Welcome.

Dear Friends, 

Look, the photos I did want to share yesterday, but...bleddy problems!

Welcome to we big ole home by de sea. :-)

Hope you like them-these glimpses into a 3rd world home.

Plenty lurve, neena xx.

Flowers I planted by the roadside, under the bitter neem tree.

Verandah.

Under the verandah.

Concrete coloured with red powder which was smoothed on to the cement.

Some people prefer green. Others leave it plain.

Rain's just finished pouring, can you tell?

See my market bags?

Inside the front door, first set of steps. Come on up.

Top of stairs, living room.

Living room. Sit here, I will get you cool fruit juice.

There once was a child who always wanted to see our bathrooms. 

I always had to take her to see both of them.

(Ooops, please ignore my red dress, my post-afternoon bath attire).

Happy Home Always

Dear Friends from different lands,

Imagine you'self without a home of you' own.

You can't walk the way you want to walk. You can't talk with nobody tellin' you shhh. You can't make decisions about how you want you' space to look, what you want to cook. Sit here, don't go there. Lock the door! Come inside!

Why I thinking along these lines?

Yesterday, me li'l native land turn 55 and, me sitting so far away from there, me thoughts turn to home. What independence mean. No, no, I ain't the flag-waving, slogan-singing type. That sorta activity does remind me too much of them states that make citizens worship the ground they leader walk on. That, to me, is exactly like losing you' home, and having others dictate to you how to live.

Nothing nicer than you' own space.

Have a lovely day at home.

Plenty lurve, neena xx.

Photos

Hello my dear Friends, 

Is anyone else having issues uploading photos to Blogger?

I keep getting a message that says: Sorry! An unexpected error has occurred something something...

Have you ever had this message? Did it clear up or did you have to do something something?

Please help.

Thank you, 

neena, xx

Ning-ning!!

My dear Lovelies...Friends and Fellow Sufferers,

When you having a most difficult time sorting out a problem, and you bawl like child struggling to tie shoe lace, what you say? 

What is you' country local expression?

We does say: I seeing ning-ning. 

I who consider meself a wordsmith, yes,me, I ain't know how to translate this word. All I can do is describe 2 situations that cause me to see ning-ning.

The whole of yesterday and last night I see ning-ning. 

Windows 10 is the deeveel of a reason why. It take a light year to update, then another light year to remove all changes. I see ning-ning to try and understand why, and to figure out what I should do.

Wasn't 'til 1 a.m. last night that I go to sleep. 

I running on fumes right now.

The last time I really and truly see ning-ning was when the rat invade we ole family home and chomp-up the papaya. It would come at night and I just know it been hiding somewhere in the house. I could smell it as if it been wearing rotten meat for a coat.

I see ning-ning to get rid of that rat!

As I lay in me bed one night, I imagine what ning-ning look like.

Lemme see if I can make it more easy to understand with more examples:

I been through hell to sort out that problem.

I endure horrors after eating fiery pepper.

Police in Guyana seeing ning-ning to get the citizens to stay home during this covid-time.

You get the jist?

May your weekend be ning-ning free, plenty love, neena xx.

Cheerful.

My dear Friends & Green Thumb Pals!

The horror!

Early Saturday afternoon, quiet suburbia in the depths of Florider.

I could feel a' Edvard Munch scream rising from the end of me spine to the chambers of me throat.

The shoots from the neem was gone. Lopped. Off.

This is the sweet neem, the leaves you put in dal, in curry. 

Couple weeks ago, when me mother been moving to she new abode, me brother-in-law accidentally drop the big clay pot downk to the ground and the pot break, clunk.

Soon after, the plant look like it reach winter. Never to see another season.

But me sister say that that plant don't dead. One time, it been nearly at death-door and she bring it back to life.

I take me time and nurse it. Spring creep back into the brown, main stalk. The stems where the yellow leaves drop from, a delicate flush of young-green spread through.

And now, this good Saturday, I discover them gone. Clipped. The main stalk look like shorn sheep. Nekkid and shame.

Oblivious to me drama, the Guilty One been taking a nap. 

Now, now, dear Friends, y'all don't argue. 

I know it was she. Last week, she ask me for clippers to trim some plants around the front of the house.

I don't know where she been when I discover the shorn plant. Somehow, I manage to push down the scream. I think: Awright, she getting on in age now, she gon be 85 this year if we lucky. Plus, with all this arthritis pain she does deal with, I shouldn't be another pain. 

Me sister agree. Don't say nothing.

Sunday, I stare at the plant through the window, sighing. Monday, stare and sigh again.

This morning, more morose staring and sighing. Ma appear strolling past in the yard, leaning on she walking stick. Just in case she had clippers in she other hand and I ain't see them, I tap the window. Soon as she notice me, I point to the plant, and do scissors-cutting motion and wave me hand to say, no no.

Ma face light up. She think I greeting she heartily. She wave back, cheerful like Santa Claus.

I thinking I gon hide them clippers.

Bad old...antique...man...woman...person...

Okay everybody, I need a good, hearty opinion here.

A bunch o' we was gyaffing...chatting online, and one of the Admins of the group say if we got problems, tell Admin.

A naughty bug bite me, and I write:

"I got a problem. Me husband leave me for a' older lady. And when I say older, I mean oooold, 'cause he is old!!!"

This start up a pile o' jokes.

A chap tell me I mustn't say old. It ain't PC. (We the people of my native land ain't politically correct, so I know, and he know that I know and everybody know, that he joking too).

I ask if I must say Ancient or Antique.

We all had a hearty time discussing this.

Later on though, I start to think the same ole (ooops) thought that been going through me mind for many years now. 

What is wrong with saying old? Old is the new bad-word? 

If we can't use the word "old"...ole...I can't call me book Big Ole Home By De Sea no more?

What about this well-known folklore creature: 

For the innocent: ole higue does take off she skin, hide it in a calabash in a tree. Then she does spin sheself into a ball o' fire and enter homes to suck them people blood. She especially love the blood of new-born babies.

What we gon call she now?

Antique higue. 

Ancient higue. 

Elderly higue. 

Aged higue.

Them words don't sound right, if you ask me.

Anyways, back to the question...what is wrong with "old" now? How it get to being wrong when, in many cultures, old folks was revered?

What you think?

Enjoy you' day, me hearties. Eat plenty fruit and veggies, drink nice water.

Love, neena xx

Things that make me go aaah with gladness.

My dear friends, fellow explorers,

Yesterday, I stumble 'pon a pic of this card that I been looking for some days now.  Me Cousin Nan did send it. She know me so well! 

How Oscar Wilde know me even though he was born and dead years before me? Freedom, books, flowers and the moon. That is what I chock up me first book with.

This card make me go through a list of things that make me sigh with happiness.

Sea wind beating 'round me ears like soft drum.

The smell o' the sea, the brine.

Moonlight on the ocean.

Sunlight glittering on water.

Wind whistling like bird around the house.

Birds whistling.

Rain playing on zinc roof.

People who smile.

Children giggling.

Gyaffing...chatting...with people I meet.

After-dawn walks by myself...a li'l bit o' solitude.

Books. 

The smell o' books.

The old library in town of me homeland, the wooden floor, the tall, wide glass windows, the smell of cut-grass wafting from outside.

I got a long long long long long long list. Mo' long than I can write here. 

That is why I write the Guyana books. I want to explore how, in a poor place, where we ain't got plenty art, music, theatre, we can find so much to fill we with delight.

Have a good day, even if you just stand under a tree and feel the humming. With love, neena. xx

Shereen

My friend Shereen is gone.

She leave with she full-body humour.

And she mind sharp like a scholar though she was a regular student like most everybody.

She was generous with time.

Neighbours useta to knock any hour for medicine and advice.

She never take nonsense from nobody.

She husband, Brother Abdool, he too gone.

Two years ago, around this time o' year, he too.

And before that, they only son, a few years ago.

The little family leave this space.

The son useta teach free Maths lessons, and give time to help.

The mother and father was overflowing with good.

As if they was loaded with wealth.

Brother Abdool was a taxi driver in we poor country.

He useta tell me.

He wife would give away the excess in they home.

Too plenty shoes?

Shirts?

Fooof.

She almost empty they cupboards.

Fill people with food.

She left on Sunday afternoon this week, quiet-sleeping.

"Oh reassured soul,

Return to your Lord,

Well pleased and pleasing to Him."

They kerry she today in a wood coffin lined with white cotton, bury she in a white sheet.

Like rich and poor of she faith.

The sun gather he robes and slip away.

Shereen book close.

Tomorrow, the dawn gon come with ancient promises.

And the kings and the tyrants, the movie stars and the influencers, and the anonymous, gon keep filling they books.