"You sleeping, still? You not working, today? When last you called Mother? When last you been home?"
By now I was fully awake.
I hate to be awakened by ANYONE for ANYTHING, especially the telephone when there is a bossy sister on the other end.
I am not good for anything before six in the morning. Well, that's not quite true. But I prefer to take my time and make up my mind to face the new day.
Now I was irritated and annoyed by this call. I felt that it was an intrusion; invasion of my privacy.
There were so many things I wanted to say, but instead I just slammed down the phone, sucked my teeth, blurted out a few unmentionable phrases, turned over and placed the pillow over my head and tried to recapture the pleasing dream I had been relishing before that rude interruption.
But sleep seemed to have vanished. That call had disturbed my equilibrium.
True I hadn't called my mother in over a month, but I didn't need my sister to make me feel guilty.
My mother enjoys nothing more than a phone call from her seven children and brood of grandchildren. Those calls and the daily obituaries seem to energize her.
At one time I used to call my mother every day, when she would supply me with all the latest gossip, as well as advice on my diet and conduct.
My mother didn't seem to appreciate a few things which I was tempted to remind her, but refrained out of respect and upbringing.
Mother failed to recognize that I had no interest in the sordid village gossip nor in the doings of my former hypocritical and nosy neighbours.
I had to constantly remind my mother that I was forty-two and had been on my own for the last twenty. She is fully aware that under no circumstances will I ignore my stomach but yet she always expresses the hope that I am "taking care of" myself.
Whenever I arrive home, she would examine me as closely as a buyer scrutinizes a questionable animal he wishes to purchase, before expressing her satisfaction in my appearance by stating that just like my departed father, I knew how to take care of myself.
Recently, I had found that the calls to my mother, left me depressed and irritable, and that those feelings tended to linger for quite a few days. So each time I think of making that call, I kept deferring it for later.
Now here is my sister rousing me at six in the morning trying to make me feel guilty. She was doing something that my father used to do to us when we were children, and we had been engaged in some unbecoming conduct. He would wake the culprit at about five thirty in the morning to account for the misdemeanor, and to bear the consequences.
Those early morning calls had a disastrous effect on the bladder, already overloaded from a night's storage.
My bladder was now reacting. I had to get out of bed. Damn! Damn! I barely made it.
I perched myself on the throne still annoyed.
"When last I went home?"
To me it was no longer home. Did my sister know that I had stopped thinking of that place as HOME?
On a few occasions I had started to share my thoughts with them. But when I searched their faces, I realized that I was wasting my time; they would not understand. I kept my thoughts to myself.
It could be that the place was changing before, and that I had not noticed it until 1997.
I had never hired a taxi from the airport before. There were always numerous relatives eagerly offering me a ride home, but not again.
On my arrival at my mother's gate, Cousin Alwin informed me that I was owing him twenty dollars. I paid up without losing my plastic smile, as it was one of my principles never to argue against paying the piper after piping.
Home to me was the place where you knew all the neighbours and was related to them in some ways. Everybody was Uncle, Aunty, Granny, Cousin; Your house was my house. When you meet, you greet and enquire about their health and welfare and those of their numerous offsprings.
The neighbours enquired, appraised and counselled and you expressed your thanks and wished them well.
Five years ago I realized that I had not been sufficiently attentive to my mother's lengthy narratives of village affairs.
As I sat with my mother on the verandah, it dawned on me that foreigners had taken over the community, I was shocked to observe that whites and Indians were now neighbours.
Many of the young people I did not know. The males wore oversized clothing, dreadlocks toted boomboxes and smoked marijuana openly.
The females were a pitiful sight. I looked at their faces and they appeared foreign. I had to rely on my mother to identify them and relate their sad stories.
Many were barely out of their teens, but had already mothered two and three babies. My mother informed me that there had not been a wedding in the village in the last four years.
Five years ago I had begun to observe the changes. Strangers had taken over my home, bringing strange ways and making me feel that I was the stranger.
I took a look around; buildings seemed to be everywhere. There were mansions of retirees from England and the United States of America, some of them shut as tightly as a vault, their owners already taken up permanent residence on the other side.
There were small shacks squatting precariously on the hillsides, with little half naked children their fingers in their mouths, clutching some adult garment, gazing at nothing, sitting in the doorways.
Every few yards along the single paved road, small shops, filled with everything from garments to foodstuffs to liquor competed for customers. Sleepy eyed youths played cards or dominoes or stared at television sets, even though it was only ten o'clock on a Monday morning.
I left my mother on the verandah and entered the house. My intention was to lie in my old room on my old bed and try to take in this new place that used to be HOME.
I could not enjoy the peace that I sought in the only place that I thought I could find it. Strange sounding music blaring from the house next door forced me to abandon the room.
I got up and decided to take a walk. I had to hurl myself into the gutter on two occasions in order to avoid being hit by speeding vehicles with tinted windows.
I looked at the overflowing cemetery. Some of my old friends with whom I shared the best part of my life were now there.
Home? Home? Don't tell me about going home. Let me decide just where is home. I am not going back.
Justin C. Benjamin
July 24, 2002
By now I was fully awake.
I hate to be awakened by ANYONE for ANYTHING, especially the telephone when there is a bossy sister on the other end.
I am not good for anything before six in the morning. Well, that's not quite true. But I prefer to take my time and make up my mind to face the new day.
Now I was irritated and annoyed by this call. I felt that it was an intrusion; invasion of my privacy.
There were so many things I wanted to say, but instead I just slammed down the phone, sucked my teeth, blurted out a few unmentionable phrases, turned over and placed the pillow over my head and tried to recapture the pleasing dream I had been relishing before that rude interruption.
But sleep seemed to have vanished. That call had disturbed my equilibrium.
True I hadn't called my mother in over a month, but I didn't need my sister to make me feel guilty.
My mother enjoys nothing more than a phone call from her seven children and brood of grandchildren. Those calls and the daily obituaries seem to energize her.
At one time I used to call my mother every day, when she would supply me with all the latest gossip, as well as advice on my diet and conduct.
My mother didn't seem to appreciate a few things which I was tempted to remind her, but refrained out of respect and upbringing.
Mother failed to recognize that I had no interest in the sordid village gossip nor in the doings of my former hypocritical and nosy neighbours.
I had to constantly remind my mother that I was forty-two and had been on my own for the last twenty. She is fully aware that under no circumstances will I ignore my stomach but yet she always expresses the hope that I am "taking care of" myself.
Whenever I arrive home, she would examine me as closely as a buyer scrutinizes a questionable animal he wishes to purchase, before expressing her satisfaction in my appearance by stating that just like my departed father, I knew how to take care of myself.
Recently, I had found that the calls to my mother, left me depressed and irritable, and that those feelings tended to linger for quite a few days. So each time I think of making that call, I kept deferring it for later.
Now here is my sister rousing me at six in the morning trying to make me feel guilty. She was doing something that my father used to do to us when we were children, and we had been engaged in some unbecoming conduct. He would wake the culprit at about five thirty in the morning to account for the misdemeanor, and to bear the consequences.
Those early morning calls had a disastrous effect on the bladder, already overloaded from a night's storage.
My bladder was now reacting. I had to get out of bed. Damn! Damn! I barely made it.
I perched myself on the throne still annoyed.
"When last I went home?"
To me it was no longer home. Did my sister know that I had stopped thinking of that place as HOME?
On a few occasions I had started to share my thoughts with them. But when I searched their faces, I realized that I was wasting my time; they would not understand. I kept my thoughts to myself.
It could be that the place was changing before, and that I had not noticed it until 1997.
I had never hired a taxi from the airport before. There were always numerous relatives eagerly offering me a ride home, but not again.
On my arrival at my mother's gate, Cousin Alwin informed me that I was owing him twenty dollars. I paid up without losing my plastic smile, as it was one of my principles never to argue against paying the piper after piping.
Home to me was the place where you knew all the neighbours and was related to them in some ways. Everybody was Uncle, Aunty, Granny, Cousin; Your house was my house. When you meet, you greet and enquire about their health and welfare and those of their numerous offsprings.
The neighbours enquired, appraised and counselled and you expressed your thanks and wished them well.
Five years ago I realized that I had not been sufficiently attentive to my mother's lengthy narratives of village affairs.
As I sat with my mother on the verandah, it dawned on me that foreigners had taken over the community, I was shocked to observe that whites and Indians were now neighbours.
Many of the young people I did not know. The males wore oversized clothing, dreadlocks toted boomboxes and smoked marijuana openly.
The females were a pitiful sight. I looked at their faces and they appeared foreign. I had to rely on my mother to identify them and relate their sad stories.
Many were barely out of their teens, but had already mothered two and three babies. My mother informed me that there had not been a wedding in the village in the last four years.
Five years ago I had begun to observe the changes. Strangers had taken over my home, bringing strange ways and making me feel that I was the stranger.
I took a look around; buildings seemed to be everywhere. There were mansions of retirees from England and the United States of America, some of them shut as tightly as a vault, their owners already taken up permanent residence on the other side.
There were small shacks squatting precariously on the hillsides, with little half naked children their fingers in their mouths, clutching some adult garment, gazing at nothing, sitting in the doorways.
Every few yards along the single paved road, small shops, filled with everything from garments to foodstuffs to liquor competed for customers. Sleepy eyed youths played cards or dominoes or stared at television sets, even though it was only ten o'clock on a Monday morning.
I left my mother on the verandah and entered the house. My intention was to lie in my old room on my old bed and try to take in this new place that used to be HOME.
I could not enjoy the peace that I sought in the only place that I thought I could find it. Strange sounding music blaring from the house next door forced me to abandon the room.
I got up and decided to take a walk. I had to hurl myself into the gutter on two occasions in order to avoid being hit by speeding vehicles with tinted windows.
I looked at the overflowing cemetery. Some of my old friends with whom I shared the best part of my life were now there.
Home? Home? Don't tell me about going home. Let me decide just where is home. I am not going back.
Justin C. Benjamin
July 24, 2002
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