‘Don’t call me Madge!’ (A 1966 pre-independence tale)

Jan 03, 2016 Countryman, Features / Columnists

By Dennis Nichols

His name was Majic Maloney. Yes, Magic with a ‘J’. He used to tell people, especially his drinking pals, that he was the only Guyanese with that peculiar Christian name, and that it was faithfully inscribed on his birth certificate. Since no one had ever actually seen it, and because he tended to become agitated when challenged, his assertion was usually greeted with bemused acceptance.

“Name an’ nature,’ he liked to say, but the only magic his friends could attest to was his capacity for putting away prodigious quantities of liquor. Truly his digestive tract seemed to be made of sponge and iron, and Majic did little to alter that perception. A single, middle-aged man, (although it was rumoured that he’d had a child with a prostitute) he spent the greater part of most weekends at a certain bar on Charlotte Street, in the capital city.

He appeared to relish his reputation, and would occasionally remind his friends, “Y’all know Maloney is a Irish name, an’ yuh know how dem people like drink. My great gran’fadduh was Irish.” As Majic’s complexion was a darker shade of black, this statement was also greeted with bemused skepticism, but they knew better than to argue with him, for there was one other thing he had a great liking for – a dispute of words.

At such times he would put aside the Guyanese tongue, and tear into his opponent with a ferocious display of Oxfordian linguistic skill. Once he told a hapless victim who dared question his claim of extraordinary virility, “Your verbal excrement is astounding, considering that the extent of your matriculation is less than that of a retarded rodent!” The poor man could only mutter in defeat under his breath, “Yuh better watch wha’ yuh sayin.”

Early May 1966, and all of British Guyana was talking independence – some with joyous anticipation; others with feverish apprehension. Surprisingly, to everyone who thought they knew him, Majic was in the latter category. It appeared he indeed had some Irish blood in him, for he seemed as confrontational as he was informed, about what had happened when the Irish tried to gain independence from Great Britain. And he was adamant.

“Liss’n, some people ent know what dey talking ‘bout. You know what happen when my people try to get independence from that damn Great Britain. You know how much ‘o’ them died for freedom? De queen is very jealous of her empire. She don’t give independence without a fight,” he argued. No one felt inclined to remind him of how neighbouring Trinidad had peacefully won its independence four years earlier.

Majic Maloney worked as a driver and handyman for one Mr. Perlman, a white entrepreneurial merchant who ran a shady trading establishment on America Street. He however hinted to some of his closer associates that he was actually the man’s business partner, but that because of the nature of the business, he couldn’t brag about it. His drinking buddies laughingly dismissed the notion – behind his back.

On a May afternoon in 1966, tragedy struck Majic Maloney. He’d been imbibing at his favourite watering hole. It was a Saturday afternoon when he got the news that his boss had unexpectedly and hastily left the country that very morning, after clearing his office. It was revealed that he had closed a $10,000 deal the day before, twenty percent of which had been promised to Majic for his part in ‘persuading’ a certain boat captain to do business with the man. Perlman had already received half that amount.

Everyone in the bar heard, and the place was humming, but Majic was, for once, lost for words. He had planned on using his $2,000 windfall to splurge on some lucky woman and on his favourite past-time, in the two weeks left before independence struck. Now he was almost broke, painfully regretting that he hadn’t reported for work the day before. He felt instinctively that his life had taken an unanticipated turn for the worse; maybe the worst. Anger and despair wrestled in his heart.

He was unusually quiet for the next 15 minutes and everyone thought it prudent not to question why. It didn’t last long. One of the drinkers, a younger man, put his hand on the apparently dejected man’s shoulder in an effort to console him, and exclaimed, “Maj ol’ boy, doan tek it too hard. Everybady luck does run out sometime. Whuh yuh gon do?” Majic turned on him.

“Maj! Who you callin’ Maj?” he exploded. “Your impertinence is not appreciated, you hear; my name is Majic Martindale Maloney, and I’m not in your category of acquaintance. My luck ent run out as you so coarsely put it. I am just in a state of temporary financial inconvenience. And Maj is a girl name, you hear me? You may address me as Majic or Mr. Maloney if you wish, but never Maj, you hear me?”

“Sorry Mr. Maloney, I di’n mean no disrespeck; is jus’ that I thought …” the younger man’s voice died in an incomprehensible mumble.

Majic turned back and spoke to the other men in the bar. “Listen, I gatta go an’ talk with my lawyer fren about dis sudden development. But don’t despair on my behalf boys. I’ll be back.”

Those were the last words anyone in that bar ever heard uttered by Majic Maloney. On May 25th someone who knew the man better than any of his cronies did, told them what had happened. Her name was Mavis, Majic’s first cousin, who none of them had ever heard of. She was a buxom, attractive, mocha-skinned woman, maybe in her thirties, and the lecherous ‘big’ men could scarcely take their eyes off her. Her story was short, and mesmerizingly informative.

“I think I should let y’all know about my cousin, since as far as I could tell, you’s the only friends he had. Yuh see, my cousin was a proud man; well-educated. He used to live in Englan’ yuh know. Well, he come back to B.G same time Mr. Perlman come here on a boat, in 1958, and de two ‘o’ dem start a business to sen’ gold out de country, an’ …” She stopped suddenly, aware that she was divulging unnecessary information. But she had to tell somebody about the man they thought they knew, so she digressed, but continued.

“Yuh see, he did really love Englan’ and English education, an’ white people. He had plans for he an’ his white friend get rich over here, but, am, … he didn’ realize how t’ings was shapin’ up in de country. Anyway, last week he give his boss some money he had save up, $1000, expecting to get back double from de man. Now Perlman gone, and people say all dem white people in B.G. gun leave soon, wid independence an’ everyt’ing, so he tek it on. He come all de way to me in Berbice, and start a drinking spree wid de lil money he had lef.” She paused and took out a folded paper from her handbag before concluding her tale.

“Las’ week Monday, he get knock down by a estate white man in Rose Hall. His hand break an’ dey put it in a cast. He get real depress, but he still continue drinkin’ home by me, and next day he been going down de step and he fall dung an’ knock his head, and black out. At de hospital dem seh he get a stroke. He dead same afternoon.” She stopped to let the gist of her dramatic revelation sink in. “He bury yesterday in New Amsterdam. I jus’ collect de death certificate” She placed the document she had taken from her purse on a table. “Look!”

They did, but there was one thing on the document that mostly interested them. Written in bold cursive was the full name of the deceased – not Majic, but Madge Martindale Maloney. They looked at each other, and a smile slowly spread across the face of the one who had been chastised for affectionately shortening Majic’s name. Now he understood.

“Res’ in peace, Madge” he chuckled. From a jukebox nearby, Terry Nelson was belting out ‘We welcome independence to Guyana!’