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When weeping endures more than a night

When I was naming my son, his father Milton had concerns for the sound of the child’s name, an African word Kafele (say Kah feel-a), that he felt sounded like bad coffee, so he named him Marere (say Mah-ray-ray).

I remember agonising during pregnancy about a first name with a good meaning, and since I wanted to have a boy child but had secured five girls’ names, the task was even more daunting when he arrived one beautiful Sunday morning to the sound of How Great Thou Art belting out from the bells at St Paul’s Anglican Church, San Fernando.

The chosen names for the daughter I did not want to have then were Cachet, Jontue, Chloe, Sapphire and Jade.

He was named Jovan, if you catch my drift!

Sometime later, I decided to peer down on the meaning of the child’s name and came up with this:

Jovan—youthful; child of your youth.

Marere—astounding; amazing.

So, I wrote down “The astounding, amazing child of my youth” and that settled the matter.

Ever since the West Indies players formed a representative body I had a sense we were in for some trouble, not of the magnitude that we now face in the Caribbean, but trouble indeed.

Imagine my distress when I first saw “W-I-P-A,” and being very insecure when I do not know a correct pronunciation, I waited to hear other people’s interpretation of the acronym.

The jury is still out, and we are faced with the following:

WIPA: Say weeper—a person who weeps; a hired mourner; something worn as a sign of mourning.

WIPA: Say wiper—any piece of cloth such as a handkerchief, etc, used for wiping; a cam rotated to allow a part to fall under its own weight as used in stamping machines, etc;

Now, looking at the fate of cricket enthusiasts, Dinanath Ramnarine et al may want to reconsider WIPA.

Never have I shed so much silent tears as in the last two months or so.

Sermon on the mount

Whatever you believe about the manifestation, you have to admit that the message was clear.

I stood in quiet amazement, more akin to stupor, and watched this young man possessed by a passion perilous in its outlook and with the threat to take him to a precipitous end.

I looked at Fr Harvey as he exercised collected wisdom in his approach to the situation.

I looked at the mother of the young man and my womb grieved.

I look at the bewilderment on the faces of the devotees and I thought, surely, they must have seen this at least written in the gospels.

I listened to the conjecture of those around me as they attempted to fathom the young man’s dilemma.

This young man, consumed in anger, represents a part of the simmering rancour of T&T that manifests in our new roadside flowering of dead bodies.

And then I hear Job say, “Yet a man is born to trouble as surely as sparks fly upwards.”

Courting folly

In recent times I have observed a kind of behaviour in the courts and I think that it must certainly be an affectation copied from that other hallowed hall, where shallow and wallow have become the order of the day.

Imagine—because I cannot—Prakash Ramadhar in a banter with Shawn Parris as though is two liming partners in an influenced brawl!

Camille’s manpower

If anyone could move those billboards off the highway it would be Camille Robinson-Regis.

This action restores a little faith in me, as the minister, in her usual go-getter manner, went and got!

Thank you, Camille, for putting your money where your mouth did not go. That is the preferred action and I have a good sense that a whole lot of Trinbagonians want to see more than they hear.

Do first, talk after!

The great pace...

Yesterday, I got on the highway heading into Port-of-Spain, and as I am wont, I am doing the speed limit, carefully glancing at my speedometer from time to time, as defensive drivers normally do—and in a split second, whooosh!

And all I saw was red.

That was a Honda CRV which did the lateral drive, edging in front of me with looming peril and driver looking back in his side mirror, with a smirk.

He had triumphed!

He passed the moving thing in front of him, now to greater adventures, as he pursues first place in a contest that has not as yet been won by any of the contenders, and the only placings have been in the caskets.

A silent prayer

...As I recovered with a silent prayer I thought of the time I’d like to spend with my grandchildren and I prayed more fervently.

Just before “Amen!” I saw a manoeuvre in the corner of my eye. There was Mr Silver Grey station wagon running late for his appointment, gliding from left lane to right lane and back to centre as he came upon a truck moving slowly.

I shook my head in sympathy for all those who had to decelerate form 80 kph to 20 kph in ten seconds to allow Mr Silver Grey to live.

Driving miss crazy

...Still on the road. Measured calmness, until His Royal PBT needed space to test his horsepower, driving like another of those animals—and I don’t mean ox or mule.

Something exploded in my head and something else enveloped my heart.

My head was trying to figure out where they could be going and why the need for speed?

Not the airport, wrong direction; not the hospital, wrong direction; hardly work, it’s a holiday; not the beach, that still there, it only moved inland a bit more.

What consumes us? What drives us?

First, I think that we do not have pastimes, and second, we are bereft of ideas for recreation and so we need to drive badly to get the adrenaline rush we so need.

I see police every morning when I am crawling in the sweltering heat going to work, lots of police, where are they today?