Everyone is well seated in the extra-air-conditioned conference room by the time Pierre rushes in. He has managed to miss the painfully formal greetings, breaking the protocol for the presence of a minister. Dr. Khumalo glares at him and he straightens his shirt under his blazer. All the men have on ties, some jackets, a few of the women hug themselves, unprepared for the cold.
“… and the Millennium Development Goals, as established by the United Nations Millennium Declaration and adopted by world leaders in 2000, are very important to us in Trinidad and Tobago.” The minister of Planning and Works drones on. “Indeed, the development of our very own Vision 2020 is in keeping with the MDGs. And as we speak, each key ministry is already preparing a plan of action to meet these goals…”
U.N. language really helps the civil servant waste precious time. The little Italian poseur is nodding somberly, as if this was a new and brilliant idea, thought up by the minister himself. Dr. Khumalo and the country rep have on their very-intelligent fixed stare, encouraging the blithering idiot.
“Ahem … Under this present administration, we have been fortunate to have increased budgets and expenditure for areas of concern that have been challenging so far, such as: child protection, human rights, basic health and education, small business development and job creation, and the reduction of violence.”
An Afrocentric women’s activist glares at the potbellied speaker and he hastenes to add, “As well as violence against women, in particular, in fact. I take this opportunity to thank Dr. Patangali, UNIFEM and the joint U.N. committee, for facilitating this meeting and providing an excellent opportunity for collaboration between government and nongovernmental partners, on the MDGs and Vision 2020, which will ensure that Trinidad becomes world-class, in every way. I look forward to hearing the following presentations and updates. Thank you.”
Thank God, Pierre thinks as he slips lower into his comfy seat. The polite clapping makes the minister beam. He has said absolutely nothing new.
“Next I would like to present Nzunghi Stuart, president of the National Organization of Women of Trinidad and Tobago, NOW-TT, who will update us on the progress of the response to CEDAW and the country report that is being prepared in conjunction with the Bureau of Women’s Affairs.” The do-it-all chairperson is, of course, Khumalo, beaming her flat South African smile at everyone.
The Trini activist, in her African dress, goes to the podium, prods the projector, and looks expectantly at the screen. Jesus, she has a presentation, Pierre realizes. The Convention on the Elimination of All Forms of Discrimination Against Women (CEDAW) — An International Bill of Rights for Women and Trinidad and Tobago’s Existing Policies.
Pierre’s mind drifts off to his surprising love, and her strange mind and limbs. Atalanta, burning in the sun to darker shades of brown. Her moisture sometimes tastes of garlic and turmeric and sharp lemons mixed with salt. Hair, wiry like the springy questions she snaps. Skin, softest that slides around you, slips into your arms, heart, mouth …
* * *
Her mouth. Douli. Full lips. Bloodred. And brown. Pepper-skin burning. Chopping. Flesh. Douli. Hold me. Kiss me. Kill me. Douli.
Sammy, Sammy fighting the fever scalding him up from inside. The fever only he and he mother can feel. She had make him stay in bed, tie a rag with Limacol on his forehead. Now he sitting up in the gallery. Friends keep coming and Moms had food spread out, as if the funeral and wake is at they house. The dead house, not far away. The dead inside Sammy. Who know what her family arranging? Sammy can’t go. “They don’t even talk to you … and you not well.”
Neighbors and friends advise his Queen that is a curse the family pundit put on Sammy — maybe something the girl herself had put in him — that’s why he had get totoolbay. The reason for the tragedy, the dead-blight zone now on the edge of Chase Village, wasn’t something anybody could figure out. The condolence-friends whisper, guessing that these things does always happen in Trinidad, and who knows who it go be next. Right in your neighborhood. Death by chopping and Indian-tonic. Just so — and the poor girl didn’t even do nothing wrong.
People finish off the little plates of food and cakes on the side table. Plenty cakes and cheese straws. Everybody loves cheese straws, they show a little class, and Sam’ Queen likes to make them whenever she get a chance.
* * *
“These statistics are real. And dark and ugly. Because each number is a woman who had no choice, no one to turn to. There is no protection, no hiding place — not for the magnitude of Violence Against Women that we face in Trinidad and in Tobago. And so, ladies and gentlemen, I for one can’t wait to see the policies changed, the measures put in place, and the actions taken to ensure that no more lives are lost at the hands of merciless and alcoholic men. The mothers and daughters of this land are bleeding and dying, they are under attack. And it is up to all of us to do something about it.”
The clapping around the U-formation of tables is genuine. The activist’s proud features suit her regal hairstyle, locks woven up into a stiff hive. A coffee break is announced and little savory plates snatched up. As usual there is too much food, but Pierre is always amazed to see how readily people stuff themselves. People who have fridges full of food at home and boast of trying to lose weight, ensuring they don’t miss a morsel. He has even seen some taking wrapped plates away in their handbags at the end of an event, filching cheese straws in napkins. Awful cakes fill the sweet table.
After the break, the community police give an awkward presentation on child-gang members moving arms across the country and the dons controlling government road-repair contracts in their territories. The final presentation, the cheap white flour and commercial cheese straw thing of the wasted morning for Pierre, is from the minister of Social Development. He proudly announces that at last they are getting close to the final draft of their Plan of Action. He doesn’t say it has taken five years so far. Soon, they will be able to give a date when it will be ready. When asked “What then?” the ministry will look into getting it printed, nicely — are there any suggestions for that, since the U.N. always has such nice-looking publications? And then, of course, it will be distributed and made available to the public. Then. And then, they will look into drafting the Implementation of the Plan of Action for Social Development in Trinidad and Tobago (PoASDTT).
* * *
Thomas steps into the kitchen, turns, and hustles back out when he sees Greek Goddess’s face. She is more upset than Ata, who’s measuring Helen’s worry-crease furrowed deep between her brows. Helen reads the recipes and timetable on the cupboard doors. She has seen them before, Ata thinks, she never took the time to read when I explained? Greek Goddess stares at Ata, as if seeing her for the first time too.
“Sometimes it’s really hard monitoring the foods people bring for him.”
Helen nods but still doesn’t uncrease her stare. “People?”
“Friends and family.” Ata doesn’t glance at the fruits resting on the counter that Helen has just brought, but opens the fridge to point out containers of macaroni pie, callaloo, pilau, Lucozade, Ribena. “Even Malta drinks — Lauren gave one to him directly, without even checking, and it’s loaded with sugar.”
“Maybe he asked for it, Ata.” Her voice rises at the end.
“Maybe, but you know it won’t help — to give him whatever he wants to eat. He hasn’t taken in everything about his diet yet.”
“I understand you stopped his mother from coming to see him.” Helen’s voice quiets to the pale cream of the countertops.