The dark gray smoke curled and rose into the atmosphere. Rolling its many shades of gray as its ascent could be seen from blocks away. Some unfortunate car owners had handmade cocktails thrown through their car windows. The smoke rose to meet the ones from the burnt houses on the block. The owners that were present ran back and forth with buckets of water and hoses trying to douse the fire. Luminescent eyes, flaring yellow and orange sparks, seem alive with evil intent at anyone who approaches the blaze. An old woman’s lamentation rose to meet everyone else’s supplication to the gods as a bloody child lay motionless in her lap. Her hands, palms outstretched towards the heaven as the soundtrack of gunfire in rapid succession rang out louder than church bells.
This is life in Haiti now. Where gangs paint the image of hell, using more than violence and blood. These Merchants of Despair and their bloody drills have everyone on the run. Pandemonium replacing the earlier paradise in La Perle des Antilles. A young man of twelve pops up, obstructing my view. He is wearing a ski mask that defies the heat along with sleeveless shirt, shorts, and Nikes. The whole attire adorned with a gun that he slowly aims at my head. Before I protest, he squeezes and I wake up gasping for air while grasping my chest. Out of breath, sweating, I work on getting my breathing together as my panic subsides.
This is life in Haiti now. Where mad bodies drop from getting clapped and good women like my cousin Myrlie get kidnapped.
Aidé Nou,
Marc Rosemond
