Yes, I have a confession to make. Me, a big-able market vendor who does deal daily wid all kinds of gully boars, use to be – and note I said “use to be” – real frighten to fly, so much so that muh children use to laugh at muh breaking out in cold sweats, clinging onto the seats fuh dear life, wanting some fresh air, always wearing brown pants, just in case and looking fuh a clear path to the nearest exit, rosary in hand, “Hail Marys” turning out faster than Banks beer pun a Saturday night in the Gap (St Lawrence Gap, that is) when the English in town and giving praise and thanks to the Almighty when we touch down.
But that was long long ago and while my DNA is permanently imbedded in many a BWEE plane and a few others, today I come to confess and explain how the Vendor get cured.
Back then, every little rumble, every noise use to evoke “Wha dah is? Wha happening bozie?” and the cold sweats and shakes used to come out. But all that was before I get a li’l pick to go to England and spend some time getting li’l education.
Yuh boy did get funding from the British government no less and was off to become something better.
So there I was pun this 747 heading to Heathrow via Antigua. And it is there the story begin. I was sitting next to a nice young lady and didn’t even have time to say hello yet when I see the food coming down the aisle, this Vendor was ready to mash up some dinner but ah had was to wait awhile, because just so, without warning, about an hour out of Antigua this behemoth of a plane bound into the worst turbulence I ever experience in muh life, and I swear to God I gwine dead tonight!
Food and coffee went flying all over the cabin and one young stewardess was picking up de food, but she hands did trembling like a West Indian batsman facing the Aussies (not the set that just get beat by England).
The Vendor wasn’t the only one frighten. People did hollering in English accents “O, save me. Heavenly Father, I don’t want to die. O, help me father”. Terror in the cabin when all of sudden what sounded like something hit de plane and darkness in the cabin.
Then the plane felt she was falling from the sky. It was probably only seconds but it did feel like eternity and I swear I started to hear angels welcoming me to the land of milk and honey. And all the time a lone voice crowding out the 200-odd Brits hollering fuh “Murder! Murder! Murder!” Another Bajan pun de plane – the Vendor got company if we gwine down. Just then, everything settle down: lights back on, plane level off and everything back to normal.
The young lady next to me apologizing fuh digging into muh leg. My leg, lady? Ah didn’t even know she did touch, much less assault, de boy! Next day, sure enough, the black and blue evidence of abuse was clear. That trip, de experience cure this Vendor of all fear of flying. Next time I gwine let you know how careful I is pun flights. One fella, though, who didn’t get cure was the one hollering fuh murder through the ordeal. Poor man, it was he first flight EVER and he vow the last. So I ask: “You are here to tek up residence?” No, like me he was there to better heself and head back home, so I had to ask skipper how you planning to get back?
Anyway other than by plane, he reply. Well, ’bout two years later I bounce up a lady in the supermarket who tell me that the man who did hollering fuh murder was she husband, and when I ask she how he get back she tell me he came pun a Geest banana boat, end up in St Lucia and then tek a schooner back to Bubbadus. You know he ain’t leffing ’bout here ever again.
I Market Vendor gone fuh now; you have a blessed and a wonderful day, yuh hear?
