Grenada. The year of our Lord 2017. It was summer, hurricane season. I hacked through the jungle outside of St. George’s, out on a mission for the State Department. We’d heard rumors that the Stalinist sympathizers deposed in ‘84 were making a resurgence, slowly gaining villagers to their cause. I had no official title but my mission was clear: free the Grenadians or die trying. “Phillipe,” my translator cried, using my codename, “the sun is setting, we need to find shelter.” “Georges,” I replied, “Where I come from we don’t go to sleep until the sun goes down.” I didn’t know it yet, but the moment which defined my summer vacation -and life- was about to occur. It was around eleven o’clock when we finally settled down for the night. Georges angered at me, stating something about how my persistence to stay out late caused us to stumble over several poisonous snakes and other beastly traps. His thick, funny accent lulled me right to sleep, a charmer hypnotising his serpent.
A few moments later I was jolted awake by the sound of Georges screaming. I felt the press of his body on my chest, his gnarled hands tight around my neck. “You idiot,” he cried, “why won’t you listen to me!” I had no choice. He was strangling me. I pulled out my knife and…
My name is not Samuel Bennett Clark. My name is Georges Ramanda. And Frederick Harding. And Ramone De Gaulles. And the names of all those other men who had to die for the benefit of our country. My goal for this school year? To forget all the pain and suffering I’ve caused. My ideal superpower? To reverse all those choices I made. I don’t look at pictures often but I found this one of Georges, probably the only ever taken of him.
If you wish to help Georges' family, please read about the plight of sustainable farming, his pet topic. I have enclosed a link. http://home.btconnect.com/tipiglen/farming.html
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