Lisa Allen-Agostini - Trinidad Noir

I couldn’t join the army. After all, it was for the Afro boys. And I didn’t want to work in the garage with my older brother. I just couldn’t stand them Indo boys riding along with their souped-up vehicles and gloating ’bout their drag races. I know she didn’t want me to do anything illegal, but what’s a dougla like me to do? After all, doesn’t dougla mean bastard in Hindi? That’s what they call people like me who are half-Indian and half-African.

“Hey, pretty dougla! Stop daydreaming and get ready!” the African guard bellowed.

Get ready? What the rasclat? This is a jail cell — I’ve been ready.

Kwae jumped off the bed, reeling from his angry thoughts. Keys clanked as the guard opened his cell. Kwae smoothed his wavy black curls, cleaned the yampi from his big round eyes, and licked his semi-full lips. He’d definitely have to thank his Afro mother for those lips and his Indo father for his eyes, ’cause he could enchant almost anyone with them.

“Yeah, Mr. Kwaesi Ramlogan, yuh better get yuh pretty-boy act together,” the Indian guard repeated. Kwae allowed himself to be handcuffed. Stupid Indian officer always following stupid African officer. What a bunch of monkeys. Wait — I guess I’m a monkey too, or else I wouldn’t have ended up in all this cow dung.

They left his cell and started down the hall. Kwae’s flared nostrils caught the stale pissy stench that filtered through the air from the uncleaned cells. Twice a week the cells were cleaned. They probably kept it like that so the stench would punish the inmates. Worse yet, when the cells were washed out, they never fully dried the place, so sometimes it was damp for two days straight, especially now in the rainy season. Worse yet, his cell had been previously occupied by an inmate who had died of pneumonia. That would be just Kwae’s luck — he’d probably die before the case was over.

It had been one month already without closure. Damned bloodclat stinking jury. I already told them I was guilty of trafficking marijuana. Couldn’t they believe I was innocent when I said I didn’t kill Redman? Sure, I used to sell him some good herb, but I had no reason to kill him. After all, he paid up well.

By the time Kwae reached the courtyard to board the waiting van, he was angry again. Being hot-blooded was a side effect of being mixed, and even though he didn’t like the emotion, it felt good to be angry. What made him even madder were the potholes that the van hit on the way from the Port-of-Spain jail to the Hall of Justice. He felt that they could have walked him to the hall. It was just three streets from the sick, mustard-colored walls of the jail. He would have been able to walk down the street like everyone else and get some air, even if it was more polluted than his country air in Couva.

“Hey, drive,” Kwae called as the van bumped along.

“Yeah, Mr. Ramlogan. What tune you have for us today?” the driver asked, while the two monkey officers with Kwae in the back laughed.

“Let we go straight down Frederick Street and turn across the park nah, insteada goin’ on to St. Vincent Street. They got them sweet girls lined up outside their work places this morning ’cause it’s Friday, so you know is only tight jeans and short skirts on parade,” Kwae goaded.

“Yeah, Horse, let we take Frederick,” the dougla officer in front by the driver piped up. “St. Vincent Street only have a bunch of ministry workers that not as hot as the girls in the private businesses.”

Kwae smiled. One can always count on one’s own kind to feel pity. One can never count on the African or Indian Trinidadians, as they hate douglas for having the best of both gene pools. The only time they like you is around voting time. The Africans will say, “Boy, yuh have African in yuh. Be proud. The Indian doh like yuh.” The Indians will say, “Beta, yuh have Ganges blood flowing through yuh, doh yours is only half.” Fuck ’em. They can all go back to their motherland for all I care. Both races are the same — a bunch of persecutors.

As the driver continued down Frederick Street, having been persuaded at the thought of hot mamacitas in tight pants, Kwae was looking out for one particular place. He did not care about seeing the girls. He just wanted to pass round by Woodford Square. Somehow this park reminded him of a place that was special to him and Vish. The square was like a breath of fresh air in the polluted city, its tall trees and grassy areas a refuge for many who wanted to sit on the park benches and enjoy nature.

As the van came up to the square, Kwae saw a vagrant taking an early-morning bath in the mermaid fountain at the center. The vagrant reminded him that the country’s deprived and poor were growing in number. Maybe that’s why some have to depend on so-called criminal avenues — to avoid these depths of depravity. Water splashed onto the ground startling some pigeons. As they glided off together to find the perfect spot, they suddenly turned into scarlet ibis as Kwae’s thoughts turned to Caroni Swamp.

Kwae liked the swamp. Both he and Vish enjoyed watching the sun dip behind the mangrove trees and sink into the Gulf of Paria. Even though the mangrove concealed snakes and the dark waters contained caimans, Vish liked to motor quietly with him to see the scarlet ibis around this time of evening. As for Kwae, he had one thought in mind — to make sure he wrapped up his deals on time, and swiftly. The swamp was one of the best places to make his pick-ups. Even though it had waterways reserved for tourists to explore the mangrove, many were not open to the public. However, those with local knowledge could venture along these wide waterways and meet other boats for quick exchanges of all kinds — not only narcotics but even human cargo. Maybe that’s why there were so many South Americans in the country. The funny part was that they all claimed to be here because they wanted to learn English. Sure, there were some who came to learn the language legitimately, but others were here to feed the appetites of the big-belly men of the country. No wonder the government had a hard time putting them out.

Kwae liked to think of the swamp as a miniature Amazon River. It could lead to the sea or carry you to different landing spots in the center of the island. Of course, one had to know these routes well or the place would seem to have only dead ends. Fortunately, the police had no knowledge of the secret passageways that had been created since the time of the Amerindians. One of these waterways led to the back of a car parts dealer. Kwae used to tell Vish that he was going to pick up some parts for his brother. He hated to lie to his love, but he needed the money. If Vish began to look skeptical when he would go to make his deals and collect his goods, Kwae would fire up the engine and speed through the waterways. Vish’s beautiful Egyptian eyes would immediately light up and his wavy curls would blow and Kwae would rejoice in the fact that he had found a dougla of his own.

The only problem was Vish’s bitch Indian mother. Like the typical mother, she didn’t want Vish getting mixed up with him cause of his odd-job attitude and adventurous ways. If she only knew we’re more than just friends, that ours is a love as hot as mother-in-law pepper sauce! We’re destined to be together. So what if we can’t make little pickney. There are enough crackheads in the world today...

Kwae jolted back to reality when the van slammed into a pothole just before stopping in front of the Hall of Justice. “Oh shit, man! Drive!” Kwae shouted. “Like yuh toutoulebay after seeing all that bottom in the road!” He felt a slap on his head for the rude remark and was hurried out of the van. Cuboid walls loomed as the guards walked Kwae up the long red-stoned flight — the Hall of Justice, where many tears had flowed and criminals had been sentenced or set free. Midway he caught sight of a familiar form at the top. “Vish,” he whispered softly.