Non-redemptive pain is practice for purgatory.
Two roads lead from there.
One bound for hell.
The other hooked back for glory!

My Papa - mommy’s father - lived alone in a little room on Regent Street. Sturdy, handsome, Nubian, steady and measured, he was an amusing old man of Greco proportions.

His accent was rich and masculine. Whisky kept his voice smooth. A shot was always at his reach - whether it was beneath his bed, atop his lampstand, in his back pocket, or beside his stove - and a wrapped spare bottle was always on his top shelf.

If heaven or hell was to come prematurely, Papa would’ve been well set and ready ... to deal.

“Is that you, Peter?”

“Yes, Papa.”

Papa’s name took well to the wind, and his voice, when it uttered, spat golden dust, and his breath floats across the valley.

“Come closer, my boy.”

Papa had the hug of a seasoned farmer, one that worked a rough land from sun up to sundown, and his embrace was that of a lost father found in the nick of time.

“God blessed me with two fine boys,” he’d say, his voice smooth and royal. “God blessed Ryo with you, son. And you bless me. Remind me before you leave to give you a little something.”

Invariably, he'd sit up in his bed, at each of my visits, and reach for his pipe.

“I ought to send your mother, Ryo, a little something too. I ought to. I always mean to. You must remind me. You don’t ever remind me. Boy, why don’t you remind me?”

By then he’d have tapped his pipe clear of old ash and stuffed it with fresh tobacco and thumbed it and lit it, audibly sucking and puffing, as if urging his soul to cough up some memory worthy of our time together – a story perfected for a found Papa and his floundering grandson.

“Ryo is a bright girl, you know. Puff-puff-puff. When we used to live in Vreed en Hoop ... puff-puff-puff ... this is fine tobacco ... puff ... that previous batch was not near as good ... puff-puff-puff ... This is really fine tobacco. Pats bought this batch for me. Puff. Pats is a fine young man. Puff. James is a fine young man too. Both of my boys are fine boys. Puff … You see, Peter, every man makes mistakes in this life. Puff-puff-puff. I’ve made my fair share. Puff. Puff. More than my fair share, Rose will tell you. Puff. Come. Closer my boy. Don’t be afraid. Are you afraid? Let me see your face. Puff. Puff. Puff. Ah, indeed, you are a fine boy. God blessed Ryo. You bless me. You’re not afraid. Be afraid of no one!”

Just about then he’d hit his stride.

And with each refreshed puff, his tobacco dancing like lit worms, its ancient incense swirling around the room, the aroma sucking me into one or another fascinating account of Papa’s search for gold, or of his digging for yams and cassava and eddoes, or about the magnificence of his sons and daughters, or the sheer wonder of dreams, I’d settle into my skin.

And soon, each puff would hold me trapped in the wealth of his voice, stirring in me a deep hunger for details of his adventures and for him to speak and laugh in those deep, rich Nubian tones – though, occasionally, his laugh was intonated with untimely coughs – causing me to wish that his adventures would speed up but not end, and that I would be kept at the beck and call of his every breath until life corrected itself.

A brisk sip would clear his throat.

“Ah! That kicked the little ticker. God made whisky for strong men. Ah! God is good.”

When Papa died, they said, he was already mummified. All that whisky!

But he hadn’t yet died.

Unaware of the claims of tobacco and whisky on men’s lives, unaware of the stealth of death – those hankering fingers of needy angels – I was content to listen to Papa’s puffs and watch his smoky, brown eyes turn bright as watered glass as his guttural sounds cuddled me into the arms of a history that would otherwise have gone dead by now.

There, with him in his world, my soul was able to rest from life’s trickier turmoil, for my Papa - mommy's Papa - was so alive when I was in his presence, he was a cloud of comfort.

“Yes, Peter, a man makes many mistakes, the Good Lord knows. Puff. Puff. Puff. Only the Good Lord is perfect. And the Good Lord made women, ha-ha. Puff. Puff. Puff. (Sip-Swallow) Ah! And why the Good Lord made women so very different, a man can only guess. Puff. Puff. Puff. A few precious guesses, for sure, ha-ha-ha, but the Good Lord for sure knows why He made them so. Puff. Puff. Puff. So, why did He? There again, that forever-gnawing question! Ha-ha-ha-ha. Puff. Puff. Puff. And when the Good Lord needed a stubborn woman, ha-ha-ha-ha, God made Rose, my Rose. He dangled that flower before my face. Puff. Puff. Ha-ha. (Cough. Cough.) I was hypnotized. Puff. Puff. Puff. Puff. Puff. God is very funny, Peter. Puff. (Sip-Swallow) Ah! If God is truly fair then He must be very funny. Puff-puff. Still, He gave us four marvelous children. Ryo - that's Norma. Leonard - that's Pats. Roxanna - that's Shiela. Lennox - that's James. God's wonders never cease."

"My Rose deserves a better life; if ever a woman, truly that woman deserves it. Puff. Heaven knows I tried to give her a good life. Yes. Puff. Puff. Puff. But that woman, Rose, is so damn stubborn and too damn nice. Puff. That’s a rare combination, my boy, Peter. God surely made my woman different, like a river and like a rose. You know, Peter, that’s a very rare combination. Puff. Puff. Puff. Puff. Puff. Very rare. Puff. So damn stubborn and too damn nice! Puff. Puff. Like a river: it goes where it goes. Puff. Puff. Like a rose – thorns all around. But oh the aroma! Oh God ... so damn hypnotic. Oh, Peter, I must mind my language with you and you must remind me to send a little something to my Ryo. Puff. Puff. Puff. This whisky. Ah! God made whisky for strong men. But a woman, the Good Lord knows, she can find his weak spot, if only just for spite. Ah! Pity the fool. Man. Puff. All my children got their stubbornness from Rose. I gave my children dreams. Rose gave them stubborn. Ha-ha. Smart woman. Puff-puff-puff. That's a very smart woman. Dreams float away, like smoke. Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha. Puff. God, if indeed you are perfect and fair, then you are definitely quite funny. Isn't that so, Peter?”

Sturdy, steady and slow, Papa would arise from his bed and walk over to a hidden stash of little treasures.

With that much whisky soaked in his system, I never once saw Papa stumble. I never once saw him fall. Even against a strong wind, his gait was that of a stallion that found no need for a gallop and no occasion for a trot. He walked as he stood, as if on a hilltop looking out to the horizon.

With a cuffed hand he’d approach me, and lift my ready hand with his strong left hand, and with his right hand he would place his little something into my open hand then close my hand, as if a secret had passed from his hand to mine, a secret no eye should ever witness, or as if he’d seen the way my mother passed things to me – hand to hand, no eye in between. And I’d say, “Thanks Papa,” always meaning it from the root of my soul.

“Thanks to you. And say thanks to your mother,” he’d add. Then he’d take my face into his manly hands and tilt my face, and, like an old stallion, he’d say words the likes of which I’ll always cherish. “It’s only a token, son. Not good enough. Never good enough. But follow your mother. Listen to what she has to say, Peter. That’s the jackpot. Trust me. Okay? Come. Hug me. Hold me. Kiss me. Here, on the cheek. Ah. Now you and I have given each other a little something no one can ever take away. No one!”

My Papa!

Yes, his mane took well to the wind and his voice, when it uttered, spat golden dust, and his breath floats over valleys. And now that I am of age, I know Papa was a wounded soul and his heart was full of gold and his legs refused to fold. That old man would not bow and his old Rose did not bend. A Rose from the heart of Eden.

And now that I am of age, I know my mission.

I will fan the winds so that its golden dusts will rise again, for, Papa was a proud man, and he would not break, and he would not bend, and his dreams did not leave him alone. Papa was a proud man. And his Rose was a proud woman, who did not earn the evil that took her scent. Oh no! Yes, I will fan the winds so the dusts can rise again, for those petals were not hers alone, and not his alone, and not yours, you little spit of a devil, not yours for you to split.

And now that I am of age and have seen the river – the mouth of the Demerara, how wide it opens to the Atlantic, and how pontoons and ships ride her, and how she laughs – now that I have ridden the Berbice, and the Essequibo, and the Mazaruni, and the Mahaica, and the Mahaiconi, and the Abari, and the Orinoco, and have come of age, having crossed mighty oceans and met sister rivers and brother rivers, the Mississippi and her tributaries and the Thames, and hugged hills and mountains, I understand my mission. I will fan the winds.

Yes, I’ve experienced the rivers alone.

Yes, I have experienced the rivers with friends.

I have traversed these winding bloodlines with the Hardy Boys, and with Rip Van Winkle, and with Rumpelstilzchen and Rampunzel and Tom Sawyer and Brer Anansi. I have climbed many hills. I have climbed them with the Christ. I have climbed them with his apostles, and sat with the Budha and Krishna and Tagore and the Mahatma. I have stood on mountaintops and kissed the winds and I see how the jet streams flow.

And now that I am of age my convictions remain just as firm.

For, Papa was a proud man. He would not break. He would not bend. He took to the hilltop like a fine stallion and his mane took well to the wind, and he adored his Rose. And his Rose, before you snipped it – you clone to the evil one, you tickle to a thorn, you snippet of the devil – it held the very scent that gave freshness to your cold breath, and now gives strength to many souls, those souls which were in the valleys, souls that are smiling now. Yes, Papa was a proud man. Papa did not break and Papa did not bend. And I wil fan his dust.

Ah! The roads from purgatory are empty now.

Papa is back!

Yes, Papa has come for his Rose ... Don't choke, you squiggly little snot. Papa is back. And I know how you're feeling. Cold.

by Neville de Angelou-George ©
Excerpt (ILICET - The Missing Letter - Ch 32)
Contact Neville de Angleou

Other Excerpts From The Missing Letter

Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more; it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury
Signifying nothing

William Shakespeare: Macbeth