NOH LICKLE TWANG! (NOT EVEN A LITTLE ACCENT)

This poem bemoans the fact that a recent repatriate Jamaican has returned from the United States without a trace of having been--not even a little “twang”! This, to say the least, is a highly unusual occurrence and all the more unforgivable.

Me glad fe se’s you come back bwoy, But lawd yuh let me dung,
Me shame o’ yuh soh till all o’ Me proudness drop a grung.
Yuh mean yuh goh dah ‘Merica, An spen six whole mont’ deh,
An come back not a piece betta Dan how yuh did goh wey?

Bwoy yuh noh shame? Is soh you come? Afta yuh tan soh lang!
Not even lickle language bwoy? Not even little twang?
An yuh sista wat work ongle One week wid ‘Merican
She talk so nice now dat we have De jooce fe undastan?

Bwoy yuh couldn’ improve yuhself! An yuh get soh much pay?
Yuh spen six mont’ a foreign, an Come back ugly same way?
Not even a drapes trouziz? Or A pass de rydim coat?
Bwoy not even a gole teet or A gole chain roun yuh t’roat.

Suppose me las’ rne pass go introjooce Yuh to a stranga
As me lamented son wat lately Come from ‘Merica!
Dem hooda laugh afta me, bwoy Me could’n tell dem soh!
Dem hooda sey me lie, yuh was A-spen time back a Mocho.

Noh back-ansa me bwoy, yuh talk Too bad; shet up yuh mout,
Ah doan know how yuh an yuh puppa Gwine to meck it out.
Ef yuh want please him meck him tink Yuh bring back someting new.
Yuh always call him “Pa” dis evenin’
Wen him come sey “Poo”.
http://radar.ngcsu.edu/~jtwynn/jam_Lou.htm

It was sometime during the 1960s or early 70s while growing up in St. Kitts that Louise Bennett Coverley penetrated my consciousness with the popular Aunty Roachy Seh series that typically ended with her “Aye Yaye Yaye!” Last week, on Thursday 27th we lost Miss Lou. I say we, because Jamaica could never think of a woman like Miss Lou as being solely hers. With the news of her passing, it feels like a huge chunk of Caribbean identity has been chopped off but we must not let it die.

Now what does Miss Lou have to do with Marcel Fahie or vice versa you may ask. Read the poem again. Don’t you realize that the “bwoy” Miss Lou wrote that poem about was Marcel Fahie? Many of the speakers at the party lauded Marcel for his vision, for inventing the notion of thinking outside the box, for his hard work and for his cultural consciousness and expression. That tenacious cling to Anguillianness, Caribbeanness, Africanness, that refusal to become Mr. Jacket and Tie and be, in my eyes, the best dressed man in the room, that never forgetting who he is, was and will be, make me join in the song of praise for this man who is a double cousin. He couldn’t escape me if he tried and clearly, he is not trying. I could not quite believe he was hand delivering my invitation to his retirement party but that is how he is and that is why just as Jamaicans from all walks of life give thanks for Miss Lou, Anguillians from all walks of life turned out to say to Marcel, we recognize the contribution you have made to Anguilla’s development. He has had many critics along the way and some of the criticism may have been deserved but when you add it all up, even the critics paused to say thank you. There were many speeches in his honour that night and thankfully, he chose to respond poetically. Today, Heartically Yours wishes him well and hopes that even in his capacity as Advisor within the Ministry of Finance and Tourism, he will remember that he is retired and that he will be able to spend some time as he dreamt of in the following poem published in 1975 under his first name Fabian Fahie in “Conch on the Sea Shore”.

TO MY OWN PRIVATE BEACH

In cities bent and choked, I dream of clear blue skies.
In dirty smelling streets, I recall days,
The fresh salt smell, Riding the insistent breeze.

I dream of the sea, And a conch shell,
Lone upon the sand, A foot-print, sunk deep,
Sudden washed away, By a tickling wave

Who can recall, now, His own private beach
When Maracas swarms, And Ochio Rios overflows
In rivers of flesh?

Who can recall, now, Sitting at sundown
On the hump Of an overhanging ledge, ‘Waiting
The sudden tensing line, Meanwhile witnessing

The cruel sadistic smashing Of waves against the sharpened teeth
Of the resisting rocks? Who can recall His paining toe
Bruised on a crab Among the weeds?

Who can recall a foot, Inflamed for days
With the spines Of a wayward sea urchin,
Half-concealed in the sand?

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