I must have used this bridge over two thousand occasions, September 1966 - July 1972. I walked across the bridge on numerous occasions during all hours of any given day. I remember one occasion I was forced off the bridge by a mob of homicidal racist Indians.
One night as I was heading home at 68 village from the cinema at 64 village, it dawned upon me, cutlass wielding criminal minded males were hell-bent on murdering this Sancho. Once I realized an ambush had been set targeting this African, I didn't panic. I went into full warrior mode. I realized I couldn't survive on my feet on the public road through that mob. Unless I was armed with an automatic weapon. Hence, the water of the Anamoromise Creek provided the best means of survival. After giving those murders the impression I intended to run right through them, I veered right. I jump off the bridge. I stayed under the water on the bed of the creek until I felt flowing water. I knew I was beyond the Department of Public Works Compound at 67 Village. I crawled up the stream. Then I simply made my way home through the jungle into the cricket ground at 67 Village. I washed my physical with rain water. Muriel Sancho was asleep. She awoke. She gave me money to travel immediately to our ancestral community. For some reason I ducked in the hire-car as it approached the bridge. The mob was still looking for me in the vicinity of the bridge. A few months, later I was informed Samuel Gopaul of 68 village is the reason for the horrible event I experienced. Samuel Gopaul gave an account of this Sancho messing around with Chitrani Kanhai of 66 village. Somehow, those indians were prepared to commit murder than to question the son of the Head Mistress of 68 Government School. As per Chitrani, she and I were classmates up July 1967 at 68 Government School. She and I were close then. It was puberty platonic adolescence attraction. I carried her books. She was as pleasant as she was pretty. Ok I loved her long hair. It reminded me of Muriel Sancho. I love long haired Indian females. I am told my grandmother, her mother and her grandmother are Mootoo. They had extremely long hair. Therefore, it's in my DNA. There was no need for the Indians to be alarmed. At the time of the attempt on my life I was heavily laden. Yasmine Ramnarine, class mate with whom I shared bench and desk was killed near the post office by a sugar truck on a Monday morning in November 1970. My neighbor, Doreen's sister hung herself at 64 village. I felt helpless. I was angry at Doreen. She was a stubborn woman. She refused to listen to her sister. Muriel and I couldn't save Doreen's sister from herself. Doreen was left wailing. Moreover, the female I admired resided at 65 village. She was politely ignoring me. Yet, she admired Muriel. Thus, respecting the feminine gender, I wasn't feeling at home on the Upper Corentyne. I longed for African communities on the East Coast Demerara in which my relatives resided. It was an unfortunate incident. It was totally unwarranted.
MaaNgala Oni Shankalla
4/30/20, 4:54 AM
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