When the old folk talk about Plaisance, Guyana, they sing-song the word: plaay-zarnce. Plaay-zaaarnce. My great Uncle, he tells me about catching the railway from little green Plaisance, into big-big grey Georgetown, when he grew old enough for the city school. Like he can still feel that big-boy pride even while he’s standing here at eighty five, telling the story to me. My great uncle says Plaisance is not home anymore, not that place, hasn’t been home since he left, and he was still a very young man back then.
But I can see this kind of lovely-but-aching look, right inside his eyes.
This is what I think about, every year during hurricane season as the wind whips white caps across the blue-back Caribbean sea. Plaisance. Plaay Zaaarnce. This is what I think.
Maxine Beneba Clarke is guilty of over-loving her vegetable garden.