made me wonder what names the countless pathogenic creatures – if they were capable of rational thought – had for those holes that they had so lovingly occupied. Paradise, perhaps?
Unfortunately, paradise, large or small was not to be found in our tiny backyard. Unhappily we disposed our bodily waste in a galvanized bucket and, when the bucket was filled to the brim, the frassman, the waste disposal guy or the crapologist as the Americans would probably say, would be summoned. The sour truth was Iris could ill afford to pay the frassman. Worse, she was far too proud to allow her precious boys to carry the effluence to the appropriate place; but everything on Earth has a price, for no sooner had she sacrificed the precious brass penny than tears would glide down her cheeks like firemen down a fire station’s emergency pole, and yet, Iris had not minded shedding those tears, for that was the price she had been willing to pay for her false pride.
On the flip side of the coin, pride, authentic or sham was not a luxury the frassman had been able to afford. The little business of must eat to survive had trumped his pride and so, rather than steal, with a big fat grin he happily transported the waste to the effluvial place that the townsfolk had honestly labelled Shit Alley.
One night, after a trip to the alley, the frassman had not returned and Iris was concerned. Was she concerned for the man or for her bucket? Her bucket, most likely. According to the story, she quickly assigned Alver the job of solving the bucket problem. Alver sped to the man’s shack as if one of Hitler’s rockets had been inserted up his ass. He banged urgently on the fragile wooden door. Quickly the rickety door opened and with razor blade eyes the angry frassman gazed at Alver, said nothing but swiftly dashed back into the house as if hisass had been rocket-propelled too.
What the … Alver mumbled, but before he had the time to utter the prevalent f-word the frassman returned with a razor-sharp cutlass! Another murderous look and the irate man began displaying his homicidal tendency. Waving the lethal weapon in Alver’s face, he screamed, ‘Ah weel keel you! You stoopid dockfocker! Ah weel keel you!’
Alver resented being called stupid, and he resented being called a duckfucker even more, but at that perilous moment there was nothing he could do about it and, with no wish to wind up like bacon, he concentrated on finding a way to quell the problem.
So what was the problem? Was the frassman discontented with his poop-earned coin? No man no. The man was livid because, on the way to the valley of frass the bottom of the deteriorating bucket collapsed and the contents had him cemented like a Roman column. I mean, who on this ever-spinning Earth would be happy to pong like a skunk and simultaneously resemble the grandson of the creature from the Black Lagoon? Of course the focking man was not happy! But not for long – see, Alver pleaded for his life and after a hard bargain handed the lion-livid man a fortune. Sixpence! Oh man, that did it! Iris farted verbs and commas by the score! That sixpence had meant salt fish and breadfruit on the table and now eating a satisfying meal was right out of the window. Unable to eat properly that day, we were forced to settle for scraps, but Iris refused to accept the glaring truth: we were neck-deep in muck. Indulging in her usual cut price philosophy, she told her family ‘we now exist in de grave for de livin’!’ A week later, while everyone sat quietly at the old wooden table enjoying a reasonably tasty meal of black eyed peas, green bananas and flying fish, Iris detailed the reason for our survival: she had prayed; her prayers had been heard and bundles of saints had toppled down from the furry sky to rescue us – that was whythe family had emerged from the grave alive and kicking!
Holy goats! My overly-religious guardian had once again credited heaven’s saints for the good deeds of mere mortals. In reality it was Alver and my mother’s monthly allowance that had enabled the rest of the family to subsist at all, but what was the point of telling that to the five foot three, neither fat nor thin Iris?
Poorly schooled but undeniably literate Iris had a tendency to transform black into white when it suited her. It was the same with words. Words large enough to go on a diet were sometimes used instead of anorexic ones, and those fat words were constantly used in the company of her semi-literate friends. Like everyone else, including me, her inclination to make mincemeat of the English language was without parallel, so where had those words come from? The bible? That confusing book had been responsible for her usage of large words?
At the end of the day Iris must be given the credit she deserved. Besides her usage of large words and the biblical tuition that she had insisted in ramming down my throat in the cock-crowing hours of the morning, she had also preached to me the unforgettable: chile, knowledge is power and power is king that’s what life’s about. Those words, among numerous other sage words, had sounded good to me, so as humid days made way for windless nights I tried to be knowledgeable. I also learnt to be independent, to look after myself properly, to make my caban –bed of rags, prepare myself for school, wash the chipped dishes, sweep and tidy the shack – all that I did before my six birthday. One day, I had the temerity to complain, ‘Mam, why do Ah have to do dese girly fings?’
Stupidly I had expected her to reply with a clear and logical answer, instead she replied bitchily, ‘Shet up and do what Ah tell you to do!’ and as if to mollify me she added, ‘Earl, one day you’ll understan’ and you’ll fank me for it.’
Yes. But I was unable to ‘fank’ her for the extreme discipline that she had insisted in instilling in me. In moderation a meal of discipline was fine, but Iris had no boundaries to her military-style discipline. For instance, there were times when I had been playing some game or other with friends, I would sometimes stumble and fall and as a result the skin on my knees would be torn to shreds. Iris would not ask for an explanation, nor would she apply ointment and band aid to my wounds, no sir! Instead, for my “clumsiness” I would be flogged. If per ill-fated chance I had accidently torn my shirt or pants, the same punishment would be rigidly meted out, followed by this ill-considered statement, ‘Why you so foolish you foolish fool?!’
The first time Iris called me a ‘foolish fool,’ in spite of knowing that I would be severely punished, I giggled, for I was savvy enough to know that a fool was obviously foolish. At some other time when I had arrived home with my shirt in tatters after a fight, the inevitable strap she used to bite into my back, followed by another of her keen observation. ‘Clothes don’ grow on trees, you know!’ which I suppose was a departure from telling me, after she had caught me dumping cooked breadfruit in the bin, ‘Breadfruit don’ grow on trees!’
On that particular occasion I had the nuts to tell her, ‘Yes Mam, I know dat! Everybody know trees don’ grow in de ground!’ only to be whipped for my intended sarcasm.
In the little hovel that had been adorned with the usual French jalousies, well-worn linoleum floor and all that was basic, I began to adapt to Iris’s unintended cruelty, which in fact was the bible’s chief mantra: spear not the rod and spoil the child.Aside from that I also had to adapt to nature’s cruelty, and so in our tiny wooden house on stilts that stood twenty feet or so away from the little river, little old me learnt to adapt to all about me, good or bad.
Almost the first thing I learnt was to adapt to the hurricane season. At times like these, when it rained, the river would naturally swell and the little house would sometimes be threatened; and the brown, perilous waters, while carrying a glut of broken trees and branches and other débris, would, but for a matter of a few inches, threaten to flood our shack completely. Those meagre inches, believe me, were the difference between life and death and, as if that scare was not enough, the howling winds would also threaten to blow the family’s wooden box to smithereens. Meanwhile, countless young trees would be uprooted; fences and corrugated iron roofs would take to the skies like kites; flimsy wooden bridges would topple like packs of cards; power lines would fall like drunken sailors – in short, anything that was not properly tethered to the ground would sprout wings and fly. Man, nature’s heartlessness knew no bounds, for after the violent sound of thunder had rattled the teeth out of our mouths, just to make life that little bit scarier, vicious winds would
