Not many people know a place in Trinidad called Massahood Junction, but this is where I grew up. If you think Penal and Caroni behind God back then Massahood Junction is God backside.
Nestled between the tiny towns of Fyzabad and Siparia, it is a quiet, eerily calm village that is home to a large population of Muslims. My Dad spent all his life there and my mom sister and I lived there until I was 11. It had everything you could possibly need to have a perfectly planned out childhood. A large, dry, crack infested, overgrown cricket ground that doubled as a cow field, a crazy Soucouyant living right next to the cricket ground so you had to close your eyes and run past every evening, a green wooden parlour where you could buy red mango and a dust covered bottle of Wella women's perfume, a few elderly couples that would pelt you with stale hops if you laugh in front their homes, a van to take all the children to school, a Mosque to spend every evening in prayer, a drunk called Office with a propensity to fall asleep in the nastiest drains, wake up and then walk real close to the next person he met, a short, fat old man who squeezed himself into a baby rocking chair every afternoon to watch people walk by...
We lived below my paternal grandparents home right on the corner of Massahood Junction and San Francique Road. It was an old wooden house that barely stood its ground. You always felt it would simply sigh and lie down after 80 years of standing. The back stairs were amazing. Made of old timber, steps were missing and every year another one seemed to disappear. We could stand on the landing and look out over the cricket ground and into Madame B's kitchen and way beyond to the forested area. My grand mother would stand there every afternoon sipping her sweet milky Liption and waving to Madame B who she was sure could see her tiny frame from a million miles away. She always smelled of chilli bibi and chutney, my grandmother. She was no more than 4 ft, yet round like a bell, with long thing grey hair that she wrapped every morning into a tight bun.
She had the loveliest eyes, my grand mother, sad soulful eyes that drooped slightly at the corners. She was my best friend for many years. I would rush home from school everyday, run up the stairs and into her waiting arms. Together we would sit on her chair in the living room with a plate of roti and dhal and we would watch TV while she fed me... one for me...one for you.
My fondest memory of her was when she would take me to the Mosque during Ramadan. Having pretend to fast for the entire day, I would be so ecstatic at the thought of breaking fast in the Mosque mostly because people kept putting more and more food on your plate. Hand in Hand we would walk over, I would have my little kit hot in one hand and my glass of Coke cold in the other. She would put me in a seat and place one finger over her lips. I would see my dad pass us, wave, kiss and sit back down. When it was over, we would walk back and prepare for dinner with everyone.
The house was a sad place, a place where she died, where my granddad died, a place where we had to leave. The house was the happiest place, where I learned to write, and do to calligraphy, play basketball and ride my bike, where my sister and I played house, where my canary died, and my rabbits had sex, a place where I had my first crush on the Karate Kid, a place that no longer exists.
Nestled between the tiny towns of Fyzabad and Siparia, it is a quiet, eerily calm village that is home to a large population of Muslims. My Dad spent all his life there and my mom sister and I lived there until I was 11. It had everything you could possibly need to have a perfectly planned out childhood. A large, dry, crack infested, overgrown cricket ground that doubled as a cow field, a crazy Soucouyant living right next to the cricket ground so you had to close your eyes and run past every evening, a green wooden parlour where you could buy red mango and a dust covered bottle of Wella women's perfume, a few elderly couples that would pelt you with stale hops if you laugh in front their homes, a van to take all the children to school, a Mosque to spend every evening in prayer, a drunk called Office with a propensity to fall asleep in the nastiest drains, wake up and then walk real close to the next person he met, a short, fat old man who squeezed himself into a baby rocking chair every afternoon to watch people walk by...
We lived below my paternal grandparents home right on the corner of Massahood Junction and San Francique Road. It was an old wooden house that barely stood its ground. You always felt it would simply sigh and lie down after 80 years of standing. The back stairs were amazing. Made of old timber, steps were missing and every year another one seemed to disappear. We could stand on the landing and look out over the cricket ground and into Madame B's kitchen and way beyond to the forested area. My grand mother would stand there every afternoon sipping her sweet milky Liption and waving to Madame B who she was sure could see her tiny frame from a million miles away. She always smelled of chilli bibi and chutney, my grandmother. She was no more than 4 ft, yet round like a bell, with long thing grey hair that she wrapped every morning into a tight bun.
She had the loveliest eyes, my grand mother, sad soulful eyes that drooped slightly at the corners. She was my best friend for many years. I would rush home from school everyday, run up the stairs and into her waiting arms. Together we would sit on her chair in the living room with a plate of roti and dhal and we would watch TV while she fed me... one for me...one for you.
My fondest memory of her was when she would take me to the Mosque during Ramadan. Having pretend to fast for the entire day, I would be so ecstatic at the thought of breaking fast in the Mosque mostly because people kept putting more and more food on your plate. Hand in Hand we would walk over, I would have my little kit hot in one hand and my glass of Coke cold in the other. She would put me in a seat and place one finger over her lips. I would see my dad pass us, wave, kiss and sit back down. When it was over, we would walk back and prepare for dinner with everyone.
The house was a sad place, a place where she died, where my granddad died, a place where we had to leave. The house was the happiest place, where I learned to write, and do to calligraphy, play basketball and ride my bike, where my sister and I played house, where my canary died, and my rabbits had sex, a place where I had my first crush on the Karate Kid, a place that no longer exists.
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