Don’t fix…
June 7, 2013 By
Satiricus was fond of Americanisms. And that’s why he really didn’t mind Rum Jhaat affecting an American accent and talking about “gonna” do this and “gonna” do that. Never mind the jerk hadn’t spent more than a couple of weeks in the States. Heck maybe he’d been looking at old John Wayne movies on TV. Lets mosey down to the saloon for some liquor, pardner.
Choir boys
May 24, 2013 By
Satiricus was confused. Now this was not an unusual circumstance for Satiricus. But this time, he just couldn’t make head or hair of what was going on. Or going down. He’d just turned on his television and there was this young man, who said the policemen had tortured him to make a confession. Now Satiricus had learnt not to jump to conclusions in these matters.
But then as he looked at the long-haired young man in immaculate white shirt and pants, it seemed to Satiricus like a case of déjà vu all over again. The police were up to their old tricks harassing choir boys. For the life of him, Satiricus couldn’t figure out this mystery. What did the police have against choir boys?
Satiricus remembered when there was all that trouble on the East Coast Demerara. Every day the police would be hauling in choir boys just because police were being killed like flies. And like the case on TV right now, it didn’t matter what all the friends and relatives and neighbours of the young man said about how angelic the young men were…the police were unmoved.
There was the matter that the choir boys almost always had police records…armed robbery, attempted murder, murder. You name the crime and these boys had the charge.
Their rap sheets were each pages long. Some of them even did the time. But after listening to the character witnesses who were trotted out, it was obvious that the police had fobbed off the charges on the choir boys and worked with their friends in the judicial system to put them away. Their parents and brothers and sisters and friends wouldn’t lie, would they? These poor choir boys had been framed…every one of them.
And the police just wouldn’t let up. Only last year, Satiricus remembered that there were these nice choir boys just singing hymns by the street corner in their village of AgriKola. Out of the blue, these big, burly police swooped down on them like the destruction of Sennacherib.
As one of the choir boys told the story, in biblical allusion:
“The police came down like the wolf on the fold,
And his cohorts were gleaming in black and gold;
And the sheen of their guns was like stars on the sea,
When the brown wave rolls nightly on deep Kitty.”
Again Satiricus asked himself, “What was it about the choir boys” that seemed to drive the police over the edge. As he mulled over the conundrum, the answer suddenly dawned on Satiricus. These choir boys represented all that the police were not and could never be. They were sweet and gentle; they helped old ladies across the street; they contributed to blood drives. And they sang hymns on street corners. After all, their relatives always said so.
The police were just jealous of these choir boys, that’s what it was. Flat out jealous. After all what did THEY do? Just go out, day in and day out to fight crime.
Ghost of the Kabaka
May 17, 2013 By
Satiricus believes in giving Jack his jacket and in the case of the Kabaka, giving the man his khaki jodhpurs he liked to wear when he rode around on his (high) horse. Why were all these people denying him the Lambo Prize? Satiricus had just finished his dinner – foo-foo soup – and he was relaxing in his Berbice Chair. He became philosophical at times like this…was it the foo- foo? So, not surprisingly (to his wife) he fell asleep. And started to dream.
It was night and it was dark at Seven Ponds. It was getting towards the midnight hour. Things were beginning to stir. Who was that coming from beyond the Palm Tree? Was it Michael Jackson, doing a reprieve of his Thriller? Nah…the fella didn’t have on the trademark white glove. And he was much heavier. And his hair wasn’t long and straight. It was the Kabaka.
He was muttering to himself. “How can they possibly deny me, the great Kabaka, the Lambo Prize? How much did I not do for South Africa? Did I not tell them to stop calling me “Odo” and call me “The Kabaka”? How much more African can you get?”
“Odo, you couldn’t be African if you lived 50 years in the Congo,” said a voice from behind the mausoleum. It was Robney. “All you life you just trying to be a white man. Riding horse!!!”
“Is what the arse you doing here. I thought you lived in Le Repentir. Like you still have your high-jumping skills?” The Kabaka was mocking.
“Well my friends jump high enough to stop you from getting the Lambo Prize,” mocked Robney. “I was grounding with those brothers for a long time, Odo. Time longer than twine.”
“You may have been grounding in the dirt, you scruffy ragamuffin,” said the Kabaka scornfully, “but I sent $50,000 a year for the struggle. How ungrateful they are!”
“Ungrateful? Odo, is who $50,000 you sent? You wasn’t even a real president. You rig election and they should have jailed you ass for stealing people’s money,” said Robney scornfully.
“Listen my good man, in those times fair was foul and foul was fair. Hover through the fog and filthy air,” said the Kabaka superciliously. “Did you not know those people would have ruled us?”
“Macbeth, eh? Don’t forget I went to Queen’s too,” replied Robney. “But you squeezed your own people Odo. That is why I had to remove you by any means necessary.”
“Remove me,” snorted the Kabaka derisively. “Like you forget is who remove who!”
“Nah, I didn’t forget. And neither did the world,” replied Robney calmly, “And that is why you will never get the Lambo Prize.”
Satiricus woke up with a stare. His wife was shaking him. “You were yelling ‘Good fuh yuh! Good fuh yuh! What’s going on?”
“Nothing. I just learn why Jack didn’t get his jacket. It was never his to begin with.”
Goat bite RumJhaat
May 17, 2013 By
Satiricus sighed. He so much enjoyed the letters columns in the dailies. Especially in the Muckraker KN. Looking through the letters, they selected one that always had a pulse on what was going on in the opposition camp. Not that their articles didn’t religiously cleave to the opposition line, but in the letters, you got a feel what was going on beneath the surface.
So he perked up when he read the daily diatribe of KFC apologists Thunderbolt and Rose – even though it meant ploughing a page of ponderous text. The dyspeptic duo declared it was “Time for the KFC”. But in the paean to the AFC’s future, they declared: “Our reading of the utterances of the Naga Man and NoGel Huge clearly revealed two mature and deep thinking and sincere leaders who are ready…” to carry out the KFC Action Plan.
“What going on?” thought Satiricus. “What happened to the Rum Jhaat? Isn’t he still the leader of the KFC?”
Luckily for Satiricus his favourite wife’s niece, maid to the opposition, had just brought the Jhaat’s diary. She assured Satiricus the Jhaat had just made an entry before going off to have a drink (or 10) before lunch. Satiricus began to read….
Dear Diary, I so mad I could cuss dem ungrateful neemakaraams.
Well, Dear Diary, excuse me but I gonna cuss anyway… Fu#*?/£¥!!!! you, Naga Man, Fu¥+^#%/!!! you NoGel. Is who I talking about? Those two no-good I brought in to me party.
Look how they connive to wuk with that Flour Thief, to try to throw me out. How the Flour Thief and he friend could talk about where the KFC going and not mention me? They think the KFC is some kind of cook shop? I is the KFC and the KFC is me. I wuk too hard to get rid of the TratMan.
Naga Man still vex wid me because he think I set he up with GraiNJa. Well I did set he up… but he don’t know that for sure. That was the only way I could get the TratMan to leave. But he shoulda understand. In politics is every man for heself. When we was in the PPEE and I was the lil boy, I use to help him get the votes at Congress. We use to bribe everybody.
(I just tek one drink, Dear Diary). After I write this, I going with the boys for a drink at the rum shop.) But Dear Diary, they don’t know me yet. I ready for them.
I learn good from the Naga Man how to earn friends and influence people: bribery. I already lay the trap for them.
How you think the Bush Doctor get Prado? Is them people who want to build the hospital. I tell them to help out the Bush Doctor and we will get them the hospital contract.
Han’ wash Han’ mek Han’ clean. And you know Dear Diary, it gonna tek a whole lotta washing to ge me han’ clean… (I gone for that drink.)
Who am I?
May 10, 2013 By
Satiricus enjoyed the letters column of the dailies. Even the concocted ones in the MuckrakerKN and the Stabber News from the stable of opposition scribblers. They were always good for a laugh. But every now and then, one came from a name that was recognisable. Like the one that the Naga Man scripted to the Stabber News. It revealed a man who had some serious issues about his identity. But even to naive Satiricus, the letter didn’t sound right. Naga Man’s pose as an ‘everyman’ who would appeal to every Guyanese was so palpably concocted that Satiricus wondered who the heck this fellow was.
Luckily, his wife’s niece, maid to the opposition benches, had filched the Naga Man’s diary for the night. Satiricus plunged in to see if his question would be answered. He was in luck.
Dear Diary,
Ah just send off a letter to the press to saltsoap dem people who gon vote in the next elections. Ah got to be careful. When ah was wid PPPEE, ah play de Coolie card. It wasn’t difficult. I like fuh drink rum; ah like fuh cuss; and ah like fuh beat me wife. Ah is a real Coolie man. Ah used fuh sing me song and beat table in rum shop all over Guyana – but especially in Berbice.
But when ah didn’t get fuh be president because Jagdesh seh ah was a fool who just talk, ah walk out. Me friend Rum Jhaat tell me if ah join he KFC party I gon turn vice president. But he tell me I got to stop playing de Coolie card. Now ah look at de Jhaat and nearly drop dead.
If anybody in Guyana was Coolie, was de Jhaat. De man could drink mo’ than me, cuss mo’ than me, and God knows he does beat he wife mo’ than me. So ah ask he how de arse ah gon stop being a Coolie.
(Sorry Dear Diary, ah had to tek a drink. Ah still feel pi55ed when ah remember how he tell me ah got to stop being a Coolie. Ah love me daaru too bad.)
So he tell me ah got fuh play de game. “Tell dem you ‘Guyanese’,” he tell me. “We could still drink we rum, cuss all de time and beat we wife,” the Jhaat tell me. “You gonna have to talk the talk; not walk the walk.” The Jhaat had started fuh talk like that ever since he start fuh carry news to the U.S. embassy. Was always, “gonna this” and “gonna that”.
So Dear Diary, ah write de letter. Ah tell everybody ah is not really Indian. Well dat was not a lie, you know. Ah is ah Coolie and not Indian. Indian is dem people who does go to Mandir and Masjid and suh on. Ah ain’t got time fuh dat stupidness.
So ah hope ah gon get some vote in Linden next time, since ah change me tune.
(Later Dear Diary. Ah got fuh tek a drink. Once you a Coolie, yuh always a Coolie. When ah done, ah gon cuss me grandson and beat me wife if she na cook kakabelly.)
Catfight
May 7, 2013 By
Satiricus is a fight buff. Nowadays, with all the sensitivity circulating, pugilistic preferences, much less proclivities, weren’t too popular. But Satiricus was unrepentant. He’d enjoyed the recent bout with Guyana’s featherweight, lightweight and WBC’s super lightweight champion Clive “The Punisher” Atwell last Saturday night as he won a unanimous decision win over Venezuela’s Raphael Hernandez.
Satiricus decided that the fight must have left an aura in Guyana because imagine his surprise when he turned up to cover a press conference at City Hall and discovered that a bout had been arranged. Then and there. And this was not between the louche mayor and the upright town clerk. This was between those featherweights – Freudy “the Man Kisser” Kiss Soon and his one-time sparring partner MalCome “Squeaky” d’Fracas.
Sadly because of the endemic dysfunctional City Hall, there were no commentators. As the bout started, Satiricus kept up a running commentary in his head.
And here, from the grungy grey corner on my left, in the shocking pink trunk, is the champion of bombast and the finest exponent of the low blow…the one and only…FREUD – THE MANKISSER – K-I-S-S-O-O-N!!!!!!
And from the even grungier dirty green corner, in the polka dot shorts, is his one-time sparring partner who is now challenging for the crown…mean and lean always good with a comeback jab…MALCOME “SQUEAKY” D’FRACAS!!!!!!
There in the middle…Mayor Groyne is the referee in this grudge match. The mayor knows a thing or two about low blows from his days as a bruiser. He was known as the KABAKA’S HENCHMAN. Remember folks??
Hold it…d’Fracas has just pouted his lips as if he wants to give Freudy a kiss on the lips. We think he’s trying to get a rise…heh! heh!!…our own Freudy.
And he’s succeeded!!! Freudy has just grabbed what’s left of d’Fracas’ hair…these two bumblers…ahem…fighters are a bit long in the tooth, aren’t they??
But d’Fracas isn’t taking that lying down. In fact he’s just grabbed Freudy by the “shorts”…and we don’t mean the shorts he’s wearing.
Freudy is on the ground writhing in pain…hold it…he’s screaming something…it sounds like “Maladorous Monster!!!!” An he’s just sunk his molars into d’Fracas’ leg!!!
As d’Fracas screams, “Out of work, Old Man!!!!” without letting go of Freudy, Mayor Groyne is trying to pry them apart. He’s not having much success.
He warns then that they will forfeit the match if they don’t get on with the real fight. And more importantly, he adds, they’ll forfeit the purse.
The last bit of information got Freudy’s attention. “Money!” the Man Kisser panted, loosening his teeth from d’Fracas skinny legs, “Got to get that money. My car, which Jagdeo didn’t want to give me duty free, need tyres!!”
D’Fracas snorted in disgust as he threw aside a tuft of Freudy’s hair. “Give him the blasted purse. Maybe it will make him stop pestering businessmen for a raise.”
Radyo Licence
April 26, 2013 By
Satiricus admitted that he was a softie. What could he say? He didn’t like trouble or ‘jhanjat’. So when he saw his old pal Mook Lall, from the big market days so heated up about not getting a radio licence, he decided to do some checking. After all, as an old newshound, he did have his ‘sources’.
So he ambled over to the new Broadcasting Authority where an old pal, Scrungie, had been seconded and explained the situation. Scrungie grinned broadly, “That gon cost you, you know.”
“So you still drink that old El Dorado?” enquired Satiricus delicately. Scrungie had a ‘drinking problem’.
“You crazy, Sato?” exclaimed Scrungie indignantly. “Is Grey Goose down the line, now boy!!!”
“Awright. So what you could tell me?” said Satiricus expectantly.
“Remember the boss tell everybody who want radio licence to apply?” Seeing Satiricus’ nod, he continued. “Let me show you Mook Lall application and you gon understand why he gon wait long.”
Satiricus quickly read the letter:
Dear Miss Shadee,
How na gyaal? Remember me? Is Mook Lall. We used fuh crass wid de ferry from de islands in de old days. Me fram Wakenaam. Remember me sell you dem green shoes back in 1991. Me sorry de heel fall out de next day. Me could give you a new pair if you want.
But you musse seh ‘is wha he writing me fah?’ Ah gon tell you. I hear is you giving out de radyo licence nowadays.
I want a radyo station. You mussie hear dat me gat me own newspaper. Doan mind dem a seh dat me na know “B” from bullfoot. I know plenty. I know dat if me own a newspaper me qualified fuh run a radyo station. I in de communication business. You didn’t think I know about “communication”, eh?
Like me seh, me know plenty.
Dem also seh dat because I do backtracking, you na gon give me de licence. But Bibi Gyaal, you know how I help people back in de islands wid me backtrack money. I buy rum fuh all dem bais from Wakenaam.
But lemme tell you a next reason why you should give me de radyo licence. I know plenty big people in town, you know. I know de American ambassador. I does tell he everything he want fuh know. He tell me he ‘debriefing me’. I does call it gyaaf.
Dem bais seh dat me gat fuh full out some technical things like frequency and so on. But you know all dat is stupidness. Me know dat in radyo all you gat fuh do is talk to de mike. Is wha technical about dat?
So Bibi, tell me when fuh pick up de radyo licence and me guh bring some shoes fuh you. All right gyal?
The Big Mook,
Mook Lall fram Wakenaam.
Satiricus took one look at the grinning Scrungie, got up and started to leave.
“Don’t forget the Grey Goose!” he called out cheerily.
Rich thinking
April 26, 2013 By
Satiricus had never been a rich man, but he never really minded. He figured he had enough to worry about his blood pressure going up and down, so why add whether his stocks were going up or down? But sometimes, he would wonder idly how rich people thought about things. Well, now he would know.
Courtesy of his wife’s niece, the maid, Satiricus had in his hot little hands the diary of Tuney Voira, whose father had to have known he had a future in television. Why else would he give him a name that produced the initials “TV”? Satiricus opened the diary to the latest entry….
Dear Diary,
Oh Lawd… I in big trouble, Dear Diary. Is what I gon do? I used to be a big man when I was a big manager on the old man sugar estate. I used to ride around on a horse. I always suspect Burnham nationalise the estate because he want only he to ride horse around the place.
TV station. I could do that because the old man was close to Burnham. Nobody else but Burnham lawyer could go into TV. We made millions by thiefing TV signals and re- broadcasting it. I named my station after myself, so everybody gon know me, Mr TV. I HAD MONEY! MONEYI MONEY! But then that blasted Short Man jump into the TV business as soon as my PNC friends lost power. Me and my friends laugh like hell when he start to put death announcements over TV… what a ‘country coolie’, we said.
Especially when he only playing all them ‘coolie’ movies.
But then I start to lose money. The Short Man started to get all the advertisements. Can you believe how low-class Guyanese people can be? I became broke… it wasn’t easy when I had to beg people for a raise. I NEEDED MONEY! MONEY! MONEY! So I had to sell the TV station and all my property. I got five million US. I HAD MONEY!!!! The Ranrook man paid me right away. But then I went to Florida and I pi55ed it all away. I guess I don’t have a head for business, Dear Diary. Short Man smarter than me and White Man smarter than me. My father always used to say my head was hard. I NEEDED MONEY! MONEY! MONEY! So I came back to Guyana to catch me hand. And I couldn’t believe how well my old station was doing.
I tell you, I jealous too bad. I WANTED SOME OF THAT MONEY!!! Then I hear Ranrook gon get the radio station that I tried to get with a court case. He sent me all the money he get from the court. But I want more. I tell he to sue the government for damages and give it to me. Is only money from the people pocket. It better if it come in my pocket…. even though it look like my pocket got hole. I WANT MONEY!! MONEY!!! MONEY!!!!
Protest fever
April 19, 2013 By
Satiricus was dazzled. On his daily rounds as a scribbler, he was passing the Office of the President. He wondered if it was a meteor landing, when he saw the light, but realised that it was just the glare from a head so bald and so smooth that it made a billiard ball look like a catahar! Moving to another angle to avoid the reflection, he realised it was his drinking buddy from back in the Big Market day, Mook Lall.
Lall had moved on (Satiricus wasn’t sure whether the man has moved up) and was now the owner of the Muckraker newspaper. He specialised in scandal and put together the ‘dem boys seh’ piece (couldn’t call it a column, could you?) with his trusty sidekick Baddam! People usually didn’t get Baddam!’s name right when they wrote it out…they sometimes left out the exclamation point at the end. Like “Baddam”. But if you read that out that wasn’t how the fella’s name sounded – Baddam!!!!
And lo and behold, before Satiricus could complete the thought about ‘sidekick’, he realised that Baddam! was right next to the shining object that was Mook Lall. They were both holding placards. Protest? Protesting before the OP? What the hell was going on? Satiricus ambled over to get an answer.
“Is what going on, fellas?” started Satiricus tentatively as he tried to read the sign held up by Mook Lall. ME WANT RADYO STATION!!!! it screamed in capital letters. It had to have been written by the Mook himself. Spelling was never his strong point, Satiricus knew. Come to think of it, he wasn’t too hot on writing also, to judge by the placard. Baddam!’s sign was immaculately written: GIVE MY BOSS RADIO. Baddam! had been to school.
“Yuh na see de pressie, who seh he is me friend, still na give me radio station?” Mook Lall growled. The Mook usually growled.
Satiricus raised his eyebrows at Baddam! “Bannuh…doan look at me. I just doing what de boss man seh to do. The boss man real smart, yuh know. I does always do what he tell me.”
Satiricus knew this was an old ploy of Baddam!’s. He liked to play the grinning Sambo role to make Mook Lall look good. The Mook lapped it up.
“But is only the two of you out here,” observed Satiricus. “What happened to the big crowd you all had by you office?”
“Dem ungrateful, dat’s what!” growled Mook Lall. “Imagine I pay dem Gy$500 and give dem fried rice and deh still break down me door!” The Mook shook his head.
“But Mook, is what you gon do with radio?” asked Satiricus. “You already got the Muckraker.”
“Budday!!! Wid de Muckraker I got fuh feed Baddam! every day because he can write!” growled Mook Lall, “You ever see Baddam! eat? Wid radyo I can talk on me own.”
As Satiricus drifted away, he thought he heard Baddam! say, “Yessir, Master Glenn, you’s sho smart…”
Man bites dog…
April 12, 2013 By
