How an Island an history seeps through generations.
1.
An island where Grenadian doves and green frogs mingle
with mongoose and mangoes, bougainvilla stands stationary
on the court of arms. Nutmeg spices the evening
breeze; waves lap the shores, watering palm trees
pregnant with coconut. Sugar cane grows abundant.
This is paradise. But beauty hides a cruel history,
a vicious snake of brutality like the winding roads
with sharp turns, hidden bends and steep cliffs
that plunge into the sea.
Here a distant people scratched symbols onto Stones,
etching boulders on steep inclines scattered along the coastline.
The only testimony to a Carib people. Proud, buck tall
men, slender beige skinned women and chubby cheeked babies.
Caribs who when defeated by the French, Jumped,
defiant off the cliff. who welcomed death
preferring to become fishes instead of slaves.
So the whole nation committed mass suicide.
That hill is still called Sauteurs (French for leap).
and those markings on the rock edge say we were here.
2.
Forward ever backward never.
Slogan written on signposts all over the Island.
How many jumped in this deceptive paradise?
Stories are told of how black skinned wretches
would run away, their skins bruised, welted by whips,
eyes glazed, having overdosed on the endless cane fields.
How they would run at every chance, take off towards those cliffs
then leap laughing and shouting no more, no more…‘I am free,
screaming onto the rocks below. Some soar, then descend,
hit the water, sink like stones to a sandy grave,
where no master could hurt them .
In 1983, these ghosts watched a president disappear.
They watched that night as the people ran up to Fort George
for safety, watched the police open fire, brothers
gunning brothers, following orders. Watched bullets scatter,
toppling dead bodies onto that rocky road. Watched the bombs fall
from U.S planes. Watched the people pushed off a precipice,
splattered, impaled, heads smashed on rocks.
3
Get up, stand up stand up for your rights,
Get up stand up don’t give up the fight.
Bob Marley and The Wailers
The land keeps her secrets. She has swallowed vast corpses,
bones have rotted in her womb, yet she does not talk.
I want her to tell me about Maurice Bishop, how he marched
through St Georges, a youth, sporting dashikis,
striding in time to Reggae anthems, in sun drenched streets
with hill Rasta chanting Black power. I want her to tell me
how tears soaked his ebony face, when they killed his father
in that friendly protest, his shined Afro gleaming
by the graveside. I want her to tell me about his revolution,
how he beheaded a government with no bloodshed.
I want her to tell me about his rule, prime Minister in that small
place, as black pride swept the USA, Jamaica and Trinidad.
I want her to tell me about that night he became invisible
standing against that concrete wall facing the firing squad,
looking into the eyes of the men he played basket ball games
with every Sunday, standing guns cocked, eyes flash-lit on him.
What prayers did he utter? Did he beg, plead or pray? Did he still
feel it was worth it.
They say his mother searched, valley and back fields
for his body. They say he was severed, like beef carcass,
pieces scattered to the four ends of his isle.
I know he disappeared that night, written out
of history books, no stone scratchings mark
his presence. Nothing says he was here. I want her to tell
me, how Rasta beat revolutionary drums that night and his mother
beat her chest.
4
Police and thief in the street, oh yeah
fighting the nation, with their guns and ammunition (song lyrics)
Junior Mervin
1983, and Brixton is tense. Police and black youths battle,
men choke in custody, black batons strike brown skin,
Riots rage, red buses overturn in Lambeth’s streets, shops
on fire and my house is a battle field. Junior Mervin’s police and
thief booms from cars, bass thumping, and kicking, houses blast
Reggae as young men get stopped, searched, screw faced
and my house is a battle field. Here it’s young and old,
spitting bitter and scared words. Any one visiting is told
not to say America or Grenada because if they do, it’s on.
Dictator over thrown my aunt believes, versus revolutionary leader.
My house is a cold war. My cousins breast fed on Malcolm X,
roots and Reggae mourn an island invaded. My aunts breast fed on
Colonialism, plantations and servitude are frightened of this young
rage, and doors slam, but all sides held their belly and bawled
for that mother(name), braced for bad news, her son
disappeared and we bawl with her.
5
My roots are women bred like livestock
who jove water like beast. Oh this land sprouted
strong boned women who chop cane with cutlass.
My mother says you are the first generation of women able
to make a choice. But some Great grand made a choice
and her legacy still lives. She told her daughter never let
no man hit you and sleep. Indoctrinated her with instructions for if or when.
Gave her a recipe, a list, that read; pepper the food, boil hot water and throw,
use knife and make clean cut down there. use cutlass and chop, then go
police. Each daughter told over and over like brush your teeth, till it stick.
How my mother run way man with cutlass
chase him. How my grand use cutlass pon table to explain to her man don’t
lose your blasted mind and raise that hand on me. And so we are shaped
moulded, made hard. I never understood. My aunt kicked
her man out after her child was born, cut him dread
like rotten wood, after he use her like boxing target,
kicking her womb as she lay on that floor. That day
he had to go as her blood boiled through swell eye and buss skin. She
knew he could not sleep, cos is murder and she want kill him bad bad,
chop him dead. The teachings rise up, so she told him go. I never understood.
6
I never understood the preparation, that need for recipe or list for
What if: didn’t understand the ‘don’t let them sleep’
where it came from, raised in London Soil and Guyana sun.
Till I visited Grenada. A place where man fist pound woman
flesh like kneading hard dough. I see bull strength knock
women flat out when their men full of rum and carnival. How Ronald
buss lass in he woman ass every Friday and Saturday night, kick
she down, Pauline clinging onto Ronald’s foot saying she love him
through each blow and next day is black eye and bruise.
Then I understand. I imagine it started on the plantation, master
raped her in front of her man and when he left she said to him beat me
to make us better. So he beat her vex and impotent
and she submit to erase the shame. Now Master
long gone but the practice stay. One day my great grand mother
said no more, then She start up the recipe, the list. I understood.
7
I never knew I had it. The cutlass, knife, don’t sleep recipe buried
deep in me. Thought I was soft, till that night my male friend
could not drive and I offered him my bed to sleep.
I felt something in his look, something that hinted at Danger
He and I alone in that room and my blood raised up. My pores swelled
I went to that kitchen took down that knife, marched upstairs told him,
don’t think it and if you do ‘Don’t sleep. This knife will castrate,
will maim. I cutting it off if you lose your mind.
Then I understood.
