Wait ‘Til Yuh Father Come!
1970s
Think about it! What was it that terrified you as a youth? If you grew up in Johnsons Village, “John Bull” parading in St. Johns on New Year’s Day with his whip would be at the top of your list. Perhaps for you, it would be the stories about jumbies or the legend of the Soucouyant (o,r as we would call it, Sukunah). For me, it was the words delivered by my mother with the same force as Mike Tyson’s right jab – “Wait ‘til yuh father come!”
My mother used those words sparingly, but when she did, heaven help. Those words were so terrifying to me that they usually triggered one of two responses – I would either cry uncontrollably, until I fell asleep from exhaustion, or I would just skip the crying and fall into a deep long sleep. My logic was that my father couldn’t beat me if I was unconscious.
As I mentioned before, my mother used those words only as a last resort. From time to time she would try to administer her own brand of discipline, but I always managed to out-run or out-wit her. Whenever I was assigned a chore, I would always end up in trouble – not that I was looking for trouble, but trouble was inevitable.
For instance, there was the time my mother asked me to wash the windows. I hated washing the windows. This is before the time of Windex. In Antigua, most people had jalousie (or louvered) windows, which had glass slats set in metal clips. The glass slats opened and closed in unison. I had to use soap and water, a wet and dry towel, to wash and wipe clean each individual glass slat. This chore always ended up taking the better part of my day. It was painful watching my friends wave to me as they headed off to play football or cricket. I just sat there washing and wiping each individual louver.
On this particular day, the weather was great. There were no clouds in the sky. It was just too much to take. I came up with a brilliant idea. I would remove all of the glass slats, wash them all in a plastic bucket, and then return them to the clips. I completed this chore in a fraction of the usual time. Why didn’t I think of this before? I put away my cleaning supplies and prepared to meet up with the boys at the playground. Half an hour later, as I strolled into the room to look at my masterpiece, I was horrified to see that the water had dried leaving soapy streaks. The windows looked worse than when I started. I knew I was in big trouble. I didn’t have time to rewash the windows. I certainly did not want to be around when my mother got home. I had no choice – I had to leave the yard.
Times like this I would go visit Mother Williams, a neighbor who lived a few doors down. Mother Williams would beam whenever she saw me. She would invite me in, prepare lunch, and inquire about my studies. We would spend the time talking and eating. I was always on my best behavior with her. If needed, I would volunteer to help her carry buckets of water from the pipe. By the time my mother would come looking for me, she would get such a good report from Mother Williams about my helpfulness and my good manners that she had no choice but to calm down and I would escape punishment.
However, on this particular occasion, I knew that good words from Mother Williams would not be enough to quell my mother’s rage. I needed divine intervention, so I decided to visit Ms. Samuel. Most children did not visit Ms. Samuel because she was a devote Christian and passionate Seventh Day Adventist. Anyone visiting her home would have to sit down, read the Bible, and hear her talk about hell and damnation.
But for me, this was a desperate time and visiting Ms. Samuel was a desperate measure. My mother eventually made it to Ms. Samuel’s home to inquire on my whereabouts. She found me sitting, listening to Ms. Samuel explain a passage from the scriptures. Ms. Samuel invited my mother inside and complemented her on how lucky she was to have a child that loved Jesus, unlike most of the cursed children around the neighborhood who were nothing but fodder for Satan. It pleased me to watch the anger melt away from my mother’s face as I clutched the Bible and whispered my Amen’s in agreement. Who could punish a child who read the scriptures?
I bid goodbye to Ms. Samuel as she showered my mother and me with blessings in the name of the Lord. As I walked home with my mother that day, I smiled to myself because I knew that I just got away from being punished. I was so clever! I also noticed that my mother was unusually quiet and didn’t say much.
Later on at home, thinking all was forgiven, I asked my mother, “Mommy what’s wrong?”
She turned to me with grin and whispered, “Wait ‘til yuh father come!”
Mitchum,
What a GOOD READ, I thoroughly enjoyed it and I am looking forward to another short story soon. Keep up the Splendid Work!!!!
I think a lot of us benefited from the culture of story telling. Antigua probably has a lot of writers because of this. The imagination of many young minds was stimulated.
And being whipped so often by our parents has made us less harsh parents to our own children. When I was a child, I thought my parents didn’t love me because I was whipped so often. I have since learned that it was the only way that such matters were dealt with at the time. I believe it was a universal thing, accepted by all cultures and races. In the writer’s case, not even God could save her from her father’s whipping.
That was just a wonderful story. Made me think back to when we had to do the windows and wash the clothes.