Are “they” trying to kill me?

Jun 20, 2010 Features / Columnists, Freddie Kissoon

An unusual incident occurred in my life two months ago, and at the time I gave it no thought. There and then I forgot about it. After I was attacked in May when someone, (no doubt working for you know who), threw a filthy substance on me, my mind went back to a strange episode which is extremely curious.
I live very close to the Atlantic where the ocean breeze disturbs the plant pots quite often. You go into the yard in the morning and there you would see the plants in their pots lying on their side.
One morning after opening the gate and walking back to the front steps, I noticed that some pots had fallen right in front of my car. The manure was splattered all over. As I bent over to clean the stuff, I notice an object jutting out from way under the car. To get at it, I had to spread a sheet on the ground and go right under the vehicle.
It was not easy to remove it. I had to yank it out. It was a number of pages from an old KN edition and when I pulled it out, it was burnt. I mean burnt as when you lit a newspaper and the fire goes out. What is left is a brown, burnt out appearance.
For a very brief moment, a split second, I would say, I wondered about it but it immediately faded from my concentration. I spoke to no one about it.
After the attack last month, I asked my engineer friends how that paper could have been so forcefully stuck under my car and why was it burnt. The consensus was that there is no way I could have driven over flying sheets of newspaper on the roadway and a few of them got stuck so deeply under my vehicle. My friends told me from my description, someone had to put those sheets there.
Let me explain where the paper was. I am only familiar with the Rav 4 model of the mid-nineties that I have. Under that type of Rav 4 at the front where the engine and other sensitive parts are, there is a flash pan. That is to prevent water, dust, mud and other substances from getting into those importantly placed items.
The newspaper was pushed far down under the flash pan. I had to pull it out from under the flash pan.
My friends told me once it was stuck under there it had to be oily, not burnt. There was no oil on those sheets of newspaper. How did they get there? I don’t know. But it started me thinking. Did someone go under my car, place that thing there and then light it? Was someone trying to kill me?
Untold numbers of well-wishers have told me to be careful and this has been going on for years. I have heeded their advice. I have dispensed with many of the activities that nurture my psyche. I spent countless years at the Kingston seawall where Mr. Jagdeo’s proposed Marriott Hotel died a slow death. I got to know all the hut dwellers and the boat builders there.
I took my kid there from the time she was three months old. I saw a woman of unsound mind get pregnant there and two consecutive Christmases I took my daughter to give her gifts. I stopped going there three years now because of the security risks. It became a very lonely place after the dwellers and boat-builders were evicted to make way for the Marriott Hotel that turned into a mirage. Adam Harris’ adopted brother got murdered at that very site.
Many nights before I go home, I would take a drink and a burger on the seawall, between Camp Road and the Kitty pump station, park right outside St. Stanislaus Ground where I roamed as a 10-year-old boy while my dad worked, and listened to the music of my life – Yanni, Johnny Mathis, Sarah Brightman, Josh Groban, Shirley Bassey, Demis Roussos, Charles Aznavour, Neil Diamond etc. That was a habit of mine the past 15 years. One night I dropped to sleep. When I woke up, it was almost 22:00 hours.
Here is a joke that all the staff at Kaieteur News know about. While roaming that part of the seawall at nights, I saw a Kaieteur staffer with you know who. Of course I did broadcast it to my KN colleagues just to get some fun at his expense. I prefer not to say anything further on this.
Out of precaution I have stopped all these itineraries of mine. I don’t travel late at nights. I take very busy streets while going home. I can’t afford to hire a bodyguard. I am no hero, so I am not courting death. But I refuse to stay in my home and become a coward. I hope Lady Luck keeps my company all the time.

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