Dear Editor,
Have no idea where SN’s cost-of-living visit will take it this week. What will be heard, found. I know, though, that it’s Xmas Week, and nothing more is needed to be known. Is there anything for me? Thus, is heard quavering voices, worrying spirits of Guyanese who know now what living life in Hell’s Kitchen means. To live in a country where everybody is poor brings some comfort. All are struggling. All are feeling the pangs of hunger digging into consciousness, the claws of need biting deeply. There is a sense of community, of shared misery, none spared.
What will SN’s cost-of-living series say this Monday? That prices are an amputation without anesthetic? Regardless of the village, that has been heard before. The government should do something. Help needed. No names, simply a careful voice wailing for assistance before that unresponsive wall -government. So, what’s new? Since there have been no official releases, stats, declarations, or communiques, then I guess educated guesses form Plan B. Whether East Bank or West Coast, or town or country, I can hear sad refrains. It’s Xmas. ‘But wha abee guh duh? Dem bin seh dat they guh gee wee sumthin. Now dem seh awee mus wait til next year.’ Christmas comes but once a year. It is what is made out of it. When there is no money, forget about having it easy, thinking about family, even necessity. Everyday can be Xmas, as long as there is the right mindset. Of course, having cash to backup that kind of thinking helps. Cash, was that the word just mentioned?
Jesus Christ! In a country so world-class prosperous, I can’t even buy a dozen eggs and Xmas Eve is almost here. Who would believe that, can fathom that travesty? Black cake? Who could think of black-cake, when a little flour is a problem? Or ginger beer, with water substituted, pretending that it’s ginger beer. This is what high-income means. There are those who are severely stricken in this society. Then, there are those who take them for a ride, after rearranging their heads. When I insist that there are some sick people in the penthouse apartments, bows and arrows appear. Fire away, for all I care. Since shaking hands is out, a concession is made in this time of goodwill to all. Pen to paper.
To think of ordinary, dependent, trusting Guyanese as children, then treat them as such requires some special characters. Shakespearean, Machiavellian, and Mephistophelian, if the best combination is desired. I thought that when Berlin collapsed a hundred years ago, and depraved leadership went into the burial ground that that was the last that would have been seen of that kind. Like hell, it did. The bad news for poor Guyanese is that the survivors and escapees booked passage to here. The focus has always been on Buenos Aires and Asuncion; hence, Georgetown flew under the radar. All the boys are here, and along the way they picked up some lassies.
The present commands. I can’t believe it is Xmas. Where’s the joy, that indefinable ambience, that quiet satisfaction? If it is Xmas in Guyana, I don’t want it. Have it. What will the weary tell their children on Thursday morning? January will be better; a budget has their names in it? In a real country that would be classified as incitement to agitation. The mind just flashed to minimum wage workers. Lord God, have mercy on them, please. Not so much the workers who are in terrible shape, but on those who push them there, keep them there. If there is one thing that should be added to the list of what is treason, minimum wage workers’ condition qualifies. I recall a few years back doing hospice work, an old lady who couldn’t manage to buy a card of pressure tablets counseling me that Xmas is what is made of it. And ‘every day ah Xmas, once yuh gah monee in yuh pocket.’ What money? Which pocket?
Whatever the people tell SN today, it would not be in the exact same words, but the underlying fears and pains would be the same as expressed here. My heart melts, weeps.