FIRST PIECE: A TRAGEDY AVERTED

Enter the first player:

Her name was Caroline Drayon-Bruce and she was an Afro-Guyanese by birth. Since a hyphenated surname was unheard of in this rural village, its use prompted respect and awe from the humble villagers. Moreover, she was educated and was the headmistress of the village school. She oozed colonial manners and customs – taught her students all of these forms of polite living. Sit with your legs crossed at the ankles. Your hands must be decorations in your lap – right over left, do not shout over someone else. Await your turn to speak. Dress modestly, and so on and so forth. She taught sewing and craft. She smiled a lot but could be very stern in reprimanding a wayward student.

She walked upright and purposefully. A brimmed straw hat with a ribbon tied into a bow sat decorously on her plaited hair, her skirts just above her ankles. Her feet in leather brogues.

I do not know by what means she accumulated her encyclopaedic knowledge on all manner of things, but the villagers knew and trusted her advice and help in troubled times on all things that might demand knowledge outside of their humble life style.

The villagers called her “Miss Bruce” but we, children were told to call her Ma’am. I thought “Mam” was her real name until one of my sisters disabused my mind of such misinformation, but this was years and years after our story happened.

She was a Presbyterian Christian and she lived her life by its tenets. She held Sunday school and most often, she might ask my mother to send me to sing on stage at her Sunday church gatherings. I was about five years old.

All this to help you, dear reader to grasp her role in this tragi-comedy.

Enter the second player:

He was 18 years old and a product of a bi-racial ancestry, drop-dead handsome -tall, thin but straight, thick hair and a mouth with full lips that smiled readily. He walked like a prince and acted like one, being one of the beloved sons of a well-to-do family.

Our story begins with the marriage of our “hero’s” older brother to a girl who was outside of the religion of his family – to put it mildly, the mother- the matriarch of the family, was furious. (But that’s a story for another time.)

Since this marriage was out of favor, it was a much bigger tamasha when our hero found himself in a relationship with the younger sister of the “pariah” bride. Everyone in the family showed their disfavor – mother, (father had died), brothers, sisters, sister-in-law. Mother could not conceive of her beloved, so-handsome, 18 year old Queen’s College student son sinking to this level. He begged and pleaded all to no avail.

Then one day he decided to take matters in his own hands.

On the fateful day, Bhoujie (sister-in-law) went up the stairs to call her young brother-in-law to lunch. What she saw, sent her screaming to her mother-in-law.

When Ma came, she found her beloved young son writhing on the floor with saliva foaming out of his mouth. He was face up, hands outstretched. Dreadful groans of agony gave testimony to the pain he was suffering. An empty bottle had rolled away and when Bhoujie picked it up it read, “Cynanide”. He had emptied the bottle of cyanide pills into his stomach.

Screams erupted from all who had come to see what was going on, but Ma had the presence of mind to send the younger brother to get Ma’am Bruce from the village school three doors away.

“Run and get Mam Bruce. Run! Run! Oh my son! My son! What have you done?” She cried as she cradled his head in her lap while Bhoujie stood by crying and wringing her hands to see her favorite brother-in-law writhing and screaming in pain.

Enter Ma’am Bruce:

In a few minutes Mam came running, her straw hat askew. She took ONE look at our fallen hero and ordered Bhoujie to run and get all the eggs she might find the house.

She broke the eggs one after another and forcing his mouth open, worked his throat to get him to swallow the raw eggs.

She worked on him without stopping and forced twenty-six eggs down his throat and into his stomach.

And then he began to vomit. He retched and retched and retched until there was nothing more left to come up. Only then did she stop forcing him to give up what he had put in. And this was how his life was saved, for with the vomit came out all the poison he had imbibed.

Later when the doctor from Mahaicony who had been sent for arrived, he told the family that this son had taken enough poison to kill twenty donkeys.

Ma and Bhoujie held on to him and wept in relief.

Ma’am put her hat back on her head and comforted them and waited with them until the doctor came.

Afterword:

One of Ma’am’s grandsons later served the Guyana Government as its Prime Minister.

In case you’re wondering, years later, our young Lothario got married to a beautiful young woman chosen for him by the uncle who was the Imaam of the village where she lived.

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