemListElement\":[{\"@type\":\"ListItem\",\"position\":1,\"name\":\"Home\",\"item\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/\"},{\"@type\":\"ListItem\",\"position\":2,\"name\":\"The Education of Marlene Joseph\"}]},{\"@type\":\"WebSite\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/#website\",\"url\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/\",\"name\":\"PREE\",\"description\":\"Caribbean. Writing.\",\"publisher\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/#organization\"},\"potentialAction\":[{\"@type\":\"SearchAction\",\"target\":{\"@type\":\"EntryPoint\",\"urlTemplate\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/?s={search_term_string}\"},\"query-input\":{\"@type\":\"PropertyValueSpecification\",\"valueRequired\":true,\"valueName\":\"search_term_string\"}}],\"inLanguage\":\"en-GB\"},{\"@type\":\"Organization\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/#organization\",\"name\":\"PREE\",\"url\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/\",\"logo\":{\"@type\":\"ImageObject\",\"inLanguage\":\"en-GB\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/#\\\/schema\\\/logo\\\/image\\\/\",\"url\":\"https:\\\/\\\/i0.wp.com\\\/preelit.com\\\/wp-content\\\/uploads\\\/2022\\\/01\\\/PREE-logo.png?fit=782%2C414&ssl=1\",\"contentUrl\":\"https:\\\/\\\/i0.wp.com\\\/preelit.com\\\/wp-content\\\/uploads\\\/2022\\\/01\\\/PREE-logo.png?fit=782%2C414&ssl=1\",\"width\":782,\"height\":414,\"caption\":\"PREE\"},\"image\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/#\\\/schema\\\/logo\\\/image\\\/\"},\"sameAs\":[\"https:\\\/\\\/www.instagram.com\\\/preelitmag\\\/\",\"https:\\\/\\\/www.youtube.com\\\/channel\\\/UCuiY23cFTFeSXuap5c8dreg\"]},{\"@type\":\"Person\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/#\\\/schema\\\/person\\\/4518f338ddbd9b8905be3abd07c656f1\",\"name\":\"ap\",\"image\":{\"@type\":\"ImageObject\",\"inLanguage\":\"en-GB\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/secure.gravatar.com\\\/avatar\\\/8f2ffa09d7223d04aa89db2b3cafec3ec5304fb83073abc3d51dd47bfd948c51?s=96&d=identicon&r=g\",\"url\":\"https:\\\/\\\/secure.gravatar.com\\\/avatar\\\/8f2ffa09d7223d04aa89db2b3cafec3ec5304fb83073abc3d51dd47bfd948c51?s=96&d=identicon&r=g\",\"contentUrl\":\"https:\\\/\\\/secure.gravatar.com\\\/avatar\\\/8f2ffa09d7223d04aa89db2b3cafec3ec5304fb83073abc3d51dd47bfd948c51?s=96&d=identicon&r=g\",\"caption\":\"ap\"},\"description\":\"writer, editor and walkabout\",\"sameAs\":[\"http:\\\/\\\/anniepaulose.wordpress.com\"],\"url\":\"https:\\\/\\\/preelit.com\\\/author\\\/anniepaulose\\\/\"}]}<\/script>\n<!-- \/ Yoast SEO plugin. -->","yoast_head_json":{"title":"The Education of Marlene Joseph - PREE","robots":{"index":"index","follow":"follow","max-snippet":"max-snippet:-1","max-image-preview":"max-image-preview:large","max-video-preview":"max-video-preview:-1"},"canonical":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/10\/the-education-of-marlene-joseph\/","og_locale":"en_GB","og_type":"article","og_title":"The Education of Marlene Joseph - PREE","og_description":"A typical day is the twenty-minute walk to school because the money she saves on transport is money she can put toward the chalk she buys herself because the ministry allocation ran out in October. A typical day is thirty-eight children in a room built for twenty-five, and the heat, and Widline in the front row who is ten and reads at a level that would embarrass children in Lyon, who reads with her whole body tilted toward the page as if leaning into a wind.","og_url":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/10\/the-education-of-marlene-joseph\/","og_site_name":"PREE","article_published_time":"2026-08-10T18:18:09+00:00","article_modified_time":"2026-08-12T19:07:38+00:00","og_image":[{"width":4032,"height":3024,"url":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/forget-me-tap-tap.jpeg","type":"image\/jpeg"}],"author":"ap","twitter_card":"summary_large_image","twitter_misc":{"Written by":"ap","Estimated reading time":"9 minutes"},"schema":{"@context":"https:\/\/schema.org","@graph":[{"@type":"Article","@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/10\/the-education-of-marlene-joseph\/#article","isPartOf":{"@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/10\/the-education-of-marlene-joseph\/"},"author":{"name":"ap","@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/#\/schema\/person\/4518f338ddbd9b8905be3abd07c656f1"},"headline":"The Education of Marlene Joseph","datePublished":"2026-08-10T18:18:09+00:00","dateModified":"2026-08-12T19:07:38+00:00","mainEntityOfPage":{"@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/10\/the-education-of-marlene-joseph\/"},"wordCount":1972,"commentCount":2,"publisher":{"@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/#organization"},"image":{"@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/10\/the-education-of-marlene-joseph\/#primaryimage"},"thumbnailUrl":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/forget-me-tap-tap.jpeg?fit=4032%2C3024&ssl=1","articleSection":["Fiction","OLUWANIFEMI BAKARE","PREE 15","SHORTLISTED"],"inLanguage":"en-GB","potentialAction":[{"@type":"CommentAction","name":"Comment","target":["https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/10\/the-education-of-marlene-joseph\/#respond"]}]},{"@type":"WebPage","@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/10\/the-education-of-marlene-joseph\/","url":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/10\/the-education-of-marlene-joseph\/","name":"The Education of Marlene Joseph - PREE","isPartOf":{"@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/#website"},"primaryImageOfPage":{"@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/10\/the-education-of-marlene-joseph\/#primaryimage"},"image":{"@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/10\/the-education-of-marlene-joseph\/#primaryimage"},"thumbnailUrl":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/forget-me-tap-tap.jpeg?fit=4032%2C3024&ssl=1","datePublished":"2026-08-10T18:18:09+00:00","dateModified":"2026-08-12T19:07:38+00:00","breadcrumb":{"@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/10\/the-education-of-marlene-joseph\/#breadcrumb"},"inLanguage":"en-GB","potentialAction":[{"@type":"ReadAction","target":["https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/10\/the-education-of-marlene-joseph\/"]}]},{"@type":"ImageObject","inLanguage":"en-GB","@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/10\/the-education-of-marlene-joseph\/#primaryimage","url":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/forget-me-tap-tap.jpeg?fit=4032%2C3024&ssl=1","contentUrl":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/forget-me-tap-tap.jpeg?fit=4032%2C3024&ssl=1","width":4032,"height":3024},{"@type":"BreadcrumbList","@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/2026\/08\/10\/the-education-of-marlene-joseph\/#breadcrumb","itemListElement":[{"@type":"ListItem","position":1,"name":"Home","item":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/"},{"@type":"ListItem","position":2,"name":"The Education of Marlene Joseph"}]},{"@type":"WebSite","@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/#website","url":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/","name":"PREE","description":"Caribbean. Writing.","publisher":{"@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/#organization"},"potentialAction":[{"@type":"SearchAction","target":{"@type":"EntryPoint","urlTemplate":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/?s={search_term_string}"},"query-input":{"@type":"PropertyValueSpecification","valueRequired":true,"valueName":"search_term_string"}}],"inLanguage":"en-GB"},{"@type":"Organization","@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/#organization","name":"PREE","url":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/","logo":{"@type":"ImageObject","inLanguage":"en-GB","@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/#\/schema\/logo\/image\/","url":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2022\/01\/PREE-logo.png?fit=782%2C414&ssl=1","contentUrl":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2022\/01\/PREE-logo.png?fit=782%2C414&ssl=1","width":782,"height":414,"caption":"PREE"},"image":{"@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/#\/schema\/logo\/image\/"},"sameAs":["https:\/\/www.instagram.com\/preelitmag\/","https:\/\/www.youtube.com\/channel\/UCuiY23cFTFeSXuap5c8dreg"]},{"@type":"Person","@id":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/#\/schema\/person\/4518f338ddbd9b8905be3abd07c656f1","name":"ap","image":{"@type":"ImageObject","inLanguage":"en-GB","@id":"https:\/\/secure.gravatar.com\/avatar\/8f2ffa09d7223d04aa89db2b3cafec3ec5304fb83073abc3d51dd47bfd948c51?s=96&d=identicon&r=g","url":"https:\/\/secure.gravatar.com\/avatar\/8f2ffa09d7223d04aa89db2b3cafec3ec5304fb83073abc3d51dd47bfd948c51?s=96&d=identicon&r=g","contentUrl":"https:\/\/secure.gravatar.com\/avatar\/8f2ffa09d7223d04aa89db2b3cafec3ec5304fb83073abc3d51dd47bfd948c51?s=96&d=identicon&r=g","caption":"ap"},"description":"writer, editor and walkabout","sameAs":["http:\/\/anniepaulose.wordpress.com"],"url":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/author\/anniepaulose\/"}]}},"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_likes_enabled":true,"jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p9tXKW-2YG","jetpack_featured_media_url":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/preelit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/08\/forget-me-tap-tap.jpeg?fit=4032%2C3024&ssl=1","_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/11450","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/15102494"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=11450"}],"version-history":[{"count":6,"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/11450\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":11459,"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/11450\/revisions\/11459"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/11446"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=11450"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=11450"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/preelit.com\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=11450"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}]