Ayo Want Chico?

Approximately 8:30 AM on a sunny Saturday morning, I sat in my regular Starbucks spot, for my favorite coffee. In my comfy Leaside neighborhood, where a house can run you over a million, I was in a sweater and a semi-pajama pant. Did I care about high fashion that day? Hell no!!! The Queen smiled back at me as I took her out of my fur trimmed wallet, to pay for my Caffè Latte Grande. I exchanged her for the 15th century Norse woodcut of a mythical two-tailed mermaid siren – she is the lady on the Starbucks cup. Free Trade I read, as I glanced around the room, slumped in the leather coach by the window. Watching the shoppers rushed by, my caffeine level escalated with every sip. In came a red headed 10 years old with his Botox, accelerated mother. If she screamed any harder at her son, her lips might have flown off her face and into his throat, to silence the tantrum he was kicking off. She yelled at him, “Christian, if you do not stop being rude this minute, I will ground you all summer!!!”
Christian yelled back, “I do not care!”
She bellowed louder as the lines on her face protruded from her medically, tightened skin, “You will care when you shoplift again and end up in jail!”
Christian growled, “I fucking hate you!”

Those last four words erupted the ringing I felt in my ears, at the tender age of 9 years old. Everything went blank as I drifted back on the turning point of our buses in North Ruimveldt. On the left of me, a Rasta man built a Pholourie shop made of old wood. As a black man, I must admit, his perfection of this original East Indian dish, was impeccable. I remember saving my lunch money just to come home and taste his hand before dinner. It was addictive, like my Starbucks coffee. That is another story, so let me continue with the ringing in my ears. Actually, let me take you back to the event that triggered the ringing in my ears.

One evening, my Mom, my Uncles and Grandmother sent my cousins and me out to buy kerosene oil. We had a blackout and the lamp was low. Imagine, we had no street lights, no running water and no generators. It was pitching dark but God blessed us with night vision. We met up with the other kids in the street. The gang rolled fifteen children deep. Some of us had large nails in our hands and some had heavy, wooden sticks as weapons. This was just to ward off any perverts. None of us were teens but we knew how to survive with self defense methods.
That night, we were tempted as we stood in front of the “Sweetie Stand” aka Candy Vendor. She was out of kerosene oil and could not see what was on her stand. I do not know who started stealing first, but all I knew – I was inhaling the scent of “Chico” amongst us. My tongue watered and I wanted a taste. My cousins ruffled with some others and emerged with a gum for me. I unwrapped the gum and gobbled it up immediately. I smelt mint and asked, “gimme a mint nuh?!!”
Realizing that I had to fend for myself, I scuffled towards the front and grabbed a mint.
The Candy Vendor was busy talking politics with the Mini-Bus Drivers. They were blaming the Government for all the corruptions and pitfalls of our society.
Little did they know, innocent children became demons at that candy stand, on a black-out night.

My Mom lit all the lamps after filling them with the kerosene oil we bought. We were hyper and ready to create a concert. On nights like these, we would sing the songs we learnt in Sunday school and perform skits. This night was different. My Mother’s nostrils flared as she grabbed us close to her. There is no such thing as an explanation for the scent of candy in our breath. We did not get enough money to afford candies and cannot claim we took candies from strangers. The silence for thirty seconds felt like thirty hours. It was within that silence, my Mother’s hand created a shadow on the wall – Up – then - Down... RRRRRRIIINNNGGGGG. Backside!!!! Man!!! My heart froze but I was not dead, even though I felt I should have been... at some point. LAWD!!! Heat ... man, have you ever felt heat drop from the sun and burnt your brain? OUCH! It was my first shock treatment and hopefully my last. I could not cry, I could not say a word. I was paralyzed physically and verbally. Instant trembles took over me. I felt like the Holy Ghost was knocking on my skull, saying, “I am home little one, demon be gone!!!”. She summoned us to kneel down with our hands on our heads for three hours, on the cold wood floor. The Angels of heaven sang melodies in my ears as I sat on my knees, praying for forgiveness.

I never took what wasn’t mine to this day.

The caffeine settled in and snapped me back to the demon child in my presence. I took one look at him and acknowledged the fact that he is not Guyanese. I stomached the pain of his Mother. Walking away from the scene, I questioned myself – “how would I handle it if my future child committed this crime?”.
I promised myself to make him or her read these lines and come to grip with the fact that I am becoming my Mother.

Free trade - pay and enjoy without pain!


Written by Yolanda T. Marshall