By Lisa J Latouche
As the truck lumbered along the unpaved road Fanny yawned; a wide, lengthy yawn that took its time to journey through her body and into the world. The proper night’s rest that Nebu had advised them to get had evaded her. Perhaps it was the dreams. Too much excitement could do that to a person.
From her wooden seat on the crowded lorry, Fanny tried to settle her mind by watching the dawn disentangle itself from the night’s embrace. It was a gradual unfurling, the dark abyss of seeming nothingness giving way to form; mountains becoming dark mounds outlined against the graying sky. The lorry was quiet now. There were intervals of lull and intervals of chatter, a truck-full of people excited and nervous at the same time because they all shared an understanding that a protest could turn sideways.
“Zò pawé pou jòdi-a?” Mildred asked for the hundredth time. All-you ready for today? Fanny rolled her eyes. Mildred was sitting next to Nebu, at the back of the truck, her head
tied in new madras and her yellow, shapeless dress doing nothing to hide her opulent flesh. For the entire drive Fanny tried to ignore Mildred and Nebu’s conversations with each other, their closeness.
Sitting next to Fanny, Pastor Firewood answered, “Mwen pawé!” I’m ready! His voice was bigger than the mountains, defying the body that housed it.
“The government will topple today,” Nebu declared. “It will be a day for the history books!”
Fanny’s heart quickened, thinking about Nebu’s state of agitation the night before, his
restless feet carrying him back and forth at the main intersection in their village.
A group of people had stood a few feet from him in an arc, the flaming tongues from their flambeau torches like a crescent moon. Some burned brighter than others, pieces of cloth like lit wicks protruding from the mouths of kerosene-filled bottles. The flames illuminated Nebu. Tall, dark and regal, his tight kinks spiraled upwards like a black crown. He had just come from a massive meeting in Lagon, Roseau, held by the Civil Service Association, the C. S. A. He said union leaders had informed the public about two bills the government intended to pass the following day – the Industrial Relations and Slander Act amendments. They were urging Dominicans to protest against those bills.
Fanny had been to several of Nebu’s community meetings lamenting about things that were going on in the country and questioning the decisions of the Prime Minister, Patrick John, commonly called P. J. He, P. J., had formed the Dominica Defense Force and although he had no military experience, he fashioned himself as a Colonel. The politics both intrigued and disheartened Fanny: the drop in export revenues of bananas and bay oil (their village’s mainstay), the forty-seven-day strike of the civil servants, the Dread Act. Despite Fanny’s inability to fully grasp everything that was happening, she could barely resist Nebu’s palpable excitement, so when he had asked who was joining the protest, Fanny was front and center. Well, she and loud-mouthed Mildred.
Now, in the truck, Fanny’s ambivalence disturbed her. It was the dream that was causing this uneasiness. She was excited to be part of history, but something from her dream; a word, or perhaps a feeling, was knocking on the door of her brain seeking to take up space there. Fanny hesitated, but eventually invited it in. However, it wouldn’t unravel and reveal itself so she left it alone, like an unopened gift.
Nebu said, “I don’t know if I mentioned this last night. Yesterday, the C. S. A. asked supporters to congregate at Goodwill Parish Hall to avoid confrontation with the police, because the government put a ban on public meetings. We say, “no way…we demonstrating outside the headquarters!” That in itself is a risk and I am proud of our people for taking that stand. P. J. wants to pass those bills to muzzle the media and to prevent civil servants from protesting legally. He wants to quell the fire of the trade unions and undermine all the work they have done. That is not right and those bills are not passing today! The government should know the power of the people by now. Especially after we shut down the country for forty-seven days when we were striking for our back pay.”
Nebu’s energy was contagious and the riling up was happening again, people hungry for change. Fanny wasn’t confident enough to contribute, so she listened as she observed the dawn busily unveiling objects, shrubs and trees in their detailed uniqueness. It was mostly recycled conversations, about civil servants’ unrest and the police force being dispirited about low salaries, limited gear, and receiving less attention than the Dominica Defense Force. They talked about the powerful female attorney, Mary Eugenia Charles, or Mamo, leader of the Dominica Freedom Party, who was challenging the atrocities that were going on. Then they praised Mr. Charles Savarin, a nationally-recognized union leader, for his foresight, for his leadership and for encouraging civil servants to strike.
“We’re destabilizing that government today! This is not the Labour Party we know and love! This is not what the forerunners like E. O. LeBlanc envisioned!” Nebu’s voice found her, amid the other voices, and she didn’t have to turn around to lose herself in his energy. He was magnetic without trying.
He continued, “One mistake P. J. made was to sideline the youth who really worked with
them leading up to Dominica’s independence. Some of us were leaning towards the socialist movement, but we still rallied young people from Portsmouth to Grand Bay. And after all our hard work, they just shoved us aside. Another thing is the Dread Act of ‘75; brutalizing young people because of their dreadlocks. Now, the youth are moving away from the party. Depleted trust I call that. Hurtful things, my people. Hurtful.”
Fanny wished she was near him, to ease the hurt. She wondered whether Mildred was doing that; easing his hurt, perhaps patting his hand, or his back, or his knee. Fanny shuddered. She shelved the thought.
Pastor Firewood was shaking his head. He said, “how can a government ban civil servants and essential workers from having strikes and even disallow help for those ventures? If striking becomes a crime, then we fini bat. We are finished! And in what democratic country are journalists mandated to disclose their sources? Today will be for the history books, indeed. We decree and declare that those bills shall not pass!”
Fanny listened to the amens and the back and forth, gaining more and more clarity about the situation. Things were serious. She inhaled deeply, summoning courage to face the day. She asked, “so why they want to pass those bills?”
Loud-mouth Mildred offered her two cents. “Is de dealings with de Texan company! P. J., our own prime minister, offer thirty percent of de north of our country as a free port to a Pierson man from Texas for $99 a year. So where would our farmers plant their bananas? We independent from Englan’ less than a year and they ready to sell de country for thirty pieces of silver. That vex me wi! And all-you hear what they say on de BBC program they call Panorama? I din’ hear it myself but they say a convicted gunrunner, Sydney Burnett-Alleyne,arrange for our government to enter a secret contract with a regime in South Africa – one that
embargo an’ apa…apafield…what’s de word…”
“Apartheid,” Fanny said.
“Yes. That word. Well, de secret contract was for de South Africa people to pay for a tank farm and oil refinery in our newly independent country, so we could buy oil on de international market on their behalf. What twaka is that, eh? Is those things P. J. din’ want people to know, an’ that is why he want to pass those bills fast, fast so people wouldn’t protest and news people wouldn’t talk!”
Pastor Firewood said, “But, Mildred, all the blame shouldn’t rest on P. J., you know. Remember, this is the same Burnett-Alleyne who admitted to recruiting mercenaries to overthrow the Barbados Government. They say it’s him and our Guyanese Attorney General causing all that trouble. Leo Austin. A church member who works in the ministry told me it’s Austin giving the government that kind of foolish advice.”
“Well, they need to go!” Mildred answered. “Austin have no right in our affairs.” Others echoed her sentiments. A lull came, and Fanny welcomed the silence. They were
driving along the Atlantic coast now, the cerulean sea stretching like it was never ending, white foam frothing on its surface. The sun was inching upwards, seemingly from under the sea, bathing the places it touched in a golden glow. Sunrise is a helluva thing to witness. Fanny’s grandmother used to tell them, “de sun passing under de sea at night an coming back up next morning.” When Fanny learned the earth goes around the sun, she tried to explain it to her. But Fanny’s grandmother dismissed her. “Ki palé sòt sa?” What nonsense talk is that? Fanny chuckled to herself. God rest your soul, Mama Filomen.
“Laughing to yourself young lady?” Pastor Firewood nudged her.
“Just remembering Mama Filomen,” Fanny answered.
He smiled, without even knowing Fanny’s thoughts. “My warrior Mama Filomen Firewood. God rest her soul. She’s probably causing problems in heaven with her rebellious self.”
Fanny smiled. “It’s she I’m carrying with me today cause I suspect I’ll need her strength.”
“I am sure she would want you to be safe too. We have to be observant and careful today, you understand?”
“I know, Uncle,” Fanny said. She rested her head on his shoulder, like she had done many times before, appreciative of his dependability and concern.
“Protests can get violent and I suspect the police and Defense Force will be all out today, even if the C. S. A. planned this protest only yesterday. Some people don’t mind getting injured but I think safety is important. You hear what I’m telling you?”
Unbidden, Fanny’s apprehension returned, unraveling itself like a loose boulder rolling down a cliff. It revealed a word which she refused to voice because that would mean giving it power, giving it life. Fanny shut the word into a cupboard in the back of her mind, and sealed it with positive thoughts. She said to Pastor Firewood, “you were part of the ‘71 protest and that was successful. I think this one will be alright. Besides, the Defense Force only has a hundred people. What kind of power is that?”
He mulled on her words, nodding. “True. ‘71 was a success. I have a feeling today will be different, though. Bigger. And don’t mind those officers’ numbers; they have weapons. While I’m happy you are taking an interest in these political issues, I’m a little apprehensive about you being here. Matter of fact I’m surprised your parents allowed you to be part of this at all.”
“I’m not a little girl anymore, you know. I’m twenty years old, an adult. Even if I dunno
much, I’ll learn. I had to let my parents see that politics not for big man alone. Look at Eugenia Charles. She’s a woman, she’s an attorney, and she running things in Freedom Party. Woman have voice too.”
“Good point Fanny,” he smiled. “Very true. Is this why you’re wearing a green blouse? In support of Miss Charles?”
“Yes. Forward with Freedom! Mamo for P. M.” She grinned, pointing her index finger forward. It was the symbol for the Dominica Freedom Party.
“Mama Filomen would be proud of you. You remind me of her – same stubbornness. Your looks too. The litheness and brown skin. Big eyes. Kalinago hair.” He chuckled. “But, despite her small size she was a fireball, you know. A real rebel. She taught my siblings and me to plane lumber and build things from wood. When everybody was telling her that women shouldn’t be doing men’s work, she defied them. Mama built her house with her own two hands while we were small and her husband, my father, was sick. I was still a boy, but I remember.”
It was a familiar story, one Fanny never got tired of. Filomen Firewood built a house for her family. Attorney-at-Law Mary Eugenia Charles was building a party. Fanny could do anything too.
When they finally disembarked the truck at the Old Market in Roseau, a little after seven o’clock, Nebu gave them a ‘stick together’ and ‘look out for projectiles’ speech. “And no violence, my people. Try to refrain from missile throwing.”
Fanny’s heart galloped, but she was ready.
***
Fanny and Pastor Firewood walked along Kennedy Avenue into a thickening crowd. Nebu had gone to find his fellow members of the National Youth Council and Mildred walked
ahead with a few others from their village.
In Roseau, wooden houses huddled, as if they were whispering amongst themselves. Fanny could not fathom living in such close quarters, without expanses of green between houses. In the distance the same sun she had just seen rising out of the ocean on the east coast, was now presiding over the mountains, dominating the gathering clouds. The mountain ranges surrounded the Roseau Valley like a shield, and Fanny realized her only armor was the sea of bodies around her.
If anybody was in charge of the protest, she did not notice them. There were no podiums, no speeches, no official looking people, except a few police officers patrolling easily through the crowd, their batons in hand or underarm. Onlookers congregated on the stoops and verandas of the whispering houses. Some people remained on the sidelines, talking, arguing; some incensed, others calm. Fanny and Pastor Firewood walked at a leisurely pace along Kennedy Avenue, past the Arawak House of Culture, towards the government headquarters, called ‘de ministry.’
Kennedy Avenue is a secondary road and converges with Bath Road, the main road that borders the east edge of the 2.1 square-mile city. Up ahead, Fanny noticed people streaming down Bath Road, some veering onto Kennedy Avenue, reminding her of a tributary branching off from a river. They were chanting but she could not decipher their words because the protesters on Kennedy Avenue, who were in closer physical proximity to her, were bellowing “Leo must go!”
It was simultaneously electrifying and frightening, this infectious energy; people ready to fight for their country, reminding Fanny of her indigenous Kalinago people, the first inhabitants, who fought to protect Dominica when the colonizers came.
“Never see all these people in one place!” she exclaimed, lifting her voice above the din.
“Someone said there is a thick crowd on Hillsborough Street too. Must be close to fifteen thousand people in Roseau today,” Pastor Firewood answered. “And it’s still early. Just about 8:30 a.m.”
Hillsborough Street, a block over, also merges with Bath Road. The National Bank and the Treasury are on that street.
The government headquarters loomed ahead in all its glass-facade glory, the tallest and prettiest building Fanny had ever seen. It was where parliament was held, where the government officials would convene. Nebu had told her they held parliament on the top floor, the fourth floor. She imagined the views from there. To the east, Windsor Park where activities like the Donkey Derby were held, and the Roseau Valley with its waterfalls, lakes and sulfur springs. To the north, the Roseau River, the Princess Margaret Hospital in Goodwill, and other communities beyond. To the south, the Pound slums and perhaps Scott’s Head all the way to the end of the island. To the west, the city and the calm Caribbean Sea. Magnificent views. If anybody was there now, looking down, they would see thousands of patriots forming a U, or horseshoe, around the building.
Fanny was in the belly of the crowd. Looking around, she saw no sign of Pastor Firewood whom she had just been with. When she stopped walking, bodies pushed her so she had to keep moving. The mass of people surged forward, and Fanny’s body flowed with hundreds of others in unison, like an Atlantic wave hitting the island’s east-coast. She joined in their chanting.
“Leo must go!”
“Leo must go!”
Feet moving forward, Fanny’s eyes scoured the heads for her people: Nebu, Pastor Firewood, even Mildred. She saw none. There was a commotion further ahead, and although
Fanny strained her neck to see what was going on, she could not. Amid the chanting, there were voices that made their way across the throng, conveying what was happening.
They burst de ministry gate!
Suddenly, Fanny found herself in backward motion, as if the Atlantic wave was receding. Confusion and panic gripped her, and the word from her premonition earlier came to her – the word she had refused to give life to.
“Leo Must Go!”
Her body was billowing forward again when she recognized a familiar madras head-tie a few feet away. The yellow dress was present. Fanny almost cried with relief, and she laughed too, because Mildred was not her favorite person. As she attempted to manipulate spaces to inch closer to Mildred, the mass of people was receding again. The voices that made their way across the throng, conveyed what was happening.
Officers! Officers! Stop pushing us back and join our cause. All-you is civil servants too!
Officers, stand with de people!
Fanny understood the forward and backward motion now. As the crowd got closer to the unhinged gate, the police officers who were manning ‘de ministry’ charged forward, pushing the crowd back to clear the entrance and to keep protesters from entering the building. The officers did not join the protest. They did not arrest anyone either. Fanny wondered how much longer they could hold out, considering how outnumbered they were.
She wasn’t getting any closer to Mildred, but she found comfort in the glimpses of the madras head-tie and yellow dress. Just then, some government parliamentarians were making their way through the crowd. Fists pumping and sweat coating her face, Fanny joined in the furious jeering as the Labour Party officials walked through the un-gated entrance.
“Boo! Boo!”
“P. J. must go!”
When the opposition arrived soon after, the crowd exploded in a frenzied whooping and hollering. Fanny, like others, tip-toed and jumped to see the opposition leader as she walked into the building.
“Forward with Freedom!” They repeated.
Mary Eugenia Charles – her hero – waved at the crowd. Fanny jumped and clapped and flailed and screamed ‘Freedom! Freedom!’ until her throat was parched and her eyes were wet with tears. All around her, people were buzzing. Young and old. Male and Female.
“Mamo for Roseau!”
“Mamo for P. M.!”
It took a while for the excitement to abate and Fanny, still elated, wondered if this was it. With nothing else holding her interest, she searched for the madras head-tie and yellow dress – to no avail. When Fanny turned around, she saw Mildred navigating the crowd, near the Arawak House of Culture, where she had last seen Pastor Firewood. Perhaps Mildred was looking for the others. Fanny followed suit, keeping her eyes on the madras head-tie. The crowd was not yielding, and she had to push and shove her little body through to get to the less dense area.
Looking further ahead, euphoria seeped through Fanny’s spirit like soup through a sieve. A contingent of Defense Force soldiers, about twenty-five of them, were marching towards the protesters, uniformed. Camouflaged battle wear. Combat helmets. Brown or cream satchels across their torsos. Rifles held on the right side of their bodies at the waist level. Their truck was trailing behind them. It resembled the one that Fanny had ridden in earlier that morning, except this one was painted in an army green hue matching the soldiers’ uniforms. It was strange to her,
that they were approaching from the rear. Maybe the crowd on Bath Road was too thick to penetrate.
“Disperse or we smoke!”
Fanny froze, hearing the command. The word from earlier had moved from the back of her brain into the open space. She resisted saying it out loud, resisted giving it life. Apparently, most people had not heard the warning, because few of them actually budged. Some of the officers stooped and donned big, black masks, while others stood like sentries. It was like watching a film and in that moment Fanny’s mind failed to provide her with direction.
“Disperse or we smoke!”
Fanny’s eyes darted all about in search of the madras head-tie or her uncle’s mustard-colored face, or Nebu’s afro. She saw none. She did not know whether to run down Kennedy Avenue towards the soldiers or away from them, back to the government headquarters.
“Disperse or we smoke!”
Panic coiled in Fanny’s stomach like a sinister snake, and as she turned to run, a loud explosion rocked her, extracting all the courage from her body. A canister rolled to her feet and a wall of smoke appeared around her, shrouding her, obscuring her vision, as if she was all alone in the streets.
“My eyes! My eyes!” Fanny cried.
Around her were similar shouts.
Wicked soldiers!
My throat is closing! I cyaa breathe!
Before she could form another thought, more booms ricocheted across the space, and it was like a cloud had risen from the ground, blanketing the protesters. Fanny’s nose and eyes
burned like she’d buried her face in hot pepper sauce. Involuntary tears washed her face as she stumbled in between the now agitated demonstrators who were verbally attacking the Defense Force and hurling stones at them and at the government buildings, including the bank and the treasury. They were chanting something different:
“Remember December 16, 1971!”
“Remember December 16, 1971!”
The standpipe which was close to the ministry was crowded, people shoving and pushing, seeking relief, holding wet handkerchiefs to their faces. As Fanny squeezed her way through to get to the standpipe, a stone wheezed by and hit a man who was waiting to wash his face. Through the haze, Fanny looked on, horrified and helpless as someone led him away, blood streaming from his head. Then the thinning crowd parted at the head of Kennedy Avenue allowing two cars to drive through.
P. J. and Christian reach!
Henckell Christian was the Deputy Prime Minister. Fanny now understood the reason for the tear gas – to disperse the crowd so P. J. and Christian would enter the headquarters unharmed.
As Fanny was going to wet her face, a firm body brushed her aside and she stumbled into the gutter. A young, dark-skinned man, wearing a red, gold and green tam, helped her up, his eyes smiling kindly at her. She thought she heard him say ‘careful pretty’ before he dashed off with the others, creating a path in their wake. At the standpipe, someone else had already taken her place. Eyes burning, Fanny heard stones showering the cars and the buildings.
“P. J. must go!” Few protesters were chanting.
She’d lost the zeal to participate, her eyes and nose on fire. Everywhere, people were running and screaming and throwing stones or bottles. Some women used their skirts as pouches
to carry stones from the neighboring yards for the throwers. Some people stones from the bank of the Roseau River. All this within a tear-gas induced fog. She wondered about Pastor Firewood and the rest of her people. Then suddenly:
Pow! Pow!
Gunshots! Gunshots!
Fanny fled, her heartbeat like the hooves of a million mares, the word spinning circles in her mind. Even the police officers who were manning the gate-less entrance were escaping the gunfire.
Pow! Pow!
A bullet hit a teenage boy under de ministry!
Fanny raced almost blindly onto Bath Road and onto Hillsborough Street, hearing bits of and pieces of information as she ran along.
… lady screaming in Pound say de gas suffocate her baby! … They shoot Dover de mechanic!
Eyes and nose burning and runny, her heart pounded in her ears. She needed water and she needed to get to the Old Market where their truck was waiting. Maybe her people were there, waiting for her.
…Defense Force feller pushed the S. M. A. Principal, Brother Germaine, to the ground and kicked him! Wicked…
Fanny must have tripped on the sidewalk or on somebody’s foot. She found herself stumbling, getting closer to the ground with each misstep. Palms out, her hands were the first to reach the pavement. Pain shot through her palms and her knees; her denim pants ripped from the impact. It was slow motion; as if she was watching herself fall. Then everything else slowed,
amplified, and intensified like time and nature were manipulating her senses.
Pow! Pow!
Glass continuously shattering. Pling! Pshhh!
A million trampling feet.
Fuck all-you Defense Force fellers!
Pow! Pow!
Suffocating odor of tear gas.
Lazy police closed their gate on civilians asking for help!
As Fanny attempted to rise, a boot stepped on her hand, as if intent on crushing her skin and bones into the asphalt. She cried out and fell back down, groaning.
Palms stinging and bruised.
Leave us alone, Mr. Brian Alleyne! We doh want to hear about no peace talk today! We mad and we vex! We making our bombs!
Afraid of another trample, Fanny tried rising again. As she looked up, her eyes still burning, a young man staggered mere inches from her, his shirt drenched fluid-red. His red, gold and green tam hit the ground before he did, and like her, he tried getting up. Fanny watched the confusion in his eyes turn to terror as if his brain had revealed to him what was happening to his body. He collapsed like an empty sac.
As the blood streamed from his body and spread onto the pavement, the word from Fanny’s dream swirled in her mind. She realized there was no need to give it a voice, to give it life. The word was death and death was already dead.
***
The gunfire ceased. The fog dissipated, revealing a road littered with stones, bottles, and
debris. There were countless broken windows on the prettiest building Fanny had ever seen. In the air hung a collective solemnity that she had only experienced when Mama Filomen had passed.
Timothy boy that die? That they say. Phillip. Only nineteen years, wi.
De one dat playing pan and working on de port? Yes.
Full of shock and grief for someone she had glimpsed only twice, Fanny hobbled away from the weeping and wailing. Officials and civilians brushed past her blood-spattered body, rushing to the scene.
Opposition walked out so bills didn’t pass. Freedom party meeting later. That death is coals for an inferno, trust me. Prepare for war in the country!
*
The Roseau River, just around the corner from the ministry, was another world. Fanny clambered the low wall, exercising caution with her bruised body. On the opposite bank, a forest of trees hid the Hundred Steps leading to Goodwill, creating eerie emerald shadows on some parts of the water. Other people were in the river too, perhaps seeking solace from the trauma.
The river’s constant roar did nothing to center Fanny. She navigated the reeds and rocks, the steady breeze from the Roseau Valley whipping her hair and kissing her bloody cheeks, as if comforting her. Fully clothed, Fanny immersed herself into the river’s gurgle, ignoring the sting in her palms. She grounded herself so the current wouldn’t carry her away like the surging crowd had done.
The eyes that had smiled at her earlier, and whose final register was terror, appeared on the surface of the river and in the cloudy sky and in the dense foliage across the river and behind her lids when she closed her eyes.
Her own eyes were releasing tears, her body trembling like a leaf in the wind and her feet unable to carry her back to the bank. When the rains came, shortly after, it was there in the clear, flowing water, her body quivering from shock, that Pastor Firewood and Nebu found her. They were apologetic, concern marring their faces. Her uncle cocooned her in the safety of his arms, asking her repeatedly if she was alright. Her tongue momentarily stolen from the trauma, she nodded.
“I knew we would find you here. But we need to get you out of the river and get you some dry clothes,” Pastor Firewood said, releasing her. When Fanny did not answer he apologized again. “I’m so sorry, Fanny. I had stopped to talk to somebody earlier and I hadn’t realized you had walked on.”
“She’s not alright, Pastor.” Nebu said. He was standing in the river too, a little further from Fanny. “Fan, tell us what happened to you.”
Fanny opened her mouth to speak but she remembered the eyes and the scent of the blood and her own narrow escape with death. What if she had gotten up from the ground before the boot had stepped on her hand? Fanny’s breakfast pushed her words aside and unsettled breadfruit flowed from her mouth, into the river, in a continuous stream of stress.
Sobs racked her body and the rain intensified, as if the gods were crying too, thick drops splattering the river’s surface. Phillip would never hear that music again, or the strength of water holding him. A shrill cry escaped her lips.
“I’m taking her to the hospital,” Nebu said. “She’s in shock. I’ll cross the river and take the Hundred Steps to Goodwill. Go and tell the rest.”
Nebu scooped her up and Fanny’s ear gathered the sound of his throbbing heart. “And what about your party meetings?”
“Not important right now, Pastor,” Nebu said, his breathing as erratic as his heartbeats.
As they crossed the river, the rain stopped as suddenly as it had come; like Phillip’s life. Fanny’s dream had materialized. She wondered if she had voiced it, whether it would have been free to float into the sky away from the protest, away from Phillip Timothy.
-End-
