Go tell the Vil­lage

The Star (St. Lucia) - - LOCAL -

By McDon­ald Dixon

Go, tell the vil­lage it must not change, it must not dream to al­ter the lit­tle pain es­pice shops smelling of oil, rice, flour and kerosene, wait­ing for a match so the old bro­ken down fire cart

can pa­rade down Main Street; for the vol­un­teers to pro­claim half in English, half cre­ole: “let it burn, we got no wa­ter.” All the time sur­rounded by the sea. A man name Progress spreads his seeds all over this place.

Go, tell the old woman she must sell the one room wooden shack her mother left her, or break it down to make room for glass and wall. The banks are hun­gry for profit and will lend

any Jock with col­lat­eral, to build a mall. The po­lice will stop Mar­celle selling by the street, un­less she can get a per­mit, say­ing san­i­tized wares - it cost more than her sales for the whole blighted week.

Go, tell the vil­lage it must not change, and stare the ghetto in the face. Who feeds the hun­gry child crav­ing for mother’s love? Who men­tors the lit­tle boy in the empty lot, prac­tic­ing with the rusty gun he find by the road? This is the non­sense you start when you turn us into cu­rios and pay for plane loads of tourists to come see how we look­ing good wrapped up in show­case.

Go, tell the vil­lage it must not change, go, tell them while you on the prowl for votes, go, tell them with chicken leg and beer why them forty-seaters only pass­ing through but never stop. Go look them in the eyes, peel­ing through holes in gal­va­nize pail­ing; go can­vass them. Go, tell the vil­lage it must not change; by the grace of god, I on the block wait­ing…

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