Sas, Can you imagine the weight of that name in a country that not only needs a prophet but a promised land to go to? No, fucking hell no! Not any more of those. Can’t we just stay here and clean up the shit we’ve got? Sas, how cynical can I get?
There he is, the smallest boy of ten that you can imagine. He is skipping alongside the gentleman. I take it to be his father. It’s a dream. I’m that obsessed. It’s just that he looks like I looked at ten in khaki pants and blue shirt. A disappeared childhood. I once said I loved my childhood.
The couple, each morning parked just below the chief justice’s house in the ferny gulch with the bamboos, are there again today, Sas. They were having a row this morning. Where do they fit in? Still suspicious. Then I notice that the house, the cute bungalow, has two cars parked underneath. One is a Nissan Sunny, can’t make out the other. Oh no, someone has bought my bungalow. There’s a lot of garbage out this morning, stacks of old newspapers and several black plastic bags. They’re moving in? Moving out?
“You feeling okay?” Carmella asks through the burglar proofing when she hands me her weekly delivery of steamed wantons.
“You want to come in?”
“You want company.” She tells me, sitting on the sofa, that despite her bad eyesight she remembers that she did notice the Rover. “You know why?”
“No?”
“I had an old man friend who used to drive one and come and take me out. He died this year. I get accustom looking out of the window when I hear a car arrive to park under the window. Next to your place is my place, but I don’t have a car. He used to park there.”
“I’m sorry.”
Odd light today. When this happens, everyone says it’s Sahara dust. The Harmattan! A dusty wind across the Middle Passage.
When I come back down from the hills after my walk, pass the couple in their car, I notice that one of the cars from the cute bungalow is parked outside on the road. It’s a Rover. My heart misses a beat. The windows and windscreens are caked with dirt and someone has scrawled something in Sahara dust at the bottom of the back right-hand side window. Because it’s just by me, I stop to read, to decipher, because the dew, like tears, has smudged the message. It’s just one word, two — Elijah Help.
I do my duty and call the police on my cell.
We’re too late.
Sas, this is a dark time, my love. The bodies of the boys have been found. A boy of twelve was drowned in a pond. The autopsy revealed sexual assault. Another boy was raped, rupturing his internal organs. Another two boys were found raped. The boy named Elijah was buggered, beaten, and tortured. The owner of the Rover was picked up, but without DNA will he be prosecuted? The Minister of National Security, speaking on crime in the country, said that free education had been given, unemployment was down, the economy was buoyant: Youth are not availing themselves of these opportunities and they have lost sight of God.
Well, how much darker can we get than this, Sas?
Phone me.
How to make photocopies in the Trinidad & Tobago National Archives
by Robert Antoni
Uptown Port-of-Spain
dear mr robot:
now as i have lil chance 2 catch me breath & cool down some after all dem boisterous carryings-ons of las night, of which i can only admit shameful 2 have play my own part in dem, my womanly desires catchin de best a me unawares much as i fight dem down, cause lord only know dis pussy aint get a good airing-out like dat in many a long day, & now it finish at last wid all dat amount a pulsatin & twitchin-up so sweet & i could collec meself little bit & sit down cool & calm & quiet enough dis mornin 2 write u out dis email & put it all down clear in b & w fa u 2 hear, so LISTEN GOOD what i tellin u, eh: if u tink u could get u fockin hands pon dat machine easy as dat, u mad like fockin toro!!! i aint oversee dese national archives all dese amount a fockin years only 2 be ram-jam-tank-u-mam quick & easy so, u unnastan? & i dont give a FOCK if u is wealthy whiteman, or famous books writer from amerika, or whoeverdeassitis, aint NOBODY does touch dat xerox machine but me, u unnastan, & miss samlalsingh under my own supervision, & u could fock me & miss samlalsingh 2 till BOTH WE PUSSIES SMOKING LIKE BUSHFIRE, but wouldn’t get u no closer 2 dat machine, u unnastan?
good
now u unnastan
so mr robot i done check tru de card catalogue & fortunate for u in de c f stollmeyer esq collection is most a de numbers a dat journal u looking fa, DE MORNIN STAR, dating from 5 feb 1845 tru de following year approx, & i give dem a lil looksee meself & most is in pretty good shape & not 2 smudge & fade so u could read dem easy enough, & i check fa dem papers 2 a dis man u name, J A ETZLER, & in de stollmeyer esq collection u gots dem 2, 1 call PARADISE & nex call MECHANICAL SYSTEM & a turd i cant remember so good de name a-tall wid some longass fockin title bout MIGRATION 2 DE TROPICS & MATRIXULATION OF SOMEBODY OR SOMETING SO, & of course u got copies of all de local news from dat era 2, p o s gazette & guardian & standard & all de res
anyways, u gots dem all, mr robot, & me or miss samlalsingh will hol dem for u at de reserve frontdesk, but bear in mind mr robot what i tellin u, eh: rules is rules & laws is laws & u cannot remove NO documents from de premises a-tall a-tall, & as de sign post pon de wall behin de selfsame frontdesk read clear enough fa u & all to see in de queens own proper english & let me quote, UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES ARE PHOTOCOPIES OF ARCHIVAL DOCUMENTS PERMITTED, AND ALL LAPTOPS, SCANNERS, OR OTHER ELECTRONIC DEVICES ARE STRICTLY FORBIDDEN ON THE PREMISES, only PENCIL & PAPER mr robot 2 write down what u want & take enough notes fa u research
cordial,
miss ramsol
director, t&tna
ps mr robot if u want 2 see me again 2night u could please meet me at pelo roun 9
dear mr robot:
so u asks me las night when we did get tru wid all dat amount a jookin-up & shoutin-down de place so sweet like dat mother of jesus!!! & we was relaxin lil bit catchin a cool, & u wants me to tell u lil someting bout my family here in t’dad & where we comes from, & i dont mind 2 tell u since being a coolie aint noting shameful fa me 2 feel embarrass bout a-tall, & even dough in trut i aint know 2 much bout where we comes from meself, only as i was sayin las night dat de furs of my ancestors 2 reach here in dis place come from calcutta pon de very FURS ship a dem indenture coolies, de FATAL ROZAC, & u sit up in de bed jus den wid you toetee still half-hard still stannin-up like a stanpipe jus as i say dat exclaimin loud loud HOW FOCKIN COOL IS DAT?! dat my ancestors arrive here in port-of-spain de very same year as u family reach here wid dat crazyass man ETZLER & he TROPICAL EMIGRATION SOCIETY, de selfsame year of 1845
& i was tellin u how deepa, she was my great-great-great-gran-madoo, how she meet mahun, he was my great-great-great-gran-padoo, pon dat crossin from calcutta, but in fac i aint know if it was calcutta we comes from a-tall since de history a all dem indenture coolies in dis place reachback ONLY so far as de PORT dey disembark from, either calcutta or madras, wid all else before dat chop off & obliterate fagood faever, cause in trut my gran-madoo use 2 have a tiny lil sketchin dat she say pass down 2 she all de way from deepa, & even dough dat sketchin disappear long time i could remember it good good & it was a lil stream wid some rocks & lil bamboo bridge crossin over, & if u turn de paper it did write in handscript PUNJAUB 1822 pon de backside, & so me did start to tink from den DAT is where de family comes from in de northwes part of india, & we was probably punjaubi in trut, since where else would dat sketchin come from? & why else would deepa & my gran-madoo have it like dat? but nobody know fa sure