Dolly Persad passed away during the early days of a period dubbed in a calypso by the Mighty Engineer “The Days of Guanagasping.” Long-standing racial tensions between blacks and whites, and blacks and Indians, were erupting on a daily basis across the island. Backyard grumblings gave way to organized mobilization when the son of the minister of housing and works, driving in a drunken state after a party, hit and killed a black woman in an impoverished neighborhood at the heart of the capital city. Although his car was witnessed flying recklessly down the middle of a narrow unlit road, the young man (whose prominent family of white English descent had fingers deep in the sugar and sea-urchin industries, and in towel manufacturing) was charged only with driving a vehicle while intoxicated, and with public mischief. The judge (a man of Indian origin) reprimanded the dead woman for being out in the middle of the road late at night in clothing that did not make her more visible, and the minister’s son’s license was suspended for a month. The black population of Guanagaspar had endured enough. For them the incident was bigger than itself. It was about the history of their forced displacement. It was about racial, social, and economic injustices. It was, for many in the country, an ending and also a beginning.
Crowds of protesters, the vast majority of whom were of African origin, gathered daily in front of the government house, bearing placards and banners, banging insistently on tin cans and discarded hubcaps. On the streets in downtown Marion, Indians and blacks no longer blocked the pavement while standing to chat and joke with each other. There was such apprehension in the air that in general, people, regardless of race or other background, did not have the inclination to linger amicably.
During those endless days and nights of simmering discontent, Harry thought often of Uncle Mako. Uncle Mako was not, after all, a mere dreamer.
Harry had gotten in the habit of remaining upstairs during the night, in case his mother needed anything, not going down to his room until she herself had slept. She seemed to manage sleep later and later with each passing night.
It was almost ten o’clock. The animated sounds of demonstrators chanting antigovernment slogans in the square outside of the town hall wafted in and out of the neighborhood on the crest of the night breezes. Harry sat at the kitchen table, the newspaper spread on it. He had become accustomed to the noise of the late-night meetings. He struggled to remain awake. Surely his mother would be asleep by this time, he thought, and he tiptoed to the door of her bedroom. She was awake. She said she had been calling him, but her voice was too weak to compete with that of the protestors, so he had not heard her. With the frail gesture of wriggled fingers, she offered him her hand. She was tired, she whispered. Her breathing seemed labored. When he said he would quickly go down to the station to call the doctor, she shook her head and asked him not to leave her side. A finality in her voice, her knowing nod, he understood. Although he had anticipated this moment, he was unprepared. His neck tightened. He kissed her forehead. His tears wet her face. He heard her weakening voice utter, “Don’t cry, my baby. You are a good boy. I was lucky.” He gripped her hand tightly. He pressed his lips against the back of her hand and hoped that in the fierceness of that gesture, she would know all that he was incapable of verbalizing. She pulled him closer to whisper in his ear that he should turn off the lights now and leave her, let her try and sleep. He let go of her slowly, backing away from her with the unfathomable awareness that he was already alone.
When he looked in on her again, her eyes were closed. He went slowly to her and touched her hand. It was cold, as he had feared.