THE COLONY-BRITISH GUIANA

 

CHAPTER ONE

THE COLONY – BRITISH GUIANA

April 20, 2024.

Opening the door, I stepped into the office. A lingering scent of Valentine's Day roses filled the air—a reminder that the cleaners had been thorough the night before. As always, they had done a splendid job. The cherry-colored wooden desk gleamed under the soft morning light, its polished surface reflecting a quiet elegance.

Atop the desk sat a telephone, a notepad, and a brass nameplate that read:

Mohabir Persaud, President.
Below, in bold engraving: SEIGNET PRECISION—a gift from my employees, years ago.

In the corner, the Lenovo computer waited in its usual place, silent and expectant.

I placed my A&W cup of tea onto a coaster—orange pekoe, the tea bag dipping in and out, barely staining the hot water. Just colored liquid, a morning ritual.

Flipping open the laptop, I went through the routine:
Click. Google.
Type: YouTube.

A cluster of videos appeared. One stood out as if waiting for me:

Dr. David Hinds – Politics 101: "African Guyanese Are People Too"
Panelists: Olive Sampson, Nigel Hughes, V. Alexander.

I clicked.

Immediately, the rhythmic pulse of calypso filled the room. I listened, letting the music carry me, waiting for the lyrics to unfold the story in melody.

Then, images flashed across the screen—figures of resilience, defiance, and history:

Maya Angelou. Barack Obama. Miriam Makeba. Walter Rodney. Eusi Kwayana. Dr. David Hinds. Martin Luther King Jr. Bob Marley. Malcolm X. Serena Williams. L.F.S. Burnham. Michelle Obama. Nelson Mandela. Dr. Letitia Wright.

Legends who had shaped history, each a testament to perseverance. They sought acceptance, not isolation; unity, not division. Their achievements were undeniable.

The discussion deepened. The panelists spoke of a forum in Geneva, Switzerland—part of the International Decade for People of African Descent (2015–2024).

Then, a phrase surfaced—one that sent a pang through my chest:

"Coolie Greed."

A brand, a label—one meant to divide.

The moderator, measured but firm, kept circling back to another word: "Gripe." A reference to a letter published in the Guyana Current Newspaper.

And then, a statement that struck me:

"Guyana’s history did not begin in 1838."

I leaned forward.

British Guiana—its past had always been filtered through the lens of the planter class and the Victorian values of the Empire. After the First World War, British Guianese soldiers returned home with dreams of a reformed society, only to find the colony still firmly in the grip of its old hierarchy.

By the 1920s, Georgetown had evolved—its streets bustling with a mix of Negroes, Mulattos, Creoles, Europeans, Portuguese, and the rising population of Indentured Indians, many still bound to the sugar plantations.

Ivan Van Sertima, in his work, describes their presence in the city—Coolies, once scavengers, peddlers of fresh cow’s milk, eking out survival in a land that offered little beyond toil.

Yet, even in this rigid colonial world, a movement stirred. A class of educated Creoles had emerged—charismatic, articulate, and bold enough to engage the British government on the question of self-rule. A vision of modern governance began to take shape.

But then came the war.

And with it, the postponement of every dream.

By the time the Second World War ended, British Guiana was no longer a forgotten outpost. Second only to Jamaica in importance among Britain’s Caribbean holdings, the colony had grown rich—its wealth extracted through sugar, bauxite, rice, timber, and minerals, filling the pockets of British investors.

Then came the 1950s—an era of transition.

Affluence touched some. American influence crept in—shaping music, film, politics, and everyday life. A new identity was forming, shaped by forces far beyond our borders.

And in my novel, "In Our Past," I sought to capture it all.

The plantations of cotton, cocoa, coffee, and sugar carved out of the Wild Coast by the first European settlers gradually transformed into villages after the emancipation of Negro slaves in 1834. The emancipated citizens, determined to forge a future of their own, swiftly organized the affairs of their purchased lands—derelict plantations that they painstakingly revived. Sections were allotted for housing at the village fronts, while the backlands—later known as the backdam—were dedicated to farming. Each village appointed a manager from among its own, a leader who enforced ordinances drafted by the village elders. This was the genesis of the village council system. For decades, the enslaved had observed the methods of management implemented by the Baccras, and now, in freedom, they applied those lessons to their own governance.

Emancipation forever changed the colony, altering its social structure. No longer was it a land divided into plantation owners, native people, slaves, a few freed Negroes, Mulattoes, Creoles, and indentured white servants, each indifferent to the other. Instead, under Colonial Law, it was now a British colony of subjects—though status and class distinctions remained, and fairness was still elusive. The plantation owners retained their grip on the government, but the colony pressed forward, driven by infrastructure projects that gradually transformed it into a well-connected and structured society.

As the colony evolved over two generations, British Guiana was no longer an isolated settlement on the South American continent. Though under British rule, its cultural influences leaned heavily toward America. By 1950, the colony boasted an efficient railroad system stretching from Vreed-en-Hoop to Parika. The capital, Georgetown, became known as the garden city, with its magnificent wooden structures and avenues lined with towering trees, their twisting branches forming serpentine patterns against the sky. The rivers teemed with well-established ferry services, the roads hummed with reliable bus services, and law and order were upheld by a respectful colonial police force.

Traveling by train from Georgetown to Rosignol was more than a journey—it was an excursion, an adventure, a rhythm of life. The fifties were a golden era; the world seemed at peace, and British Guiana was no exception. A melting pot of cultures, its people were entertained by the sounds of American and English music, the songs of Hindi cinema, the wit of West Indian calypso, and the soulful resonance of steel pan. Cricket, the grand pastime, brought communities together every Sunday.

Rosignol, a village of mixed heritage, was a thrilling place to experience teenage years. Everything was a bundle of joy, even the simple act of trying to outrun the 11:00 a.m. train as it slowed to a halt at the station. The railway track paralleled the Atlantic Coast, winding through established villages and lush backdam farms abundant with banana, ochro, plantain, and cassava. The steam engine, hitched to its carriages, roared forward, trailing thick black smoke and the familiar scent of coal, steam, and wood.

The train’s conductor, an authoritative figure, walked through the first and third-class carriages, meticulously clipping tickets. He was a man of discipline, dressed in a starched khaki uniform, his hard khaki hat reminiscent of colonial officers. He carried himself with the weight of his responsibility, ensuring the journey remained smooth and orderly.

The railway system was a feat of colonial engineering—the first on the South American continent—operating under the Transport & Harbors Department. Most employees were Negroes, the backbone of a free labor force. The train was punctual, clean, and a source of immense pride for the men and women who kept it running. The tracks were laid in phases: from Georgetown to Plaisance in 1848, extended to Belfield in 1854, then to Mahaica in 1864. By 1900, the railway linked the Demerara and Berbice Rivers, binding the scattered settlements into a unified colony.

As the train journeyed on, station masters at each stop signaled its arrival with red and green flags, while eager vendors swarmed the platforms, their voices rising above the steam and clatter of wheels. Mahaica Station was the busiest hub, a place where train arrivals sparked a frenzy of commerce. Vendors wove through the crowd, thrusting mangoes, star apples, and sapodillas through open windows, their rhythmic cries of "Cheap! Cheap!" blending with the hum of excitement.

Amidst the bustling marketplace, a tall Negro woman glided gracefully down the platform, her voice a melodic chant that cut through the chaos: “Fish and bread! Get your fish and bread!” Balanced upon her head was a tray of jill loaves, crisp fried bangamary, and a small bottle of fiery homemade pepper sauce. With the deft hands of an artisan, she crafted sandwiches that left an unforgettable taste—six cents for a bite of legend.

Rosignol, the last stop before the ferry across the Berbice River, was a village both defined by and separate from the rest of the colony. Once a Dutch plantation, it had no grand structures like Victoria or Buxton, but it thrived in its uniqueness. Here, Negroes and Indians lived side by side, bound by respect, sometimes even referring to each other as cousins. The village had no cross streets, only dams leading toward the sea or the backlands. Life moved to a different rhythm in Rosignol—not dictated by clocks but by nature and industry. The first crow of a rooster marked the early morning, the train’s punctual arrival at 11:00 a.m. announced midday, and the high-pitched whistle of the Blairmont Sugar Factory signaled the afternoon.

Sundays in Rosignol were sacredly quiet. In the divine glow of the morning sun, the village seemed touched by the presence of something holy, as if the Lord Himself hovered in the golden light. Before noon, there were no games, no loud chatter—only peace. Cricket and other pastimes would wait until the afternoon, after the sacred hush of the morning hours had passed.

To the city folk of Georgetown, Rosignol was merely another stop along the railway. But to those who called it home, it was a world unto itself—its own small paradise, wrapped in the steady rhythm of the train, the scent of the river, and the voices of a community bound by time and tradition.