Chapter One: Roots and Rivers : Before the Storm
Dear diary:
Emigration is the act of leaving one's country to live in another.
Immigration is the act of entering another man's country to live or work.
No matter your own thoughts on immigration or emigration, I'm sure you know an emigrant or two. The saying that immigrants run our countries is one that has always spoken to me. The thought that a person who just so happens to be considered an outsider are the people running the country is of immense interest to me—being an outsider myself.
If you asked most of my extended family, they would tell you we were all outsiders at some point in our lives, and that no matter what or where you go, it isn't possible to be included in everything. And maybe that life was made to be lived and not to worry about such things.
My mother, on the other hand, calls BS. If you ask her, she'd say:
"I don't know what's an outsider. It's just a word used by outlandish people to outline someone else's life just because it's different to theirs."
Either way, I was still an outsider in a foreign country. No, I was one even before then—way before then, like from the day I was born. Precisely.
My name is Nyara, and being on the outside is something I've known all my life.
I'm not quite known for being a quiet person, though I suppose that would be a shock if you ever met me as a child. Since, according to my mom, I wasn't much of a crier and instead was a more mischievous child: stealing tomatoes from the fridge, putting pots on my head, eating a whole bag of Lasco. I suppose you could say I was more devious than deficient.
My other siblings, on the other hand, were quite different from me. Since I was the youngest of what's now half a football team, I was the outsider of my family for a while. Though this was more of a positive outcome. I was, as Anthony Bridgerton so graciously put it, the bane of my family's existence and yet the object of all their desires—and I both knew it and loved it.
My brothers—Almando, Jason, Prince, and TJ (who hadn't been born yet)—all shared or created (in TJ's case) memories that I can nor want to forget. I like to think somehow from the beginning I could always tell Almando was as much of an outsider as I was, or at least as much as I was going to be. According to my mother and the rest of my siblings, even in the womb I was drawn to him like the pull of gravity—or Adrian Monk to murder—it was as if we were always destined to be there for each other. And so it was. We were inseparable, and even till now he's still my favourite brother.
Almando was the second of the siblings: first was Jason, then him, and after which my sister Nasreen (who even though we grew up together, I share the least connection with), then Jason, me, and TJ five years later.
Being second was not always the greatest for him, though being first was probably worse. Almando has always had it hard. Our father wasn't the greatest to him and somehow—sometimes—even as a child, I knew I was all he had and leaving or failing him was never an option. He treated me like his own daughter, like a princess, which subsequently became my nickname throughout my whole family and community alike.
Almando was my best friend, and I knew I was his. Though for the most part we never really lived together—my older brothers living with my father and my sister and I living with my mom in the country—we saw one another quite frequently, perhaps even every day. And we were all quite close, or at least as close as you can be with your siblings who are at least 7 years older than you.
Most of the time it was fun, like when my brothers would visit and somehow I would find myself walking through bushes at the back of my house on our way to the river, or trenching through gullies and cow fields to pick cocoa beans and eat their seeds, or bringing buckets to the stream to fetch water.
Living in the country was always an exciting venture waiting to happen, and waking up to the sunrise over the mountaintop was never bad either.
My father lived in a more urbanized area by the sea, with the ocean being his backyard. Even my times there just happened to be fun with my brothers around: free trips on bamboo rafts, canoes and boats, all the mermaid potion you can make, timeless walks on the beach and unlimited inventions to teach you how to swim (which none seemed to work, as I still can't seem to get it to this day). Spending time with my family was always the greatest—both in the country and by the sea.
My family has always been quite large, with most of the people in my community being in some way related. Even my great-grandparents lived right around the corner in this great big two-story house we all called "Top Yard." My uncles lived quite close as well—right beside us to be exact. It was, as my great-grandfather would say, "we have family everywhere."
Our family owns a lot of land in the countryside because of him. He bought most of it in the '50s after working on a ship for what we would consider cheap today. Granddad was a great man—wise, stubborn, and kind. And as I never knew any of my grandfathers, and the ones I knew of made no effort in my life, he was all I had. And I loved him very much.
He is, as they say, the reason our family, though dysfunctional, has what it has today. His hard work, determination, and strength got us through tough times, and to him we are all grateful.
The old man loved word searches and tea, and every week after buying a new book for himself (since I couldn't seem to finish mine as fast), I would find myself in pure blissful silence on the porch, eating Bounty chocolate bars (his favourite), drinking tea, and scratching away at a word pad. Those were the greatest moments of my life and the best days of my week.
If I wasn't spending time with my "grandfather" or watching iCarly, KC Undercover, or Barbie on DVD, I was most likely bombarding my Uncle Desmond or gossiping with my great-grandmother Mavis. Even though my granddad was an amazing man, he had his faults—and boy did Mavis Hartley know that. I like to say that porch was the hot spot for me, as half of my week was spent finding words and eating chocolate and the other half was spent kneading flour and talking about cheating and family squabbles.
Either way, my "grandparents" were the walls that stood on top of my foundation. Yet even with them, I was an outsider in my own right.
Fridays for me was not just the end of the week but the day my uncle made pudding—or as I like to call it, "Pudding Day." Every Friday on the eve of the Sabbath, Uncle Desmond would bake a pudding and leave it to cool, and guess who had the first slice every time?
I loved Fridays because back then it seemed as if everything good happened then: Granddad bought new word search books, Uncle Desmond made his puddings, and our whole family prepared for the upcoming Sabbath.
In my POV, Fridays just so happened to be the best day of the week.