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My wish
(Kaieteur News) – To live to a hundred: that is the wish. But beyond that, the body gives way—the joints harden into little more than stone, the eyes dim past the help of any knife, and the memory, that fragile vessel, empties itself without ceremony.
That would be the proper time to go, to present oneself to the Maker. But before that, I would want to be in Guyana. Not for any grand reason. Simply because the sun is nearly always there, and even on the highest peaks, the heat does not bully you. I would want a new capital, somewhere along the Essequibo. A modest place. Each morning, the birds—that foolish, persistent chirping—and the dew on the grass, which is a small miracle if you care to notice it. I would want a window that faces east, to catch the sun rising, and in the evening, that particular sunset which belongs only to this coast, this river, this mud and sky.
I would want to swim in the warm creeks until the very end. To sit under a tree with a book, or with a companion who would not run off—though these days, too many run off with someone else. That is the fashion. I would want to grow old without too much disgrace. I would want the NIS not to collapse before I collect what is mine. I would want no new sickness, because sickness disqualifies you—automatically, as they say. I would want, now and then, the privacy to bathe in the rain, in my underpants, without the police dragging me away for indecency. This is not too much to ask.
In the evenings, under the stars, I would want to sit and remember. The day just gone. The days long gone. I would want to do the things I never had time for: collect stamps, learn to cut hair, finally play the guitar. That is a small list. I would want to see a major hydro-electric project—finally, after so many promises, so many abandoned dreams. Cheap current, they say. I hope those who inherit it will pay for it, and not force the GPL to chase them like bailiffs.
I would want to drive all the way to Boa Vista, and from there take the transcontinental highway to Argentina. But more than that, I would want to return to Guyana. To the daily sun. To the people, who are lovely in their way.
I would want the young Guyanese not to forget their cultural foods. For what is Guyana without its food? Without Banks Beer and El Dorado rum? These are not trivial things. I would want to see the interior opened up with roads, so that people might stop dreaming of a better life overseas. The best life, I have come to think, is here. I would want those roll-on ferries to start rolling on.
I would want the people to stop fighting over politics. To let politics bring them together, though that is a dream that has failed everywhere. Still, I would want to see everybody happy. That is the kind of foolishness one permits oneself at the end. I would want a railway to Lethem. And another along the banks of the Corentyne River, to open up lands, to cross the river and link with Suriname, and from there by good roads to French Guiana. I would want more tourists, more jobs, more filled hotel rooms. But no more white elephants—those monuments to expense and vanity, built at the people’s cost.
I would want the public health system to do what the private hospitals now do: the surgeries, the specialties. So that when my time comes for the knife, my little savings might stay with me. That is the wish. Not grand. Not entirely reasonable. But it is mine.
What is your wish?
(The views expressed in this article are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the opinions of this newspaper)
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