When the Titanic went down into the watery depths of the Atlantic, there was singing, dancing, and much merrymaking in riotous motion on its bejeweled decks. When Guyana’s MV Barima descended to its watery grave in the Pomeroon, there were some level of drinking onboard, and having a go at a good time. The great, yawning mouth of the Atlantic stood not too far away; waiting to devour those still grasping at life, hoping against hope for some respite. Amid those forced to struggle for a handhold, a toehold, on life slipping away, there were and are those living large, having a jolly good time. Tragedy on the water. Ecstasy on land, in the self-celebrating company of those sitting at the top. Sporting events spiking interest high. After all, it was a Saturday night; that time to let it all out, and countless taxpayers’ millions to burn. And, lest I neglect, the World Cup, that once-every-four-year extravaganza was just hours away. One more note of interest, amidst this sea of poignancy: at least, the doomed Titanic had a captain onboard and commanding the bridge. Now, that’s another matter that may require some probing, if only to follow where the tracks lead.
So far, 67 made it. But what of the others, the 66 or so that are somewhere out there in an endless world of water? I can see from this distance, their heads bobbing listlessly in a lonely ocean of water. I think that heads on land should roll. Many of them come with a prefix: the word honorable is placed before their names. But I maintain fire, remain quiet, for the moment. I know about tragedy. I know of those repeatedly. Thus, there is empathy for the suddenly lonely, the miserable, the wretchedly empty. Of those there are now many in this country.
Life can be a cruel companion. Its savaging, disemboweling, strikes. Lord! How can I go on? What is there to live for, to carry me through this vale of tears, this valley of death? One of the worse tragedies in this life is when those who call themselves friends prove to be anything but. When they are of treachery and abandonment writ all across the faces of Guyanese. Who is a friend? Who wants to talk of a farm? Who has the heart? When so many have lost their hearts and more. One of the problems-what ought to be made into a crime, really-is that words are too cheap, too vulgar. It seems that the higher the floors, and the brighter the towers, the cheaper the words are, the more noxious they become.
Guyanese should brace for a parade of them. Properly garbed black suits, white shirts, and respectable dresses. There is the rare good sense to distance from costumes and the other attires of power. Thus, among the mourners will file the mighty of Guyana. Their dancing put on pause (a pause only). Their addictions to spending on toys and trophies held in abeyance for a minute. There is a role to be played, a sharing to be done with, gotten over, as quickly as possible. So-called respects paid. Then what? It is back to the trampling on the memory of the dead. Trampling long and hard on the reality of the living. Painful, it is. There was no capsizing and sinking MV Barima needed for pain to be felt. Pain amid great prosperity is a constant bosom partner to masses of Guyanese. The sufferings of Region One represent just one.
Men will rub shame from their faces, shake the hands of the grieving (and shame themselves some more). Listen. Expenses will be paid. There will be a fund. There will be some examining to unearth the truths that sank the MV Barima and with it almost a parliament of citizens. Those who believe them should have their own heads examined. When has truth ever been in friends?
It is a graceless season in Guyana. Graceless men and women who make life for those living with darkness thicker and grimmer. Amid all the glitter in the upstairs rooms, within the conference rooms, there is a new disaster: the ill-fated MV Barima. The MV Barima is Guyana’s Titanic in political technicolor. What was unsinkable went down. What is impregnable in Guyana will collapse. Under the weight of its governance disasters.
