Of Mummies, Jumbies and Jamborees

Once upon a time, a real long time ago, one of my two marvellous mothers, the much older one, used to scare the living daylights, dying night-dimmers and all bodily discharges out of me and my friends, often at the same time, by telling us what she would generically and euphemistically term, ‘jumbie stories.” For a puny, perpetually sick child with a far too vivid imagination, such terrible tales were never a good idea.

Weep with us, oh Eve!

The Americans have Kennewick Man, the Chinese, Peking; the Indonesians, Java, but the Africans are most blessed as the indisputable cradle of mankind, with a breathtaking range of choices from the legendary Lucy and Ardi in Ethiopia, to the Black Skull of Kenya, Toumai in Chad and Twiggy from Tanzania.

To be or not to be

My husband and I are fumbling in the dark. For a few exasperating hours, early one June morning, on our giant grey settee in the living room.

Duck curry and parrot stew

The silence is noticeably deafening. After all it’s very late Sunday, close to midnight, in a rather serious suburb in  northern western Trinidad, when I hear the shout from down Upper Conaree, “Where my Warriors family…?.” Our cricket-mad friend, Guyanese and Basseterre-based accountant, Amar Gossai is on the prowl, seeking company.