SUGAR

I live in Enmore, East Coast Demerara, Guyana, work for GuySuCo, the government-owned sugar company.  After a day of cutting cane in fierce sun, sweating profusely, I return home.  See my husband hop off the minibus cool as a cucumber, secrectary in a government office.  To be fair we do our own laudry, by hand of course, as Guyanese clothing is thin, damages too much in a machine.  His stuff, done in no time, on the clothesline; me, still scrubbing, between the sugar, sweat and ash from burning cane.  Not for the first time, I wonder if all the recent changes have been good.
I take the food out of the microwave.  Oh no, not another longwinded story on how rude his boss is.  Come on, what does he expect?  Why do they hire secretaries who can't spell?
After supper he wants to watch the mind-numbing drivel he taped.  In search of real companionship I head to the rum shop.  Buy a quarter, sit with Vydia and Meenakshi.  Sadly, they each bought a large (26 oz) .  In no time, conversation tanks and I walk slowly home, wondering how it all went wrong.  As I lie down, I insert ear plugs, the soap opera is still blaring and walls are thin here.
Next morning neither Meenakshi nor Vydia shows for the GuySuCo truck, hungover probably.
Next stop Indira hops on, "heard the news?  Stabbing at Ramroop's."
On edge, I ask, "who?"
"Meenakshi is in jail; Vydia in hospital."