NYCD Feature: Stay Sweeeet!

It was three in the afternoon, and ‘boy’, as the older people would say, [1]‘Soleil tay ka fan tè’.  The sun assaulted the pavement while the subtle, dry wind stirred the dust along the narrow, pot-holed roads.  When the big church bell rang that afternoon, at that moment, the village stopped breathing. Afternoons as we knew it would never be the same as we had lost one of the reasons this stubborn village would unite. Normally, at three, a familiar little bell would ring. It was not as grand as the big bell. In fact it had a light, tinkling sound. It was a ‘sweet’ sound and it announced the time we all looked forward too; to savour our favourite, local confectionery and to get some food for the soul too. But that afternoon, it didn’t ring and would never ring again. You see, in this village, the villagers obeyed two bells; the church bell and Ma Job’s bell. And although the two controlled two different paces of life, they had a way of synchronizing the eight hundred and fifty villagers on a Sunday.

The big bell or the [2]‘Gwo cloche’ as it was known, sorted villagers into their different churches as they embarked on their weekly bid for souls, often measured by the crunching or jingling of the collection baskets. It summoned the [3]’bidoes‘; those that dare not miss a mass in fear of eternal damnation, the babes, and even those who had just enough time to scurry home like roaches, to change into something ‘appropriate’ after their recent gyrations in ‘The Pits’ – the shabby and equally loved and scorned disco that sat in the middle of the village.  The first bell was the signal to commence melodious tambourine slapping against palms on one altar and fervent rosary beads rolling on another. Whispered prayers of winning the lotto, that the dogs would stop meddling with the garbage and that Mr. Paul would stop visiting Mrs. Charles while her husband was away, were thrust heavenwards.

The other bell though, was softer, gentler rung, but still managed to overpower the rifts that scarred this community, making them disappear, even if it was for an afternoon, from three p.m. every Sunday. You had to face it, in this village, life came with mostly two options; from the shops, to school and even religion.  You either bought at Ma Elma’s Variety shop or Mr. Otis’ Bazaar, and what a bazaar it was! You either went to government school or church school. You followed ‘Yellow’ party or ‘Orange ‘ party. You were a struggling [4]labouwè or a distinguished member of the fancy office professionals. You either succeeded or were stuck in this village until they buried you in either the Roman Catholic cemetery or the public cemetery. One thing however that that we had no option in (and didn’t mind), was our local and tasty confectionery.
The 86 year old Ma Job was more influential than our sharp tongued and slick and sometimes tacky dressed politicians. When you heard that small, copper bell ringing, the road, by Pavlov design, was lined from the top to the bottom of the village. And when she passed through with her delicacies, the villagers became excited; waving their cash and coins alike; talk about a fanfare! She had the best recipes to unite our community in her basket. Love came in the form nut-filled [5]‘lowgah’. Pieces of peace could be savoured in palatable peppermint blocks and the care that so many of us hungered for, was served in carefully cut pieces of [6]coconut cheese. She shared the rest of her joy and passion in tamarind balls generously rolled in white sugar and [7]coconut tablets in colours of white, pink, green and sometimes blue, my favourite colour.

For as long as I can remember, Ma Job was a part of the scenery in this village. She was a [8]quadrille dancer, and a good one at that in her youth; just ask the older folks. She was a neat person and had always combed her hair into four firm and modest braids, from the front to the nape of her neck. There was nothing extravagant about those plaits, but there was a pride in their neatness, even underneath her worn out straw hat. Life had bleached her hair from a jet black into it a shiny and rich silver colour. The straw hat she wore was clearly her favourite. She wore that hat everywhere; market, clinic, church and through the village.  The brim was curved upwards to the front. A thin, green, [9]madras cloth was tied in a bow on top of her hat. The thickness of her glasses told a tale that on its own, her naked eyes could no longer see on its own. Her small nose had further narrowed under the weight of the ever necessary glasses she wore; maybe removed just to sleep and shower. Her teeth were white and strong. Well, maybe all except two that went missing off the front of her bottom jaw; lost from satisfying herself on a succulent cane stick, many rains ago. It could not be denied, she relished her local foods.

The creamy coffee skin of her face was etched with wrinkles of experience but smooth to the touch. She was an attractive woman and her beauty was never enhanced with artificial creams, colours, powders or lines. And I mean never! Her face though still managed to glow beautifully. She had also never wore an earring in her life. You could tell. Her doctrines wouldn’t tolerate it. It didn’t seem to matter anyway – she was attractive to her love, her life companion of the last fifty years, Mr. Job. The couple lived in one of the wooden houses at the furthest end of the village. Their house along with two other houses seemed to be isolated from the rest of the village separated by a small ravine; dry for the most part. The faded, yellow painted, shingled house had three bedrooms, one which served as her sewing room; her second favourite room after her kitchen of course. The home was always kept meticulously clean and the subtle but comforting smell of baked bread kept this home feeling so homely.

There was a cracked pathway out front, which was lined with flower pots containing a profusion of bright, local blossoms; pink anthuriums, red roses and water lilies, carefully tended by Mr. Job. The flowers seemed to usher one towards the brown [10]jalousie doors; the same doors that warmly welcomed family and friends over the years. The house which once bustled with sewing, games, wakes and many tea parties for the last fifty years, stood perfectly still. Her two sons and three daughters were now living their dreams abroad; the fruit of their parents’ hard work and sacrifice – sacrifices including endless nights of sewing and coconut grating.

Mr Matthew Job was a retired port worker. He was a quadrille dancer too. Many older folks described him as a charmer and smooth talker in his youth. He was tall and

handsome and by the muscles on his arms, although not so prominent, he was strong. He had a way with the ladies; always had something cute to say, but never disrespectful. Although aged, his good looks were still apparent. It was those same good looks he used to sweep the young Ella John, now Mrs Ella Job off her feet.  He called her ‘lovey’ and she called him ‘dovey’. He always kissed her on her forehead when he said it. He knew Ma Job loved flowers and he took pride in knowing that. So every week he placed a fresh bouquet on the table centre where Ma Job sat to drink her coffee every day.

Ma Job was young once and she too, dreamt of doing great things like flying away, but like many other parents, her dreams got lost and suffocated in the arid air of this sea side village, just because she was poor. She however, perfected the art of saving and cutting corners so that she was never in need. She always considered being a great mother as one of her greatest accomplishments in life as she was able to raise her wonderful children on meagre earnings. The love she shared with her ‘dovey’, Mr. Job and affection towards her country, kept her here. The couple still were able to make a good life in the simplicity of this village. They enjoyed the daily catch, the tasty bread and even the spectacles between neigbours.

Ma Job, after retirement, did not leave her home often. When she did it was to visit the clinic for check-up or the market and of course church. Other than that, she was home in the fine company of her husband and her little radio. It was not that she was unfriendly. Rather, she kept her life and business private. It was simple as that. Mr. Job enjoyed his conversations with his wife. But he enjoyed talking to the radio even more, especially when a cricket match was on. There was almost no need for a commentator as Mr. Job could be heard bickering about the home players on a poor shot resulting in a catch by the opposing team or a missed catch by the home team resulting in an added hundred runs against them. Everyone who made an error was subjected to the name ‘knucklehead’. All except one though. Mr. Job’s favourite player was [11]Shivnarine Chanderpaul. And as far as he was concerned, Shiv could do no wrong! Ma Job would giggle to herself as he entertained her.

Mr. Job still loved dancing and country music too! And on Sundays, he whistled some of his favourite tunes, one after another, while he worked in the garden plot out back or with the blooming flowers, out front. Ma Job would often catch him in a quadrille routine with the garden rake and fork. She would hide away so he wouldn’t catch her laughing at him. It was those little antics that would flood back memories of life of long ago.

He had the greenest thumb on this side of the island. He spent many hours in the garden, nurturing fresh and tasty crops such as lettuce, sweet and hot peppers, beet and various herbs. Mr. Job loved the location of his garden too. He had a great vantage point to admire his ‘lovey’s ‘ face as the sun kissed it.  He could see Ma Job’s head bobbing up and down in the kitchen window as she prepared her basket for her usual Sunday ritual. When she was ready, she would call for his help.

He loved to carry the basket for her to the step. In the meantime she carefully fixed her hat and made final tucking of her dress. He would then see her off, as she made her way down the village to sell the tasty confectionery. He would ensure that she also had the bell. As soon as Ma Job stepped onto the road, the small bell was rung; soft at first and then gradually increasing in volume. Mr. Job would wave her off. He would also be waiting to greet her with a glass of water in hand when she returned. The rest of the night was filled with chatting about the day, crocheting, reading and of course some prayers and singing too.

Ma Job could be easily identified by her bold and bright, flowered dresses. She  sewed them the same way and they fitted the same, smart way. The puff sleeves which were lined with an inch of white flowered lace, fitted snugly on her thick arms while the skirt seemed to sit on her round stomach and fall just below her knees, exposing large calves. She always wore a red cord no matter the colour of dress and that was always tied into a neat bow to the front, partially disappearing under her large bosom.  The cord was her mother’s. Her dresses always gently fluttered around her when she moved. On her thick feet, she wore the same size seven, grey ‘tennis’ shoe, where her left little toe defeated the soft material and peered out through a small hole.
She made her way down our one street village on her [12]’cambwé’ legs with strong strides. Her behind was high and danced when she moved. She referred to it as her cushion. That was something else we loved about her. She was candid about life and didn’t mind poking fun at herself.  She walked strong for a woman who for forty years had walked three hours daily to a village four miles away, to wash, iron and care for the children of the Mr. Leatham, the respectable pharmacist by day but bush man by night. Many colds were cured, headaches relieved and female ‘accidents’ disappeared under his hands. He was now survived by his last daughter, the thirty year old, Charlotte, a lawyer, too successful to live in this village any more.

On the reed basket; Ma Job’s best accessory by far, which was always slung on her right arm, was a little copper-coloured bell.  That bell was a family heirloom. Not many ‘treasures’ were handed down in her poor family. In fact, more words of advice on life, far outnumbered physical things, but she didn’t mind. The wise words kept her safe and happy. The copper bell once belonged to her mother. Like her, her mother cleaned the home and cared for the children of a local, wealthy family. The bell was given to her to summon the family and other workers to commune for lunch at one p.m. daily as well as sometimes, night coffee parties with story time.  In that family, the helpers were treated well. And the bell always brought the workers and House owners together. After a tragic fire though, it was one of the few articles to survive. Ma Job’s mother, sentimental and somewhat superstitious, asked permission to keep the bell as she saw it as a sign of survival and strength; since such a small bell survived the ravages of a major fire. Knowing how much the bell meant to her mother, she promised to keep it safe at her mother’s dying bedside.

To this day, Ma Job knew the power in the bell. Just when she would hit the dry ravine beyond her home, she saw how her neighbours would respond to its sound.  The tinkling sound indicated there was no time to waste.  Villagers poured out their homes with cash and coins in hand. Once she stopped in front our yards, she was efficient; taking orders from crowds of women with babies on arm, little, eager children squeezing through the legs of adults and men hovering over shoulders, and still getting the order right! She never had the need to boast to be good at ’rithmetic because none of us ever got wrong change even in the mass.

She always made time to talk to us and even give kind advice. She never gossiped about people but always advised about how to make life a little better, even when resources were minimal. When she laughed, she laughed heartily and her whole body shook. Now and then she had to nudge her glasses back up as her small nose offered no support. When she was done serving a group, she left us with her beautiful smile and her usual line, ‘[13]Bah Bondyay remerciay! Stay sweeeeeeeet yuh hear!’ She left us not only snacking on our treats, but importantly, left labouwè and doctor talking about the sad state of cricket, and Murium, Pentecostal enthusiast, exchanging sweet potato pudding recipe with Catholic ‘bido’  Emaline. We were under her spell once more, chatting and sharing a joke with neighbours that a minute ago we had had a quarrel with.

This continued for the length of the village. What was a mystery though was how her basket never ran out of treats; there was enough for everyone to buy enough to savour during the long week after their lunches. When she reached the end of the village, she would sit on a large,  fallen tree to catch her breath by the playing field and take in the children playing ring games, kicking balls around and being chased by their dogs.  She maybe thought about her own children. When the sun dipped just below the big [14]‘zaman’ tree nearby, it was her sign to make her way back. She walked back up the village, meeting some of us in the same talk, while others had settled on their steps, combing hair, watering flowers or had moved to the bay sides. She waved us goodbye with her thick arms and disappeared beyond the ravine. This was the tradition for the last forty one years. This was the ritual every Sunday, rain or shine.

Some Sundays earlier, the big bell rang as normal, and we scurried to our separate churches. Mr. Otis was talking to anyone who would listen on their way to church, about a quarrel he had had with Ma Elma  last night because she had music blaring from her shop, in effort to steal ‘his’ customers away. He was mad and you just knew he was scheming up a plan. ‘[15]Tanto tanto’!, was the last thing I heard him say as he waved his finger sternly, before he disappeared into his church.  Many of us, like Mr. Otis, went to church with our very own grudges and resentments about matters that happened in that past week or even the past year; some insignificant if we had really thought about it.

For the next two hours, choirs on one altar and praise teams on another conducted their usual ‘praise competition’ as it seemed that one tried to out sing the other.  Random and zealous ‘Halleujah’ and ‘Amen’ were shouted back and forth across the village square. About noon, after we had our fill of spiritual consumption, worshippers started to empty out into the streets to make their way home. The two hours of preaching and praising, however, was not enough for some villagers to forgive or forget about their skirmishes with other neighbours. They went to church because to them it was the thing to do on a Sunday. These same people chattered in their small groups, slyly looking over their shoulders to observe the topic of their conversations as they passed by.

At two forty-five p.m. later that day, most people were ending their lunches or lounging around, trying to delay their afternoon nap, to wait for Ma Job. At three, we expected the usual ring.  Nothing! No ring. That was odd! She was late? She was never late. In fact she was never sick. Just about 3:15 p.m., when she would normally be in front of Ma Casimir’s house, the big bell rang. And then the [16]‘ogwio’ blared!  That,  could only mean one thing; Death. We quietly hoped that it wasn’t who we thought. But the way the sky darkened theatrically and the thunder rolled uncontrollably, we knew it was Ma Job. The sky cried that afternoon. Then, we cried. Without anyone telling us, we lined the roads. That day, our palms didn’t bear money but our faces wet with tears. Ma Job did pass though, about four thirty p.m. but it was in Lambert’s silver hearse.

There was no [17]maypwee that Sunday about the cricket or recipe exchanges. No chatting and joking. Some of us stood in shock, while others disappeared back into their homes, depressed and sad; unable to fathom what was happening. Some peered through their curtains, as they could not muster the strength to get too close. A massive, uneasy void was left in that Sunday. In fact, that’s how it felt every Sunday after that – it would never be the same. In a flash, a forty year tradition disappeared. The same way rain does on  a hot pavement.

She had died on a Sunday and was buried on the following Tuesday. Again, it rained. It rained so hard, that the raindrops drilled in the already deep pot-holes in the narrow roads. The boys on the block cried.  The rum men cried too. No one was untouched by the pain. We loved her gentle soul. And we already missed her smile with its missing teeth. The rain could not keep us away from paying our last respects to the lady who had been such a blessing to this village. She touched everyone in a special way, without saying or doing much. Mr. Job sat quiet and limp in the front row. He said not a word and for a man who loved singing, it was most unusual, he did not hum any of the hymns sung. He appeared devoid of any emotion. He didn’t smile to acknowledge the large turnout of mourners. He did not feel hope after such a stirring message by the pastor and he did not cry when they placed her in the hole. He just stared. In the midst of the wailing, whimpering and bawling, Mr. Job remained mute.

The next Sunday and the Sundays that followed, appeared to drag painfully and mercilessly. People went about their old business without even taking their neighbours on. Most people didn’t come out of their houses. When they did, they were starting a quarrel or adding their voice to one. This village missed her. There would never be another Ma Job.

We weren’t the only one who missed Ma Job. From outside, anyone passing by the house would believe that Mr. Job had probably died too. The house was locked down. Windows were bolted tight as if to barricade the memories of Ma Job from flooding out. No movement of creature or plant could be observed. The house stood cold. The warm bread smell and effervescent conversations were no more. The little radio too had been hushed.

Mr. Job, while many villagers on the outside, had returned to their usual arguing and noise making, sat in the darkness of his house, utterly motionless. The basket sat on the centre of the dining table next to a vase of dead flowers.  His cup of coffee sat in front of him cold and untouched. The second hand on the antic clock hammered in the pregnant silence of the room. Light struggled to squeeze through small holes in the rafters and in the locked windows where termites had their way. His breath was shallow. His red-stained and dreary eyes were arranged in a fixed stare on the basket. He stared as if she would incarnate from it at any moment. He had been staring and sitting, sitting and staring for the last few weeks. He tried to find sleep, but it too had maybe vacated when Ma Job did.

He then unsteadily got up from the table and slowly dragged himself to his bedroom. He lay down and continued to stare. He stared at her face in the rusting zinc roof. When he turned over on his side, he stared at her face in the indent of the pillow, where her head once lay. He breathed in the aroma of her vanilla scented hair grease that lingered on her pillow case. He listened for her sweet voice in the pattering of the rain on the zinc roof. His stare pierced the darkness to see her wherever he could. And then he found her, his ‘lovey’, finally, in a dream.

It was the fifth Sunday since Ma Job passed and it was three p.m. Lunch was good but something was missing. I was on my chair, already settling into an afternoon nap. I heard something I thought I would never hear again; that familiar ring. At first I thought I was probably just having withdrawal symptoms causing hallucinations. But when I heard it again and again accompanied with loud chattering outside, I knew something was up. I jumped to my feet, and shifted my curtains and peered out. Lo and behold! Sleep disappeared immediately as my eyes grew in amazement. And then, with no warning, I started to cry. I cried like a big baby. There was Mr. Job with that familiar basket on his right arm bursting with treats. The priceless sight stirred massive excitement up and down the street.  [18]’Garcon!’ I found some money in a flash and in no time was down my step without shoes. I had no time to get them. On regular days, I wouldn’t dare but today, the brittle gravel in my yard couldn’t slow me down from getting near. I just could not believe my eyes.  Who would have thought that this tall, aged man, wearing a simple white vest and khaki pants and a straw hat would be able to stir such electric emotion?  The excitement in my mind, had topped a carnival parade. People were looking out from their verandahs, windows or any opening that they could find,  just to get a good view of Mr. Job.

The village seemed to take its first, deep breath in a long time. And with no questions asked, we bought our favourites and in double quantities too, just to make up for the lost weeks. Orders flew left and right, change was efficiently delivered, treats were accurately bagged; just like we were accustomed. The children were cheering; Murium was in tears and was jumping and raising her hands in praise like she was slain in the spirit…as usual.  Emaline for the first time didn’t bother to tell her to tone down, because like her we didn’t mind.  We were as happy!

On the handle of the basket we noticed a red cord we knew all too well. It was carefully twirled along the basket handle and tied in a neat bow on the end. As he was selling, he talked to us about the ‘knuckleheads’ in the recent International Cricket match.  We laughed jovially to the point of being unable to contain ourselves at the way he imitated the players. As we laughed, we could feel our depressions being lifted heavenwards. Villagers who had not been out in a while, reappeared from their homes. People were smiling again.  And the way the sun shone, I felt somebody ‘up there’ was happy to see what was going on.

Mr. Job was busy chatting. He was convinced that our boys in the village could replace those ‘knucklehead’ players on the cricket team but they wouldn’t be able to achieve that if they didn’t get healthy and stopped wasting time, sitting aimlessly on the block. He then picked up the basket and was ready to continue on his way down the road. We could see villagers further on, waving anxiously waiting for their turn to bask in the awe and exhilaration. As he left us snacking and chatting, he began ringing the bell and then suddenly stopped. He turned around, beaming with a charming smile. He  tipped his straw hat towards us and what he said brought even more tears to our eyes; “Bah Bondyay remerciay! Stay sweeeeeet yuh hear!”

©LLander2013

[1]                French Creole translation:-Sun was beating the earth

[2]               French Creole translation:- Bell on the Catholic Church

[3]                Fervent and regular church goer

[4]               French Creole Translation:- farmer

[5]                Peanut laden confectionery

[6]               Coconut Fudge

[7]               Confectionery made of grated coconut and sugar

[8]                Square dance with four couples. Popular in Dominica and French territories.

[9]               Colourful, plaid fabric used especially to make National wear.

[10]              French Creole translation: literally means ‘jealousy’. Refers to small, wooden louvered doors

[11]              West Indies Cricket team batsman 1994-2011

[12]              French Creole Translation:- Bow-legged

[13]              French Creole Translation: – Give God thanks.

[14]              Zaman:- local term for tropical almond tree. Terminalia catappa

[15]             In time

[16]              Death Cry

[17]             Intense  and insulting quarrelling

[18]             French Creole Translation:- meaning ‘boy’

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