Trish St. Hill was born in the vibrant and culturally rich nation of St. Vincent and the Grenadines in the West Indies. As an English-speaking West Indian immigrant, she experienced firsthand the lack of literature representing the struggles of Caribbean immigrants in the United States.
As I plow through the first draft of my current novel, my overactive imagination is in overdrive, fueling a creative storm that refuses to settle. In my genre of writing (historical fiction), intricate plots are meticulously woven, tension-filled suspense is built, and multifaceted characters come vibrantly to life. From the beginning, I take special care to map my story, engaging deeply in character development – What is the essence of the story I’m telling, who are these characters that populate my narrative, and why do they exist within the rich tapestry of my fictional world? As I mentioned in an earlier article, it is crucial to always have a clear vision of how your story will conclude, allowing the plot to naturally unfold while worrying least about the title of your book. Sometimes, during this creative journey, you may realize there is a potential conflict in the ending of your story; it becomes essential to unravel and clarify that before you proceed further. Once you have a solid understanding of what your narrative is about and how it is destined to end, it’s time to create your characters, keeping in mind that their names might evolve as the story progresses, reflecting their journey. The main characters are pivotal, yet without the careful weaving in of minor characters, the story could fall flat and lack the richness it deserves. Backstories are developed and evolve over time to provide depth and substance to the overarching tale, and often to offer contrasts that highlight the characters’ personalities and depth. This is precisely where my skill of descriptive writing comes into play, allowing me to immerse readers fully in the world I am crafting. There are many ways to articulate a scene in a book, each with its own unique impact – a plain, straightforward description may serve its purpose, but a richly descriptive approach draws the reader in and engages their senses. See two versions of the same story below.
(1) Hawk stood before the mirror, splashing his face and neck with cologne. He had prepared his outfit: black pants with a turtleneck and a gray dinner jacket. He was happy to be…
(2) Splashing his face and neck generously with cologne, Hawk examined himself in the long mirror placed strategically against the wall. Turning to the side, he ensured his hair was brushed immaculately. He had taken great pains to pick and prepare his outfit, ensuring he looked fashionable. His black pants and turtleneck, paired with a grey dinner jacket, fit perfectly on his muscular body. A large gold chain dangled alluringly against his black sweater. Waves of excitement washed over him as he contemplated his…
In example one, Hawk is getting dressed and is obviously preparing to go somewhere. In example two, we are pulled in by the generous amount of cologne he splashes on himself, the fragrance no doubt filling the air, creating a sensory experience that speaks to his desire to make an unforgettable impression. His careful examination of his profile in the mirror, making sure his hair looks good, adds an extra layer of texture to the story, reflecting his self-consciousness and attention to detail. the description emphasizes his desire to stand out. We know he took great pains to ensure he picked out a great outfit, each choice meticulously thought out, from the color of his shirt to the style of his jacket, and we are even given details about his accessories, such as the gold jewelry that accentuates his outfit. Additionally, we get a little glimpse into his emotions; he is obviously going out on the town, perhaps on a date, and the excitement mingles with a hint of anxiety, suggesting that this could be a pivotal moment in his life. Example one is plain and lacks details or descriptive writing, while example two is rich with imagery and emotion, pulling us into the story and invoking the complex feelings of the character.
Essentially, there is a plain way to say something and a descriptive way to say the same thing; descriptive writing not only creates a mood but also gives a vivid and clear picture of the character’s surroundings and inner thoughts. It allows you to truly feel their emotions, whether it be joy, anxiety, or hope, making you root for or against them. It often sets the tone for whether you want to finish a book or put it aside to be visited another day, as well-crafted descriptions create a bond between the reader and the story. It is the essential ingredient that determines how we feel about a character or a storyline, influencing our engagement and investment in their journey.
I am uncertain if this is normal or something I should overcome, but I often find myself yearning to seek out remnants of my past – the places I lived, the locations I used to visit, and the activities I once engaged in that shaped my identity. At times, it’s mere curiosity; at others, I want to bask in the joy of reliving the snippets of our culture that still exist, those moments that evoke feelings of nostalgia and warmth. As I drive along the Leeward (Western) side of my beautiful homeland, lush with nature’s green foliage and warm breezes that gently caress my skin, I often gaze at the houses we lived in that still stand strong or the sites I frequently visited during my childhood. For some houses, I wonder – does that house still stand resilient against the elements, or is a stone or rock all that’s left, a mere ghost of memories past? I often ponder what happened to certain individuals or families – where are they now? Some may experience only a fleeting thought or moment of nostalgia, but for me, this longing runs deeper; I crave details, the stories intertwined with each place and person. I frequently reach out to my sister Lexie to inquire about those days gone by, as, despite being ten years my junior, she reliably fills in many pieces of the puzzle about my distant past, providing insights and snippets of conversation that breathe life into the memories I hold dear and help me to reconnect with those fragments of my history.
Our father worked for the government, leading our family to several locations on the island. But my life began in the hilly village of Troumaca; my roots lie on G-Piece Hill, quite literally a hill on top of a hill. Fortunately, our family still owns that land today, allowing me to visit and stand on the ground my great-grandmother once walked upon. Although I never met her, the imagery relayed to me by my mother and grandmother paints a vivid picture of this ambitious and beautiful woman. A farmer who cultivated the land and raised cattle, pigs, and donkeys, Jucilla James (Nenen, as she is affectionately known to us) was undeniably a formidable woman. Humble in her ways, she was famous for having numerous godchildren, many of whom she raised, nurturing them with love and wisdom. She asked for little, only a plea to my grandmother to pay her land taxes and ensure our family never lost the land, a remarkable testament to her enduring spirit. My grandmother echoed this sentiment to her children, embedding that mentality within our family and enabling generations to maintain ownership of the land that connects us to our Nenen.
I still remember my early days in G-Piece with my cousins, sliding down the hill on a coconut branch, pretending we were sailing on a ship, the warmth of the sun on our backs and the laughter ringing in the air. In my mind’s eye, I still see the boys playing cricket on the portion of the hill they excavated to create a cricket field, their shouts of excitement mingling with the sounds of nature. I fondly recall the coconut tree named Stanley Coconut Tree, a monument to my Uncle Stanley, who passed away as a toddler. Erroneously, I believed he was buried under that tree until my mother explained it was his navel string or umbilical cord laid to rest beneath it, an old custom that tied us to the land in a deeply personal way. Back in those days, it was customary to bury the umbilical cords of babies and plant some sort of tree upon it, a practice that served as a comforting reminder of our connections to both family and earth. The landscape of G-Piece was filled with various trees – Jamaican plums, golden apples, coconuts, mangos, and cocoa trees, each holding its own special story and memory. I vividly remember the scent of jumbie Barsum, a wild mint that flourished throughout G-Piece, the way its aroma would mix with the earthy smells that arose after a rain shower.
My grandmother, “Ma St. Hill,” owned a modest home inherited from her mother Nenen, where I was born, a sanctuary filled with warmth and love. That house brimmed with laughter and joy in my childhood; I can still hear the giggles as Ma St. Hill would share jumbie (ghost) stories while we huddled on her lap in her morris/rocking chair, her gentle voice weaving tales that danced between reality and folklore. She would rock us gently as she sang songs, like “Peter was a fisherman,” always ending with her traditional “Aaah ha, Aaah ha,” a sound that brought a smile to our faces and comfort to our hearts. The highlight of our evenings often involved listening to Radio Antilles on the large transistor radio perched prominently atop a shelf in the small living room, filling our minds with the rhythms of the time and the stirring voices that sang through the airwaves. I can still envision my grandmother tucking what seemed like an army of grandchildren into her expansive four-poster bed at night, the laughter fading into delighted whispers as we settled down. The bed strangely felt larger than the small house it occupied; it was a sanctuary of warmth and love, where dreams intertwined with the stories of our ancestors. I am unsure how that bed accommodated so many of us, but we all yearned to sleep next to our beloved Ma St. Hill, drawn together not just by blood but by the stories that wrapped around us like a cozy blanket.
A large water tank stood conspicuously at the side of the small house, a remnant of days gone by when it provided water for the family and neighbors, a lifeline in the heart of our land. My mother eventually installed water pipes on the property, transforming the water tank into a makeshift pool for us to swim in. We would splash around until we were waterlogged, only to be called inside by our grandmother for supper, her voice echoing like a bell, summoning us to the table filled with hearty food. Even today, I remain in awe whenever I stand on that land, envisioning my Ma St. Hill singing hymns slightly out of tune with her aging voice, yet full of love that transcended any musical notes. There was no television or phone; we lived in a world where our imaginations entertained us, and teachers, books, and life experiences educated us, nourishing our minds as much as food nourishes our bodies.
Ma St. Hill had a knack for creating something delicious from whatever the land produced. I remember the wild coffee she ground, the fragrant aroma wafting through the air, blending with the scents of home. The tapioca and madumgo dumplings she baked in her iron pot were a treat, warm and satisfying, and the sweet taste and aroma of her delectable coconut cakes still linger in my memory, a testament to her culinary magic. I still have vivid memories of my mother JC ascending the hill after a day spent processing cassava bread and ferine in the village, laying down her basket filled with ferine and cassava bam bam, a labor of love that brought us all together. Mixing the ferine with sugar, we would indulge in these treats until our little stomachs ached, laughter filling the air as we savored each bite. The next day, we would awaken to the scent of turpentine mangoes, golden apples, and plums, the fruits ripened by the sun offering a taste of heaven. I often ponder where my Nenen acquired that plant; it is not commonly found in St. Vincent, yet arguably one of the most delicious mangoes. As we indulged in the delightful fruit, I can still hear Ma St. Hill’s warning, “Don’t let the stem touch yuh mouth; it will bun yuh mouth,” a voice forever etched in my heart.
Like many families, our lives improved economically, leading us to relocate with our parents to other areas. However, G-Piece always remained in my heart, fostering an unquenchable longing within me, a tether to my roots that I couldn’t shake. Whenever I could, a visit to Ma St. Hill and G-Piece was pure delight, a pilgrimage of sorts that filled my spirit with joy and tranquility. Like moths drawn to a flame, I often gathered with my siblings and cousins there on weekends and school vacations, the laughter echoing through the hills as we played and created memories. Life in G-Piece was simple, playful, and filled with sheer joy, where every corner held a new adventure just waiting to be discovered. On Sundays, my grandmother led us down the hill to the Methodist church where most of us were baptized, the path well-trodden by our eager little feet. At the foot of the hill, we girls would spin in the powerful wind gusts that always swept through that area, reveling in the sound of our dresses’ stiff fabric against the rushing breeze, our laughter mingling with the wind.
Upon entering the church, Ma St. Hill would march her battalion of grandchildren proudly into the two pews she claimed, well aware that other parishioners knew better than to sit there, a testament to the respect she commanded. The village of Troumaca is fortunate to still be adorned with the church that holds countless memories from my childhood. Situated on a hill overlooking the Caribbean Sea, the songs of praise still resonate from my baptismal church on Sunday mornings, filling the air with hope and community. My relatives continue to attend services there, upholding the legacy of our great-grandmother, which soothes my nostalgic soul and links our past to the present.
My immediate family initially moved to the village of Campden Park, where my father worked for the government. I often wonder about the three houses we rented while there, pondering how many of them still stand today. I particularly remember Mother Edwards’ house, perched atop the rocky “Eddy Hill,” a place filled with laughter and stories that lingered like whispers in the wind. I also remember the fear I experienced whenever I passed my old neighbor’s house, who was reported to be a witch, no doubt a legend of the village. I remember running nonstop up the steep hill whenever I went past her house, believing the tale of black magic.
The house on Eddy Hill still stands out as one of my favorites. The expansive parlor welcomed visitors into the front of the large wooden house, with the “jump-up-and-kiss-me” flower thriving among the rocky hilltop, its vibrant blooms imbuing life into our memories. I can still recall using them as makeshift lipstick, giggling with my sisters and cousins, our imaginations turning simple moments into treasured memories. I also remember the gentle old lady who owned the house and lived with us for a month while awaiting a move in with her daughter; she was truly a kind soul, her smile radiating warmth. I felt sad to see her depart, knowing that her presence would linger long after she left.
Among the rocks of Eddy Hill stood my favorite snack: a large Bequia plum tree, its fruit a sugary treat that never failed to please. I would sneak up its branches to gather plums, defying my parents’ warnings about falling into the deep valley below, the thrill of mischief chasing me up the trunk. I can still hear my father’s footsteps at dawn, carrying water up the steep hill during the dry season to refill the tank we used for bathing, cooking, and drinking, a routine that showcased his dedication and hard work for our family. A promotion for my father led us to move to the town of Barrouallie, where our family home remains today. But I distinctly remember the two houses we initially lived in at Wallilabou, a picturesque outskirts of Barrouallie, each house holding echoes of laughter and warmth. I lived there with my family until I moved to the United States, a transition that came with bittersweet memories. Occasionally, I still visit one of these houses, now housing a government office, a reminder of the past wrapped in the fabric of change, but the other is so overgrown with weeds it’s impossible to see through the wild shrubbery, a stark symbol of time’s passage.
Regardless of where I live, Troumaca is ever-present in my thoughts, a ghostly reminder of the beauty and simplicity of life that once was. While the landscape may have changed somewhat, the stories and memories of our beloved Nenen and Ma St. Hill linger over that land, intertwining with my own journey, a rich tapestry that shapes my very being. If I could pen a letter to my great-grandmother Nenen, my grandmother Ma St. Hill, and my mother JC, I would express my gratitude for the stories they shared that ignited my curiosity and left me with such rich oral histories, each tale a thread in the fabric of our existence. I can only hope to honor them by passing on their legacy to future generations, ensuring that the essence of their stories continues to thrive and inspire. As my journey becomes intertwined with modern complexities, I aspire never to lose that sense of wonder and to hold onto the essence of what fuels my eccentric soul, embracing the past while navigating the intricate tapestry of life that unfolds before me.
In April 2024, I arrived on the sunny shores of St. Vincent and the Grenadines with a sad heart, burdened by the weight of loss. I was here for the final farewell to my beloved mother, who passed away at the age of 87, leaving a void that would be felt deeply by our entire family. Being one of a family of 14 children, we had to be creative in finding lodging to accommodate all the children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren, as well as spouses, which required intricate planning and coordination. My brother Augustine and his family stayed with me, and together we shared unique stories and memories of my mother, and as we gathered, we found comfort in sharing those cherished moments. I visited my hometown Barrouallie (affectionately known as Bagga), trying to capture some of the familiarity from my childhood, where the warm sun and gentle breeze carried echoes of laughter and love. It was a somber time for our family, yet we were committed to finding solace in the midst of our grief in some form or another, whether through reminiscing, sharing meals, or simply sitting together in silent reflection. Being outside of the capital city, Kingstown, there are not many restaurants or bars to go to; the local spots hold their own charm but are limited. One night, my nephew called. “Auntie,” he said with excitement, “there is a nice restaurant in Bagga called RHE’s. Let me take you there.” We packed my family in the van, ensuring everyone was settled, and off we went, the anticipation of enjoying a meal together providing a small reprieve from the sadness that surrounded us. The laughter and chatter in the van served as a reminder that even in sorrow, family bonds could bring joy and a sense of togetherness.
Located on the western side of the island, Bagga and its surrounding areas possess volcanic black sand instead of the customary white sand, providing a unique and striking landscape that captivates visitors. It is not unusual to see natives using the black sand as a skin exfoliant, appreciating its natural properties and crafting traditional beauty rituals that have been passed down through generations. RHE’s is in an enviable spot that allows guests to walk directly onto the pristine shores of Morgan’s Bay, where the gentle waves lap against the black sand, creating a tranquil atmosphere perfect for relaxation. The restaurant can be entered from either Morgan’s Bay or a narrow path from the main road, offering convenient access for both beachgoers and those exploring the area. Whichever way you enter, RHE’s friendly staff is there to make you feel at home, greeting you with warm smiles and a welcoming attitude. The manager observes the operation intently, ensuring every guest is well cared for, proactively addressing any needs that may arise. The staff goes above and beyond to create that feel of home away from home by getting to know you and remembering your preferences, adding a personal touch to your dining experience. This dedication to service and the stunning natural surroundings make RHE’s a cherished destination for locals and tourists alike.
To my pleasant surprise, RHE Beach House Restaurant and Bar was a true delight that far exceeded my expectations. The food was not only delicious, but it was also artistically presented, making each dish a feast for the eyes as well as the palate. The ambience, with its soft lighting and tasteful decor, was mesmerizing, creating a welcoming atmosphere where I felt completely at ease, and the service was divine, with attentive staff who went above and beyond to ensure a wonderful dining experience. The indoor dining area is great, but you also have the delightful option of outdoor dining where you can savor your meal while facing the gentle breeze of the pristine black sand beach of Morgan’s Bay, listening to the soothing sound of the Caribbean sea lapping against the shore. RHE captures the true essence of St. Vincent, specifically Bagga, a famous fishing town known for its vibrant seafood culture. Bagga is particularly famous for its delectable blackfish, and RHE delivered blackfish in various enticing forms—blackfish plantain cup, blackfish cakes, and an array of beautiful flavors that showcase the culinary heritage of St. Vincent. Each dish was a reflection of the local culture, crafted with fresh ingredients sourced from nearby waters and land. Additionally, upstairs houses a three-bedroom guest house, providing guests with access to shelter and food, as well as a luxurious experience that includes lounging on the beautiful black sand beach, making it the perfect destination for anyone looking to unwind and indulge in the natural beauty of the island.
When I visit St. Vincent and the Grenadines, RHE’s is an absolute must on my list of places to eat. There are many reasons why I hold this restaurant in such high regard: its unwavering diligence in highlighting our local natural foods, the innovative way it brings together a variety of our distinct flavors to create a unique culinary experience, along with its quaint and charming location that adds to the overall ambiance. Additionally, the staff consistently showers patrons with attentive and winning service, ensuring that every visit feels special and memorable. The combination of these elements creates a dining experience that is both enjoyable and enriching. In short, RHE’s has a genuine Caribbean flair that shines brightly through every dish and interaction. Its unique brand of authenticity is simply second to none, making it a culinary gem that I highly recommend to anyone visiting the island.
As my memory sheds events to make room for the mountain of occurrences over my many years on this earth, few events remain a permanent memory in my mind – the birth of my children, the death of my parents, and the eruption of La Soufrière in 1979. La Soufrière is an active volcano on the island of St. Vincent. At 4,052 feet, the majestic peak hovers above the northern flank of the island like a giant claiming his turf. Growing up, I always heard stories of the volcano, whispered in tones of reverence and fear, and even had the temerity to climb it once, wanting to mesh the reality with the legend. The enormous crater in the middle of the mountain is truly one of the wonders of the world, a natural marvel that evokes both awe and trepidation.
I remember hearing that my paternal grandmother was a baby during the eruption in 1902 when her family had to flee their farm located under the volcano. The family was permanently relocated to the village of Troumaca, and this event resonated through generations, no doubt planting seeds of resilience and adaptability in my family. Years later, my great-aunts would take my father and his siblings back to the area to show them where their ancestral farm once stood, offering them a glimpse of a past both cherished and lost. This was no doubt a traumatic yet nostalgic reminder to them of a time lost, a nuanced tapestry of emotions interwoven with love and sorrow that shaped our family’s narrative. In my first novel, ‘Beneath The Golden Mango Tree,’ Felicia, the protagonist, shares some similarities with me when she recounts getting a visa to come to America during the 1979 eruption of La Soufrière. She, like me, believed that she might have gotten a visa because of La Soufrière, reflecting a shared experience that transcends mere narrative into something more profound. The island of St. Vincent was in disarray after that eruption – people displaced, school closures rampant so schools could be converted to shelters. The look and smell of ashes everywhere permeated our lives with a grim reminder of nature’s unpredictability; noses were covered to minimize inhalation of the ashes.
I remember that day vividly. It was Good Friday, April 13th, 1979. My family of 16 (my parents and 14 kids) lived in rural Wallilabou on the outskirts of Barrouallie, a setting that fostered strong familial bonds as we navigated life’s twists and turns. As is customary, my mother, my older sister, and I arose early to start the Good Friday tradition of baking hot cross buns for our family, an act filled with love and anticipation of gathering. Our father was the district agriculture officer at the propagation station, a role that kept him deeply connected to the land, and our mother ran a small shop and bakery from our home, which often served as a place for people working on the estate to get groceries and bakery items, creating a community space that welcomed everyone. Very early that morning, we heard the screams and shouts of people running past our gate, clinging to what little humble possessions they were able to grab, their faces etched with panic and fear that was palpable in the air. My mother ran to the gate. “What’s wrong?” she asked of the crowd as they ran along the narrow street, her maternal instincts kicking in. “E Soufrière ah blow,” one woman screamed. The news rippled through our home like wildfire, igniting a sense of urgency in our home. My mother yelled to me and my sister, “Make more cross buns and send me what you have,” she pleaded, her voice a mix of calm and determination in the face of chaos. I rushed a large container of hot cross buns to her as I dove back inside to help my sister start another batch, our family workforce rallying together in a time of crisis. One of my younger siblings joined our mother as she handed each fleeing person a cross bun, a small act of kindness that became a symbol of hope amid despair. Before long, my cousin Wesie from nearby Spring Village came by on a donkey, a sight that brought a wave of relief as family connections strengthened during tumultuous times. He held the smaller children on the donkey while the other family members walked briskly on foot, a makeshift caravan of love and support. “Where you all going?” asked Mother, her concern evident. “Cuz, wherever we could get a place to stay,” he responded, fear palpable in his tone. Being the big-hearted person she was, Mother invited the entire family to stay with us, instinctively knowing the importance of togetherness in times of upheaval. Luckily, we had an additional house in our yard that could accommodate them, a blessing in the form of space amidst chaos. Before long, my maternal grandmother and cousins arrived, and so did relatives from my paternal side, creating a rich tapestry of family intertwining as we braved the storm together.
With an already big family of 16, our house was crammed, but my mother never complained; instead, she adjusted to the circumstances, orchestrating chaos with grace and love. I remember her going into Kingstown to buy a couple of huge pots that were more like drums, representing our resolve to nourish and care for everyone around us. Cooking on a stove or even a coal pot was not an option with pots that size, and necessity became the mother of adaptability. My father erected several fireplaces comprising three large stones, ingenuity overriding inconvenience. My brothers plied them with wood gathered in the fields and meadows around Wallilabou, tinkering and collaborating in the midst of crisis. Callaloo and pea soups were regular meals, hearty and warm, symbolizing the unity that flourished even in adversity. Together, we huddled and cooked, ate, slept, and shared stories, reconnecting with the past and catching up on our current lives, weaving narratives that echoed the resilience of our ancestors. Echoes of La Soufrière’s fury surrounded us daily, as the volcano spat ashes around the island, shooting flames into the sky, its ominous presence becoming a part of our daily conversation. Its roar was heard deep into the center of the island, a haunting reminder of nature’s power and unpredictability. Since most Caribbean homes are built with ventilation, my father had to cover the ventilation spaces to keep the ashes out, a protective measure that underscored his dedication to his family’s safety. As luck would have it, we were the last family on that side of the island allowed to stay in our home; the decision felt like a breath of relief. The police stood by our gates each day to ensure no one went north without a good reason, an unyielding sentinel amidst chaos. Farmers were allowed to go to their farms to tend to animals and crops, a small semblance of normalcy in our disrupted lives. My mother was always there supplying the officers with food as they stood at their post, ensuring that humanity could shine through even in the hardest of times. One day, my grandmother needed something from her house up north in Troumaca, so my brother Bert, my cousin Steve, and I decided to trick the officers, knowing there was no malice in our hearts but a deep desire to assist our family and see up close what La Soufrière looked like. We knew they would let us go to check on our farm and animals, so we pretended we were going to the farm. After being hoisted onto a donkey we set out with my brother and cousin on foot, a young trio fueled by purpose and curiosity. All went well until we got to Troumaca, where the rumbles shook us to our core. The volcano started to roar, spitting fire and ashes furiously, its wrath palpable to our senses. I had seen remnants of its fury from a distance but not in full effect, and the sight was both terrifying and awe-inspiring. My brother and cousin ran to my grandmother’s house, grabbing what items she wanted, frantically yet determined. My brother helped me onto the donkey, urging it forward as we made our way back home, the urgency of the moment weighing on us heavily, but we were determined to help our grandmother. The days, weeks, and months that followed saw Barrouallie develop into what looked like a refugee town, with the displaced North Leeward (Western) residents trying to ride out the fury of La Soufrière and the residents exhibiting such humanity in accommodating as many as they could, embodying a spirit of solidarity while others stayed at the camps, creating a microcosm of resilience in the face of tragedy. The same scene played out on the North Windward (Eastern) side of the island, but I was not intimately a part of that side of events, as my perspective was rooted in the adventures and stories shared by those around me. I left for the US later that year, the air thick with memories of heartache and love intertwined. Most of the relatives had returned home, and camps were closed as life sought to regain its shape; but many people never made it back to the North, many lamenting that they could never live so close to the volcano again, their hearts forever marked by that experience. Every Good Friday, I remember that day in 1979 when the fury of La Soufrière caused such fear and destruction in its wake but rendered such emotions in human charity and delivered unexpected rewards. The crops that year were bountiful because of the fertilizing effects of the volcanic ash, a bittersweet irony that marked the year in vivid contrast with the chaos we endured, and Vincentians like me likely had an easier chance of getting visas due to the upheaval caused by the volcano. As far as I know, there were no deaths from that eruption, but residents in 1902 were not so lucky. Some 1,600 souls were lost, a ghostly reminder that nature could be capricious and unyielding. Even more devastating for the region was that hours after La Soufriere’s eruption, Mount Pelée in Martinique erupted, echoing an even worse tragedy than we faced. One of the few people who survived in that island’s capital of Saint-Pierre was a prisoner in an underground jail cell, a twist of fate that would later see him become somewhat of a celebrity due to his perplexing survival story. I remember an earlier eruption in 1971. The indigenous people on the northeastern side of the island were displaced, and their stories continue to linger like a haunting echo in my memory. I recall a local calypsonian singing:
“Caribs running wild
and if you hear them
the Soufrière ah boil
Mr. Premier, carry we a town
before the sulfur come down.”
This was doubtlessly seen as jovial social commentary, the singer no doubt unaware of the trauma involved in the minds of the people passed down from oral histories, a dissonance that resonates deeply within the fabric of their culture. Among the dead in 1902 were many indigenous people whose lungs were scorched, victims of a violent reminder that they were not likely to stay in the path of an erupting volcano. Having seen the 1979 eruption firsthand, I was more aware of the dangers and hence more empathetic to those within its path, the empathy rooted in my lived experience. In 2021, there was another eruption around the Easter holiday, a reminder that nature’s unpredictability knows no bounds. My daughter ran into my room, “Ma, St. Vincent is on the news. The volcano is erupting,” her voice laced with urgency and concern. I remember holding my head in my hands in shock, the weight of memories flooding back. It was like watching the eruption of 1979 again, every emotion crystallizing in me anew. But I wasn’t there to help; I could just watch, helpless as the unfolding drama echoed the past. “We have to do something,” she shouted, her heart ablaze with the desire to assist.
So we came together and did what little we could to help those displaced, collaborating to extend a lifeline to those in need. With the help of Standard Shippers and many Vincentians and Belizeans, we were able to put together a shipment of products. I must commend my daughter, who did most of the shopping, embodying the compassion and energy of our lineage, and my son, who did the pickups to pack the crates, a lesson in teamwork and shared responsibility. The Medical Relief Association on the ground in St. Vincent did the heavy lifting of distributing the items, ensuring that our collective efforts met the needs of those affected. I often wonder what made my children so eager to help. Perhaps my tales of the horrific eruption of 1979 evoked some humanity in them, a connection to their roots that awakened a fire within. I am not sure, but when they saw the eruptions on the news, this was their ancestral home, and these were their people. It was time to act, and they rose to the occasion, reminding me that the heart of our community beats strong through the generations. And so today during this Easter weekend, I reminisce about the fury of nature and the ways in which it brings out the best in us as a nation. Some may see it as PTSD, but I see it as a time of reflection, a poignant reminder of our collective strength, resilience, and the profound bonds we share in the face of adversity.
In an earlier article, I mentioned having an emotional day while writing my fourth and current novel. Experiencing an emotional moment during the writing phase is not unusual or troubling. As the saying goes, 10 percent of life is what happens to you; 90 percent is how you handle what happens. During the writing of my third novel, Tears of Exile, I remember having a similar sad episode, particularly while writing the scenes of the Garifuna internment on Balliceaux. I conducted some research and listened to oral histories from the descendants of our exiled brothers and sisters, which provided the material needed to construct the world and period my characters inhabited. Once I mapped out the historical information—the landscape of the island, the customs of the Garifuna people, events that occurred during that time, and the languages spoken—I began to formulate my characters. Lemerie Lavia and Manuel Baptiste came to life against this historical backdrop. In my mind, Lemerie was the taller of the two, while Manuel was stockier. You may envision them differently, but this is my vision of them. Somewhere in Yurumein (modern-day St. Vincent and the Grenadines), there were friends like these two. It was with these facts that the town of Masarica (currently the village of Greiggs) came to life. The concept of the town square was fashioned after the park in the middle of my hometown of Barrouallie, the community space where we watched cricket and soccer, and where churches held crusades during my childhood. It served as the main hub for community engagement, a melting pot of cultures and interactions that shaped my childhood experiences. Barrouallie, one of the oldest towns in St. Vincent, still has French and Garifuna influences sprinkled around, giving it a unique character. I wanted to capture a piece of it in my novel. There are relics from when the Garifuna people ruled St. Vincent, remnants of their rich heritage woven into the fabric of everyday life in Barrouallie. My parental home stands on the grounds of one of the oldest clinics. Before that building was torn down, I visited my uncle, who had converted it into a residence, allowing me to witness firsthand the history embedded in the property. A huge porch extended across the front of the house where patients would line up for treatment, accompanied, no doubt, by the sounds of their conversations and the solemnity of their needs. The stones from that porch were used to construct my parents’ house, and the incinerator for burning medical waste still remains in the backyard, its presence a stark reminder of the lives once intertwined there. One can only imagine how many wounded soldiers were treated there during the Carib wars, each story adding depth and texture to the historical narrative I sought to explore. The old police barracks in Barrouallie, one of the oldest in the region, is sadly neglected, serving as a monument to stories untold and memories faded. Using these historical nuggets, my imagination set to work, creating characters and a lifestyle reminiscent of the period. Lemerie and Manuel sprang to life on the pages, along with many others, their aspirations and growth echoing the struggles of their time. Their agonizing journey and those of the Garifuna people portray a heroic narrative of a community determined to survive, illustrating a relentless spirit that defiantly rose against the tides of adversity. It is truly a tale of suffering, resilience, and survival. Thus, the characters needed to progress and grow; their lives were not solely defined by the tragedies that befell their people. They had families, friends, and activities that structured their daily lives, grounding them in a reality rich with the complexities of human emotions. Tears of Exile illustrates not only the innocence and joy of these characters but also captures the inhumane nature of humanity and imparts a lesson in survival, weaving together their personal victories and losses into a tapestry that resonates with readers. As in real life, some events in their lives were good while others were heartbreakingly sad, creating a balanced portrayal that reflects the duality of existence. In my exploration of the Garifuna internment on the island of Balliceaux, I researched the Lindley family, who owned the island at that time—what purpose the island served and who, besides the Garifuna people, were present there. Through research, I pieced together the poignant histories of those who suffered. Why did so many perish before the remaining 2,500 were exiled? I don’t want to give away the story, but there were heart-wrenching moments that washed over me in waves of sadness, each one a reminder of the fragility of life and the indelible marks left by history. This happened again a few weeks ago when rereading Tears Of Exile to convert it into electronic format. The scenes on Balliceaux transported me back to pages 265 to 276 of my second book, ‘Beyond The Mango’s Shade‘. A fictional scene became reality, blurring the lines between my creation and a development that took place fifteen years after writing the book. I am by no means psychic, but when you write a story in a convincingly authentic manner, strange things can happen. Life can indeed imitate fiction, albeit coincidentally, prompting reflections on the interconnectedness of our experiences. In Tears of Exile, I recall the sorrowful journey of the characters and lamented that many individuals like them undoubtedly experienced similar pain, their stories echoing through time and space. In that sense, the pain was real, a palpable connection to the past that demands recognition and respect. I pondered how many of those who suffered there were related to those left behind, creating a complex web of emotions and memories that extend beyond the confines of time. How many families were torn apart, and will their descendants ever be reunited? What was life like after their exile, and how did it affect the vibrant Vincentian culture, forever altered by those tumultuous events? Understanding the past is essential, as it enlightens us about why we are the way we are, guiding us as we navigate the present and future. However, the beautiful aspect of historical fiction is that you can create the ending you desire, crafting narratives that inspire hope and resilience amidst despair. You are not confined by the constraints of history or limited by historical gaps. You can craft the conclusion you wish for, and who knows if life will imitate fiction? With each stroke of the pen, we have the power to shape destinies and imagine brighter tomorrows.
Embracing the Emotional Depth of Historical Fiction
As a historic fiction writer, it is challenging to build a story that invokes curiosity from your readers. Authenticity is key to writing a convincing tale, as readers are often drawn to narratives that resonate with real historical contexts and human experiences. To create a narrative with an authentic feel, it is essential to delve into the emotions of your story while equally drawing your readers into those feelings. By painting vivid scenes that transport your audience to a different era, you can immerse them in the sights, sounds, and sentiments that define your world. Telling a story alone is not enough to engage your readers; it is crucial to keep them wondering about the what, when, and where of your characters. What is happening? How are they feeling? To keep readers intrigued, tantalize them with the journey of the characters, injecting just enough mystery to leave them questioning what’s next. This tension encourages a deeper connection, compelling your audience to turn the pages as they yearn to uncover the truth behind the characters’ actions, motivations, and the historical events that shape their lives. Ultimately, it is the blend of rich detail, emotional depth, and suspenseful storytelling that creates a memorable experience for the reader.
Readers might grow to like your characters, hate them, or become curious about them, but the goal is to avoid indifference. You don’t want your audience feeling lost or confused as they navigate through the storyline, as this can lead to disengagement from the plot altogether. It’s acceptable for them to be curious and wonder about the characters’ motivations and backgrounds, but not to feel adrift in a sea of ambiguity. As a writer, you must dive into the heart and soul of each character in a way that maintains your readers’ attention and fosters a connection to their journeys. This connection is key; you want them asking questions and remaining engaged enough to seek the answers. By weaving in rich backstories and nuanced personality traits, you can create multifaceted characters who evoke strong emotions, ensuring that readers not only invest in their fates but also reflect on their own experiences and feelings as they relate to the unfolding narrative.
What are they doing?
Why are they doing it?
What are they feeling?
What will happen next?
As the author, you must have a clear vision of where the story is heading; however, your readers should be left to wonder about the twists and turns that lie ahead, igniting their imagination and creating an engaging experience that captivates their minds and emotions. This delicate balance between the author’s intent and the reader’s interpretation is vital for crafting a narrative that resonates deeply, encouraging them to explore possibilities and anticipate outcomes that may not align with their expectations, all while allowing the story to unfold in unexpected ways. By maintaining a subtle air of mystery, you allow your audience to become active participants in the unfolding tale, enhancing their connection to the characters and the world you’ve meticulously built, fostering an environment where they feel compelled to think critically and dream vividly about what could happen next. As they venture further into the narrative, their investment in the plot deepens, making every revelation and twist feel personal, as if the story is uniquely theirs to discover.
Yesterday, I sat in my sunroom working on my fourth novel, surrounded by the gentle warmth of sunlight filtering through the glass. As I peeled back the layers of my characters and wove my intricate story, I found myself deeply embroiled in a particular storyline that tugged at my heartstrings. After typing 25 pages, a wave of sadness washed over me; I realized that I had become so entrenched in my characters’ experiences that I felt overwhelmed by their struggles and triumphs. Each line I wrote seemed to pull me deeper into their world, making it increasingly difficult to separate their pain from my own reality. I reminded myself that my characters were fictional, mere figments of my imagination, and took a break, inhaling deeply, trying to ground myself. I stepped away from the keyboard and grabbed a bottle of water from my refrigerator, the cool sensation refreshing against my lips. Yet, despite the brief reprieve, I couldn’t shake the feeling that resonated within me, an echo of their emotions lingering in the air, a testament to the power of storytelling that can transcend the boundaries of ink and paper.
This wasn’t the first time I had felt overwhelmed while writing a novel—it likely won’t be the last. I began to question my emotional response: Am I normal? Why do I get so emotional about fictional characters and storylines? With my laptop pushed aside, I reclined in my armchair and watched ten minutes of news, momentarily losing myself in the world outside my own creation. Then, it hit me. I am the only person who knows the future of my characters and truly understands them inside and out. Each detail, from their flawed motivations to their triumphs, has been meticulously crafted in my mind. I have spent hundreds of pages developing them and watched them grow within the confines of my novel, like watching children mature and face life’s challenges. No one else carries that burden, that intimate knowledge of their struggles and dreams. It’s okay to feel their pain, I thought, because in doing so, I honor their journeys. If my characters lacked depth, they wouldn’t invoke such emotions in me. Instead, they speak to the universal human experience, reflecting our own fears and aspirations. It’s important to share in their stories, celebrate their joys, and lament their sorrows—this is what breathes life into good historical fiction, allowing readers to connect with the past through the vivid artistry of narrative. In this emotional landscape, both writer and reader find a sense of belonging, a reminder that even in fiction, we are never truly alone.
Unlike regular fiction, historical fiction involves inserting fictional characters into a backdrop of the past, intertwined with historical events that shape their lives and choices. This genre requires thorough research and a vivid imagination to create characters grounded in the social norms and lifestyles of the time period, ensuring that the nuances of each era are accurately represented. To craft believable characters true to their era, one must deeply understand and care for them, immersing oneself in their motivations, struggles, and triumphs to evoke authenticity. Additionally, weaving their stories into the broader historical narrative demands an awareness of the societal context in which they exist, thus allowing the plot to resonate with both historical accuracy and emotional depth. I gave myself permission to feel overwhelmed, recognizing the weight of this creative responsibility, but I also allowed myself the grace to take a break, breathe, and regain perspective, understanding that even the most dedicated writers must periodically step back to nurture their creativity and maintain clarity in their storytelling journey.
Being in the Caribbean has allowed me to live a greener, cleaner lifestyle, surrounded by nature’s bounty and rich biodiversity that continually inspires me. No need to order natural products on Amazon or wonder if something is really natural or real; I get my food straight from the land. I was never one to rely heavily on medication unless absolutely necessary, often seeking alternatives that align with my values. However, as I age, I become increasingly conscious about what I consume, understanding that the food I eat plays a significant role in my overall well-being. I always visit my doctors when feeling unwell and follow their guidance closely, ensuring I stay informed about my health. Yet, I firmly believe in using herbs and natural foods to maintain my health, often turning to age-old remedies passed down through generations. It’s crucial to conduct thorough research and consult with healthcare professionals even when utilizing herbs, as some can interact negatively with certain conditions or medications. Just because something is healthy doesn’t mean it’s the best choice for everyone; individual responses to various natural substances can vary considerably. This article aims to encourage a more holistic lifestyle, with the hope that it may contribute positively to one’s health journey.
My daily tea consists of a blend of Moringa leaves, Guava leaves, and Bay leaves, complemented by Turmeric, Ginger, cinnamon, and green tea, each ingredient chosen for its unique health properties. This mixture typically energizes me and is said to offer numerous health benefits, enhancing my vitality and focus throughout the day. For a midmorning snack, I enjoy Tamarinds or Tamarind balls, which are reported to be good for dry eyes; since incorporating them into my diet, I’ve not experienced a flare-up, showcasing the value of small dietary adjustments. My breakfast often features fish with breadfruit or steamed sweet potatoes, both rich in nutrients and delicious. Occasionally, I indulge in a slice or two of whole wheat bread, appreciating its heartiness and fiber content. I’m not particularly fond of rice, but I do treat myself to a few spoonsful from time to time, often opting for ground provisions and steamed vegetables instead, as they are both nutritious and flavorful. When I do eat rice, it’s usually brown rice, which I consider a healthier choice due to its higher fiber content. My dinners tend to be as simple as cornmeal or oatmeal porridge, sweetened with honey. While I do use sugar sparingly, I prefer brown sugar, to keep my meals as tasty as possible.
I’m grateful to the good Lord that I only take one medication for being borderline hypertensive, and my goal is to take care of myself to minimize the risk of needing more. I heed my doctor’s advice but prefer not to seek chemical solutions first, believing in the power of holistic practices and lifestyle changes. I recognize that life has its ups and downs, and I strive to find holistic methods to manage stress, such as mindfulness and breathing exercises, although I wouldn’t hesitate to take medication if it’s needed. When I need to soothe my nerves, I brew tea from soursop leaves, which I find especially beneficial for insomnia and relaxation. Nevertheless, I’m not someone who would reject medication when required, knowing that balancing natural remedies and conventional treatments can sometimes be the best approach for maintaining optimal health.
Some writers wonder what to call a book even before they start writing. What if I was to tell you that is the last thing you should worry about? Before I start writing a book, I ask myself a few questions:
(1) What type of book would this be – Fiction, non-fiction, Novel, Autobiography, self-help…?
(2) What is the book about?
(3) How would it end?
The name can come about anytime during the writing process or at the end. Sometimes it is a name that just pops into your head, or a part of the book that reminds you of something which suggests the name. This can lead to some fascinating titles that reflect an underlying theme or emotion within the narrative. It could also come based on an irony of the story. For example, my first book was initially called ‘Beneath the Golden Apple Tree’. As mentioned in an earlier post, my daughter later encouraged me to change the name to ‘Beneath The Golden Mango Tree’, after explaining that the West Indies is more known for mangoes than apples. But the reason that name was used was because of how the book started and the significance of the tree in the main character’s life, serving as a metaphor for growth and resilience. Naming a book is not just about creativity; it can also be an evolving process that mirrors the journey of writing itself—reflecting how characters develop, how plots twist, and how themes emerge. Ultimately, a title should capture the essence of the story and resonate with potential readers, inviting them on a journey they will want to explore.
In my second novel, ‘Beyond The Mango’s Shade’, I arrived at that name at the end of the book, after pondering what the book signified. I realized that this narrative, in many ways, was about life’s growth and adaptations, illustrating the myriad challenges that test our resilience. Gone was the young, idealistic Felicia of book one; she had undergone a significant transformation. Life had dealt her some wild punches, each one a lesson wrapped in hardship, forcing her to confront life’s imperfections that could potentially throw her off balance. Through every twist and turn of her journey, Felicia learned to navigate the complexities of adulthood, discovering strength she never knew she possessed. The book’s blurb leaves its reader wondering if someone so naïve could evolve intact and emerge not just whole, but more profoundly aware of the world around her, embodying the notion that growth often comes through struggle.
In my third novel ‘Tears Of Exile’, the name popped at me while I was writing the section on the Garifuna internment at Balliceaux, a place fraught with a painful historical significance and deep emotional scars. I reflected on how tearful the experience must have been for our Garifuna people on that barren island, stripped of their freedom and forced into a profound sense of loss and longing. The isolation and despair they faced in such a desolate location intertwined with their rich cultural tapestry, adding layers of grief to their story. Later, the word exile stood out, resonating deeply with the overarching themes of my narrative, as it encapsulated the struggles of those who were displaced and marginalized. Most of the story was about the exile and their life leading up to being exiled, detailing the painful memories that lingered and the indomitable spirit of resilience that emerged from their suffering. I settled on Tears of Exile, a title that fit perfectly based on the story, as it evoked both the sorrow of separation and the enduring hope for a return to their homeland.
So, the key takeaway is to keep writing and worry about the name last. Writers often spend an excessive amount of energy and time worrying about what they will name their book when they should focus more on the other vital elements, like what the book is about, the characters’ arcs, the settings, and how it will end. If you do not know those central elements of the book, it could create many challenges in your writing process, leading to frustration and writer’s block. Remember that drafting is a journey of discovery; every word you put down can help illuminate the path forward. So, write on and pay more attention to the substance of your book, allowing yourself the freedom to explore various themes, tones, and styles. Often, the name would be derived from that substance, emerging organically as a reflection of the deeper narrative you have crafted, highlighting the essence of your story in a way that resonates with your readers. This approach will not only ease the naming process but also enrich your writing experience overall.
I have finally examined my writing style – how and what might have influenced the way I write. My examination yielded the observation that I write from four perspectives: an authentic Caribbean woman, a cultural enthusiast, a student of history, and a lover of nostalgia.
As I continue to pen my most recent novel, waves of nostalgia surround me, enveloping me in memories that are both sweet and bittersweet. While some of my writing is derived from thorough research into historical contexts and cultural settings, much is derived from my deeply personal knowledge and experiences that shape my worldview. Having been a child in the sixties, a period marked by vibrant music and cultural richness, I drew on my understanding of that era to develop the characters of Hawken and Melvina. The innocence of their first encounter and subsequent friendship stirs the heartstrings, evoking a simpler time when connections were forged through pure, unfiltered emotions. Their unselfish, unconditional friendship warms the heart, displaying a bond so pure that you want to see it flourish against all odds. But there is an underlying fear of their growth and the harsh realities of life awaiting them, lurking beneath their joyous adventures. Where will life take them, and will they be equipped to weather its storms? It’s a love story, a coming-of-age tale, and a survival story, all blanketed in the rich culture and history of a people and a period that continue to echo the spirit of their ancestors and way of life. It’s a story that emphasizes resilience and the enduring strength of community.
One of my most endearing storylines in this novel revolves around the parents explaining puberty and baby-making to the two pre-teens in a manner that is both humorous and educational. Amid a bit of comic relief, it reminds us of a time when children safely and innocently roamed the bounds of friendship, free from adult complexities and societal pressures. They are clearly the heroine and hero of the book, navigating the tangled web of adolescence as their innocence is challenged. This narrative takes several unexpected twists and turns to reach its conclusion, engulfing the reader in a whirlwind of comedy, sadness, survival, and nostalgia, all the while gently coaxing them to reflect upon their own journeys through the trials of youth.
Upon reflecting on past characters in my other novels, I realized unintentional similarities among some. Miss Maddie in books one and two bears a striking resemblance to Tantan Velda in book three, despite living centuries apart in vastly different contexts. Although both women occupy unique positions in their respective stories, they each contribute an endearing component that creates teachable moments, showcasing the strength of women across different time periods. Further examination of my characters and storylines across my novels led me to dissect my overall writing style. I discovered that my approach to delivering authentic Caribbean cultural stories has fostered the emergence of my folksy writing style. The dialect used by some characters adds richness and authenticity, breathing life into the narrative and offering lessons rooted in a culture steeped in history and vibrant reality, still reflected in our society today. While General Caribbean culture shares many similarities, I have an intimate connection with St. Vincent and the Grenadines, which is why my writing is more deeply centered on its way of life, its people, and their stories that often go unheard.
Walking along the bustling streets of Kingstown, Barrouallie and much of St. Vincent and the Grenadines, I can see the coming to life of many of my characters, each inspired by the vibrant tapestry of daily life surrounding me. The spirit of the people remains undaunted in their quest for survival, illustrating a rich cultural heritage that thrives even in challenging times. Whether selling homemade snacks, fruits, vegetables, or pushing manpowered carts around town, Vincentians are always on the move to navigate this brutal world, adapting their strategies with remarkable ingenuity. From the friendly banter with customers purchasing local craft souvenirs to the seashell blown to announce the fisherman’s catch of the day, they are fiercely determined to hold onto the entrepreneurial spirit that consistently rescues them from the harsh realities of enslavement, colonialism, and discrimination. Without this entrepreneurial spirit, our nation would face staggering hardship and despair. Times are hard, yet the stubborn strength and determination of the people truly propel this nation’s survival, creating a narrative of hope amid adversity that inspires both myself and my readers.
As I reflect on the stories I aim to write and the world as it is today, I realize that while many things have changed, the methods of survival in our island nation remain largely unchanged, passed down through generations as a testament to resilience. Perhaps this is a blessing in disguise, as it grounds us in our identity and heritage. Elements of Miss Maddie and Tantan Velda still reside here, as does the strength and dignity of Chief Galian and the humor of the comedic character Viken. They exist in our people’s survival tactics, delivering us from the harshness of this cruel world time and time again, reminding us of the importance of community, culture, and shared history.
This serves as a poignant reminder to always tell culturally rich stories that offer no apologies or adjustments, celebrating our uniqueness in a global narrative. Reflecting on why I write the way I do, I realize that my writing style evolves from my love of cultural nostalgia, as it fuels my passion for storytelling. I don’t want to return to the old days, and I couldn’t even if I wished to. However, I can take my readers into those times, guiding them through the experiences of others as long as I remain authentic to our Caribbean culture. In the process, I hope to edutain people beyond the bounds of our culture, sparking interest and fostering understanding through narratives that resonate with the human experience.
A month ago, I started my weekly visits to my hometown Bagga, a quaint place teeming with memories and nostalgia. One of the things I always enjoy is swimming and soaking at the local beach, where the salty breeze dances through the air and the sound of waves crashing against the shore creates a relaxing symphony. Since I am in the throes of my writing, my people-watching skills are heightened, providing me with ample inspiration for my stories. I noticed a group of about eight children swimming nearby, slowly making their way towards me, their laughter echoing across the water. They were quite friendly and asked my name while introducing themselves with bright smiles and eager voices. I remember at least three names: Kira, 8; Melissa, 13; and Ziel, 9, each name etched into my memory like a sweet melody. For some reason, Ziel was particularly drawn to me, her curious eyes sparkling with excitement as she inquired about my presence there. I asked about their grandparents, knowing that the parents of children that age were likely born after I left for the US, and it sparked a conversation filled with shared familial stories.
I soon found out they were all cousins and were related to someone in my family from another side, adding another layer of connection to our interaction. I watched them swim, splash, and playfully dunk each other in a carefree manner, their joy infectious. Before long, they circled around me, holding onto just about every limb they could grasp, and I was swept away in their exuberance. Ziel asked me to dunk her a few times, and I complied after instructing her to close her nostrils before going under, feeling a bond forming between us with every playful moment. In addition to my limbs, one youngster climbed onto my back, and before long, I had become a floating device for them while they played, their gleeful shrieks filling the air.
Ziel had a special kind of friendliness and familiarity about her, and I was as drawn to her as she was to me, realizing that sometimes connections can form in the most unexpected ways. We chatted while she splashed around, exchanging stories and laughter until it was sadly time for me to leave. I bid the children farewell and made my way home, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that Ziel reminded me of someone I couldn’t quite identify, as if she was a reflection of a cherished memory.
A week later, I returned to the same beach, hoping to see my little friend once more and experience the warmth of her company again. I spotted a group of six children splashing in the ocean, their joy palpable even from a distance. From my vantage point, I couldn’t see their faces due to the sun in my eyes and their distance, but the energy was unmistakable. Suddenly, they made their way towards me, and there she was—Ziel and her cousins, a vision of exuberance and joy. Again, she chatted with me, her enthusiasm infectious as she held onto me as she floated and splashed around. We talked as she began sharing more about herself and her family, her stories painting vivid pictures of her life, filled with both innocence and wonder.
I observed all the children, noting how carefree and innocent they were, vibrant spirits unburdened by the weight of the world. I thought this was the happiest time of their lives, and they didn’t even know it, a fleeting moment of bliss that would soon transform as they grew older. I hoped life would be good to them, although they’d likely have to learn about maturity and face life’s challenges—getting an education, finding jobs, starting families, and maybe experiencing heartbreak. I could only hope their triumphs would outweigh their disappointments, and that God would equip them with the tools and strength they needed to weather life’s storms. Eventually, we said our goodbyes, their cheerful waves lingering in my memory as I walked home.
Almost on cue, I encountered Ziel and her cousins the following week during my next trip to Bagga, their playful giggles echoing like music in the air. They again displayed their usual playful demeanor, and I marveled at their innocent interactions, which reminded me of a simpler time in my own life. There was a two-year-old baby with them, her eyes wide with wonder. “Miss, you could hold she fuh us so we could go swim,” she asked, her voice sweet and coaxing. Being a softie for the elderly and children, I obliged, wanting to be part of their joyful experiences. The baby was as friendly as her older cousins, giggling with joy as we splashed around, her laughter a bright spot on that sunny day. I finally handed her back to the oldest girl, a wave of warmth spreading through me. Ziel and I chatted a bit more, our connection deepening as I reminded them to be careful before heading home, hoping to see their bright smiles again.
Today, I returned to the beach, anticipation bubbling within me, and saw two children swimming towards me in the shimmering waves. One was Ziel’s cousin Melissa and her eight-year-old brother. “Where is Ziel?” I asked, my heart racing a little. She explained that Ziel lives in a community outside of Bagga proper and usually comes to visit her cousins and go to the beach on Saturdays. Since today was Friday, she wasn’t there, and I felt a pang of disappointment, a small ache of longing for my little friend. I had hoped to see her today, to share another moment of laughter and joy, but I remain hopeful that we will meet again, perhaps in the most unexpected of circumstances.
I pondered what was drawing me to her; although I didn’t know her well, she felt so familiar, an echo from my past entwined with my present. Then, it struck me—she reminded me of the character Valencia from my second book, Beyond The Mango’s Shade, a vivid creation that had leapt from my imagination onto the pages of my story. Without giving away the storyline, Valencia was a little girl, about Ziel’s age, who befriended the main character in ways that still resonate with me. Just like Ziel was drawn to me, Valencia was drawn to Felicia, creating an unbreakable bond of friendship. There’s such a resemblance between the two girls, their spirits intertwined in an inexplicable way. But Ziel is real, while Valencia is a fictional character that lived in my head 15 years ago, a creation born from inspiration and creativity.
I hope I get to see my little friend again, and I wish for her to grow up enjoying all the beautiful things life has to offer, unfettered by the complexities that adulthood brings. Usually, I observe someone and use a mannerism or demeanor to create a fictional character, yet here was a real-life person reminding me of a fictional character I created long before she was born, linking my realities with the imagination I hold dear. For some reason, I see this as life imitating fiction; it’s a beautiful symmetry that life presents to us all. We writers are a peculiar lot; we can often see the subtle nuggets of life that most people overlook or ignore, capturing moments in words that might otherwise vanish into thin air. Simply put, our creative side is always in overdrive, tirelessly trying to decipher life’s intricacies and transform them into something tangible, something meaningful that connects with others.
Trish St.Hill 