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Matilda Jasodhra wished she’d had a video camera with her, thinking what a good film this would have made. Meera Meera Johna wondered just how much she had really become like her father, and thought there was indeed more to learn from him, even in his demise, for she mustn’t end up like this. How awful it would be, she thought, for Vishala and Brianni and Carmen, all lovely girls, really, to behave in any way like this. She wondered if the recently dead could hear, and if they could feel.

The yardman too, like the pastor, saw nothing, but not because he had fled. He remained in the church, at the heels of his madam, looking like an ill-fitting lord, smelling disturbingly sweet. He stood behind Matilda Jasodhra Mansing, toying with the tail of her dress, counting for the umpteenth time the fortune that would befall him. He would have to find them a new gardener, someone else to anesthetize the garden snakes. And he would, of course, have to take care of the daughter now, so much like her father in any case, and from that very point of view, who would fault him, he wondered, for his intentions? An intervention here, an intervention there, such as they are, he assured himself again and again as he fingered the fabric of satin and silk, are sometimes necessary, and so a good thing. He nodded in agreement with himself. A very good thing, indeed.

Dougla

by Reena Andrea Manickchand

Caroni Swamp

Jerks. Jagabats. Jackasses. I never believed them. Those fools of the Scare-’em Crew, as they called themselves, had me on a merry-go-round. I hate merry-go-rounds, always did as a child and always will. They made me wanna puke. The Scare-’em Crew actually invested in some of the crimes on the crime list themselves. The only thing they did not get into was killing. The leader was a pastor who didn’t want to disobey that commandment.

I shoulda known they were a bunch of jokers. I got a job just doing the small stuff like trafficking weed. It paid well and was not too much of a hassle. But then they tried to get me to pick up some of the heavier stuff. The pastor told me it would only be for two months while his son was away, and when he came back I could stop. Yeah, right. It ended up being six months even after his son came back.

God, I was a damned fool. I shoulda listened to my damned instincts. But as always, I tried to please Mother. Tried to look and be the good son she always wanted. I had to earn money in order for her to feel proud, so she could be just like the rest of the cacophony bitches she limes with. Hell, now she hates me — another dougla gone bad. Damn it, I even saw it in Vish’s eyes.

I couldn’t join the army. After all, it was for the Afro boys. And I didn’t want to work in the garage with my older brother. I just couldn’t stand them Indo boys riding along with their souped-up vehicles and gloating ’bout their drag races. I know she didn’t want me to do anything illegal, but what’s a dougla like me to do? After all, doesn’t dougla mean bastard in Hindi? That’s what they call people like me who are half-Indian and half-African.

“Hey, pretty dougla! Stop daydreaming and get ready!” the African guard bellowed.

Get ready? What the rasclat? This is a jail cell — I’ve been ready.

Kwae jumped off the bed, reeling from his angry thoughts. Keys clanked as the guard opened his cell. Kwae smoothed his wavy black curls, cleaned the yampi from his big round eyes, and licked his semi-full lips. He’d definitely have to thank his Afro mother for those lips and his Indo father for his eyes, ’cause he could enchant almost anyone with them.

“Yeah, Mr. Kwaesi Ramlogan, yuh better get yuh pretty-boy act together,” the Indian guard repeated. Kwae allowed himself to be handcuffed. Stupid Indian officer always following stupid African officer. What a bunch of monkeys. Wait — I guess I’m a monkey too, or else I wouldn’t have ended up in all this cow dung.

They left his cell and started down the hall. Kwae’s flared nostrils caught the stale pissy stench that filtered through the air from the uncleaned cells. Twice a week the cells were cleaned. They probably kept it like that so the stench would punish the inmates. Worse yet, when the cells were washed out, they never fully dried the place, so sometimes it was damp for two days straight, especially now in the rainy season. Worse yet, his cell had been previously occupied by an inmate who had died of pneumonia. That would be just Kwae’s luck — he’d probably die before the case was over.

It had been one month already without closure. Damned bloodclat stinking jury. I already told them I was guilty of trafficking marijuana. Couldn’t they believe I was innocent when I said I didn’t kill Redman? Sure, I used to sell him some good herb, but I had no reason to kill him. After all, he paid up well.

By the time Kwae reached the courtyard to board the waiting van, he was angry again. Being hot-blooded was a side effect of being mixed, and even though he didn’t like the emotion, it felt good to be angry. What made him even madder were the potholes that the van hit on the way from the Port-of-Spain jail to the Hall of Justice. He felt that they could have walked him to the hall. It was just three streets from the sick, mustard-colored walls of the jail. He would have been able to walk down the street like everyone else and get some air, even if it was more polluted than his country air in Couva.

“Hey, drive,” Kwae called as the van bumped along.

“Yeah, Mr. Ramlogan. What tune you have for us today?” the driver asked, while the two monkey officers with Kwae in the back laughed.

“Let we go straight down Frederick Street and turn across the park nah, insteada goin’ on to St. Vincent Street. They got them sweet girls lined up outside their work places this morning ’cause it’s Friday, so you know is only tight jeans and short skirts on parade,” Kwae goaded.

“Yeah, Horse, let we take Frederick,” the dougla officer in front by the driver piped up. “St. Vincent Street only have a bunch of ministry workers that not as hot as the girls in the private businesses.”

Kwae smiled. One can always count on one’s own kind to feel pity. One can never count on the African or Indian Trinidadians, as they hate douglas for having the best of both gene pools. The only time they like you is around voting time. The Africans will say, “Boy, yuh have African in yuh. Be proud. The Indian doh like yuh.” The Indians will say, “Beta, yuh have Ganges blood flowing through yuh, doh yours is only half.” Fuck ’em. They can all go back to their motherland for all I care. Both races are the same — a bunch of persecutors.

As the driver continued down Frederick Street, having been persuaded at the thought of hot mamacitas in tight pants, Kwae was looking out for one particular place. He did not care about seeing the girls. He just wanted to pass round by Woodford Square. Somehow this park reminded him of a place that was special to him and Vish. The square was like a breath of fresh air in the polluted city, its tall trees and grassy areas a refuge for many who wanted to sit on the park benches and enjoy nature.