No. 4

In September of 1988, us kids were excited and nervous about Hurricane Gilbert coming and listened intently to the news on the radio, which gave us the low-down on what time the wind and rain would be hitting our island, Jamaica.

Our dad, who had lived through hurricanes before, went around the place boarding up our windows and doors and moving our chickens under the house, locking them in. He had already stripped his field of all the produce, saving his favourite yams to replant later.

At home, my mum, and I picked all the vegetables from the kitchen garden to save them from being washed away, as according to her it was going to rain hard and the wind was going to blow more than we had ever experienced before.

And then it came.

More rain than we could have imagined beat down on our little house on the hill. The wind blew and rattled our windows. We hid under our beds in case the ceiling fell in on us.

On first pass through, the might of the hurricane missed us, but we were told not to rest easy as the destruction would come when it turned to head back out to sea. They weren’t wrong. In the middle of the night, of our non-sleep, the front door threatened to come off its hinges. My dad, brother, and my mum had to push and hold back the wind from blasting its way in, knowing that if it came through there would be nothing of our house left – they fought hard.

The wind didn’t come in, but the outside shower was blown over. Our trees were also still standing but we had forgotten to take the TV antenna out of the pimento tree, and it was now twisted up, which meant no TV. Not that we cared much for the TV as we never watched it except for a few cartoons and shows, when it came on across the island at 4pm. But the thought of having to waste money to replace the antenna made us annoyed we had forgotten to take it down.

We checked in on our neighbours and those at the bottom of the hill, on the other side of the road, had fared the worst. It also became clear where all the rainwater had gone, as the flood water was rising further upwards covering some of the houses.

The next district along our river was flooded out as well.

After the hurricane, basic food staples like rice, flower, cornmeal, sugar, and salt fish became scarce, as shop owners only sold them to their favourite customers. But we were lucky, because my best friend Solomie’s grandparents, and mum’s friends, Mr Ferdie and Miss Sarah, had a shop next door. Family from abroad also sent us money and care packages with tinned food and clothes, which my mum shared with the community.

We heard the news that our school roof had taken a battering and it was going to take some time to get it repaired. So, while things got sorted, all the kids and adults gathered most days and evenings at the new attraction in our district, the swollen flood water near the sugar cane fields, planning what was to happen next and getting used to our new normal.

While the adults reasoned and played dominoes, us kids started a new game, collecting up all the empty beer and soda bottles left about and taking them back to the shops to collect our 10 cents per bottle’s worth of sweeties, as they paid us to help them recycle.

We were having so much fun and learning new things.

But I cannot tell the story of the hurricane without telling you what happened after. After we all got used to the flood water which seemed to be taking ages to go down.

My mum or dad heard the news first and on seeing the adults weeping we started to cry too, not knowing why. Then the story was told. Four of our school friends, from the next district, who we played with at the river, had made a bamboo raft and taken it out onto the flood water. One made it back.

They brought divers in to find the three bodies and then a sadness descended on our community we had never experienced before. At funeral after funeral weeks later, we wept for them all and at school we couldn’t concentrate through the tears.

After the hurricane came, it was the saddest of times. But we had to crack on with our lives and live.

In memory of our friends lost.

Best wishes,

Kenisha (her)

Sherry-Ann Collins

Sherry (her / us)

Sherry Collins

Jamaican Freedom Fighter

Fighting for the creative freedom of the Jamaican peopledem.™

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