I grew up in a remote area of Guyana called Hogg Island. It is only accessible by boat. We lived on a farm in a bush camp that was built from the trees my father cut down while clearing the area to plant our crops. The place where we slept was the only place in the camp surrounded by tree bark. The roof was made from a bush called Troolie leaf. We couldn’t afford a house to live in.

On August 3, 1978, my parents left me at home alone with my brothers, who were eleven, seven, and five years old. I was just nine years old. My parents had to go to town to get supplies and sell produce from the farm. My mom left food for us, but we ate it quickly. My brothers and I were still very hungry, so I didn’t have a choice. I had to cook something for us to eat. 

I decided to get plantain, cassava, sweet potato, eddo, pumpkin, okra, and tomatoes. These were some of the things we grew on our farm. I gathered them together, and I peeled the eddo, the cassava, plantain, and sweet potato. Then, I washed them and put them in a bowl. I got some wood and placed it in the clay stove that was standing on a barrel in the open part of the camp. I kindled the fire, then I put my pot with water on the fire. I also put in the cassava, eddo, plantain, and sweet potato, and left them to boil. Next, I washed and cut up the tomatoes, pumpkin, and okra, and placed them each in separate bowls. I cut up onions, garlic, and pepper, and steamed them on the clay stove with some leftover chicken. I cooked the pumpkin and okra, and placed them each in a separate bowl for later.

Everything smelled so nice, but when my brothers began to eat, they started to tease me. They said I cooked “Rasta food” for them. 

They meant that I didn’t put salt in the food to give it taste. But really and truly, we didn’t have any salt or oil. I had to use whatever was there to cook with. 

While I started to clean up, my younger brothers were playing and shoving each other. They accidentally pushed me toward the fire, and a piece of wood came out. The wood spun over, fell on my foot, and burned it. My older brother put mud on my foot to cover the spot and told me not to tell our parents. The mud was our home remedy because there was no hospital nearby. 

When my mother came home the next day, we kept the accident a secret. But she noticed my foot and asked, “What happened?” 

I started shaking because I knew I would be in trouble for keeping a secret. I said, “The firewood burned my foot.” I didn’t say anything more, so no one would get in trouble. She went and picked a limb from the cherry tree and put some licks on our legs. 

My mother was so strict with us because she wanted us to grow up and be responsible for what we say and do. My father was an alcoholic and a cigarette smoker. My mother always told us that bad company and bad friends were what caused him to be what he was. She would say, “Please my children, I’m asking you all, please no lies or secrets. I want you all to be respectable. We don’t have much, but we have to make it work. This is a motto you all must remember, ‘Speak the truth and speak it ever, cause it what it will. He who does the wrong he did, does the wrong thing still.’ I might not be here with you all the time to be a guide.”

I was sorry I kept the burn a secret from my mother. I still have the scar on my foot. I don’t like the way it looks, so I try to keep it covered up. It reminds me to remember my mother’s motto up to this day.