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Born in the Land of the Mighty Roraima and the Kaieteur Falls
Wordsworth Lives On...
In our hearts, in our memories, in symbols signifying our national heritage ( theatre guild, coal pot, carbolic soap, bush tea, plait bread, butter flap, pone, brukkup, ol' higue - did we say ol'higue)
OL' HIGUE
by Wordsworth McAndrew
Ol' woman wid de wrinkled skin,
Leh de ol' higue wuk begin.
Put on you fiery disguise,
Ol' woman wid de weary eyes
Shed you swizzly skin.
Ball o' fire, raise up high
Raise up till you touch de sky.
Land 'pon top somebody roof
Tr'ipse in through de keyhole - poof!
Open you ol' higue eye.
Find de baby where 'e lie
Change back faster than de eye.
Find de baby, lif de sheet,
Mek de puncture wid you teet',
Suck de baby dry.
Before 'e wake an' start to cry
Change back fast, an' out you fly.
Find de goobie wid you skin
Mek de semidodge, then - in!
Grin you ol' higue grin.
In you dutty powder gown
Next day schoolchildren flock you round.
"Ol' higue, ol' higue!" dey hollerin' out
Tek it easy, hold you mout'
Doan leh dem find you out.
Dey gwine mark up wid a chalk
Everywhere wheh you got to walk
You bridge, you door, you jealousie
But cross de marks an' leh dem see
Else dey might spread de talk.
Fly across dis window sill,
Why dis baby lyin' so still?
Lif' de sheet like how you does do,
Oh God! Dis baby nightgown blue!
Run fo' de window sill!
Woman you gwine run or not?
Doan mind de rice near to de cot.
De smell o' asafoetida
Like um tek effect 'pon you.
You wan' get kyetch or what?
But now is too late for advice,
'Cause you done start to count de rice
An' if you only drop one grain
You must begin it all again.
But you gwine count in vain.
Whuh ah tell you?
Day done, light an' rice still mountin'
Till dey wake an' kyetch you countin'
An' pick up de big fat cabbage broom
An' beat you all around de room.
Is now you should start countin'
Whaxen! Whaxen! Whaxen! Plai!
You gwine pay fo' you sins befo' you die.
Lash she all across she head
You suck me baby till um dead?
Whaxen! Whaxen! Plai!
You feel de manicole 'cross you hip?
Beat she till blood start to drip.
"Ow me God! You bruk me hip!
Done now, nuh? Allyou done!"
Is whuh you sayin' deh, you witch?
Done? Look, allyou beat de bitch.
Whaxen! Whaxen! Pladai! Plai!
Die, you witch you. Die.
Whaxen! Whaxen! Plai!
Wordsworth McAndrew Lives On...
3 comments:
I had a chat with Mac just three weeks ago, when Ingram Lewis visited him in the hospital,and allowed me to speak with him via cell phone.It was a short conversation, but Mac was in good spirits.I told him he sounded great, and to stay healthy. So, it was a total shock when I heard how quickly his health had deteriorated, and he had dwindled away.Thanks to the Guyana folk festival, I got the opportunity know Mac as a true cultural visionary. I also got to know him personally, when I helped him to select a pair of sandals, and trousers, to complete his outfit for a folk festival awards ceremony. We became more acquainted, when I accompanied him during a long subway ride to Columbia University in NYC, to attend the 2004 symposium.I learned how brilliant,and humorous he was. I will miss that funny chuckle, and the extraordinary talent and versatility that Wordsworth McAndrew shared with the Guyanese people.
Mac, you were the greatest. May God be with you always.
Love,
Tangerine Clarke
Wordsworth McAndrew was a man of unique talent. A cultural icon, Guyana's pride who has left an indelible mark on the landscape of Guyanese/Caribbean Literature. He was one of a kind, rare and irreplaceable. Sleep on brother! “You have finished your course, henceforth a crown shall replace your pen”.
James C. Richmond
I became Scouta Mc's friend since 1974-1975 when he was the editor and presenter of the Guyana Marketing Corporation Short Story Series for radio. He loved my stories and urged me to give him at least one per month. We spoke constantly in person or by telephone before he recorded any of my stories for broadcast, since he was meticulous about reading my Dartmouth (where I grew up) creole correctly. Mc read one of my stories, "De Great Jackass Race" so brilliantly that the story had several rebroadcasts, and I was invited to the radio station for a live interview. The interviewer was a female whom I don't remember, but the reason for the interview was that Scouta had read my story with such gusto that the public wanted to know more about me. Needless to say, the more Scouta read my stories, the more people thought that they were his.
Some people have also thought that Scouta schooled me in folklore. That's very flattering, but we just happened to be two men who loved the oral tradition. Before Scouta migrated from Guyana to the US in 1979 or early 1980, we spoke a lot at his home in Kitty, mine in Festival City or a beer shop about peculiar Dartmouth creole words that he was unfamiliar with. In turn, I learnt lots of proverbs from him. In fact, before he left for the US, he gave me over a thousand. I later used several of those proverbs on my radio show "Ganga Time". Unfortunately, Scouta never heard any of my broadcasts but, when we reconnected in the US, he had me give him the details of what "Ganga Time" was about. Scouta was a stickler for details. When his sight began leaving him, he dictated a few things by telephone for me to write. After the dictations, I had to read what I had written. He listened to every word and also to note whether I had omitted dashes, commas, colons, semicolons or fullstops.
Aside from folklore, Scouta and I talked sports. He loved talking about all sports, but his favourites were cricket, swimming and boxing in that order. He could talk for hours about the West Indies batsman Chanderpaul whose reliability he loved. (I do as well.) If I told Scouta the West Indies played a game against any team, one of his first questions was: "How we baai do?" If Chanderpaul hadn't performed very well, Scouta would be unhappy.
Scouta did not quite like the US culture, and was often critical of American Standard English. In addition to him not fitting in here, he was often suspicious of even Guyanese people who tried to help him. His last years brought him near blindness, broken hands and much emotional stress. BUT SCOUTA REMAINED MENTALLY ALERT AND INDEPENDENT TO THE VERY END! MAY THE SCOUTA REST IN PEACE!
Roy Brummell
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