I cried that Christmas.
I would not only miss the one opportunity that would present
itself for me to see Santa Claus, but what about the one gift
from Old St Nick for which I had worked so hard during the
year?
I was probably heading for my seventh birthday, and good old
Santa was supposed to pay his annual visit to the Fort George
home of the Furness Smiths, the rich white folks who live
on the hill, with a bagful of goodies for us, the poor children
of Ross Land, St James.
A few days before Christmas, Mr Furness Smith would have one
of his workers walk through the village and make a list of
the names of all children between the ages of five and 12
years.
Invitations would then be returned to the parents of those
kids, and they would be guaranteed a place in what was one
of the most sought-after children’s Christmas parties,
for not only the Ross Land children, but one which rescued
our poor parents from the responsibility of having to buy
toys for us at Christmas.
I had done everything to earn my place on Santa’s list.
I remember getting up early every morning when Mr Greene’s
fowl started to crow, to tote water and fill the rusty old
barrel in the yard, so much so that my tender hands had suffered
blisters.
Pa Singh’s cow pen was cleaned every evening when I returned
from school, and I almost fell off the mango rose tree in
the back yard, trying to get some green mangoes for “Ma”
to cook some curry mango to go with the dhal and rice that
made up our lunch.
Even Uncle Tony could testify that I never took long when
he sent me in Miss Dolly’s shop to buy him his pack of
Anchor cigarettes, and bottle of rum.
And when Uncle Francis tried to trim me, I kept my head real
still. In fact, I remained so quiet, I don’t think he
chipped off piece of my ear for that whole year.
And to make matters worse, I came first in test in Miss Louis
class.
So why wasn’t I on the list of invitees for the Furness
Smith party?
Simple. I was not home on the Saturday when Mr Furness Smith’s
worker passed around to make the list for the invitation.
“Sorry”, he told my mother, “I can’t put
anyone on the list unless they are here in person,” said
the damn fool, smashing the dreams of an innocent kid, whose
only mischief was not being present at the time the idiot
chose to visit.
I later learnt that he was Sherman’s father, a fellow
student at Mucurapo Boys’ RC School, but of course, I
was heading for my 11th birthday then, and had absolutely
refused to leave home during the Christmas vacations that
followed that seventh birthday, until I was “registered”
for the party.
My mother—God bless her soul—always bought me a
new shirt for that event, and the one pants I used for church
on Sundays would have its final wear on that day, because
we played all kinds of games on that eventful evening.
It was my first experience of musical chairs; I saw a swing
for the first time, rode a horse, engaged in tug-of-war.
We looked forward to games like bran tub and after you’d
collect your gift from Santa, you’d be given a wonder
bag when you were leaving.
The lawn area in which the party was held was adorned with
so many balloons that in my childhood innocence, I saw Mr
Furness Smith and his family as kings and queens, and his
home represented a castle, something which I could only dream
of.
They served us all kinds of ice cream, biscuits and cakes.
And don’t talk about sweets. You call it, Furness Smith’s
party had it, especially Paradise Plums and Kaiser ball.
Small wonder, most of us were forced to take a purge the next
day.
We drank a non-stop supply of Solo, mauby and orange Juice.
We had to be careful with the Solo bottles, since one year
a fat boy, I think his name was Rodney, ran into Ava and the
impact buss her mouth.
Miss Sybil, Ava’s mother, was real vex because her daughter
lost a few teeth too. She vowed, then, that she was not sending
Ava back to the party the following year.
But that was only old talk, since both Ava and her sister
Grace were most present every year until their 12th birthday.
We didn’t get any more Solos in the fat bottle afterwards.
I think they were served in cups.
Most of the little boys and girls from that party have grown
into big men. Some remain my friends. People like, Sherman,
Chongolo, Ian Rennie, Gary Cooper, Eggie, Pablo, and I still
see some of the girls like Lorraine and her sister Stephanie,
Donna, Judy Blackman and all Miss Lilly’s children and
Gracie.
They will forever hold a special place in my world, a world
that has effectively changed from one of childhood innocence
to the grim reality of what life is all about today.
Sometimes, when the going gets tough, I find solace in those
moments.
Thank God for memories!
