Reflections: Life at Marigold Rehabilitation Centre

Suzette Smith, Contributor

IT WAS my third week at the Marigold Rehabilitation Centre. I was returning from my class and heading towards my room. A strong gust of wind sent a stack of papers flying through the open window. Upon retrieving most of the papers, I saw an old piece of paper that my mother had given to me when I was about six years old. It was a drawing of both of us holding hands. I laid on the bed and gave free rein to the memories that rushed to the surface as I did time and time again.

My mother had tried to do the best for me. I was an only child and as such, there were those who thought I was fortunate. However, she fell ill when I was ten years old. She became bed-ridden after several attacks of epilepsy. She never wanted to see a doctor, and I didn't force her.

I was an 'A' student in grade five, but as a result of her illness, I had no choice but to stop attending school. The streets became my second home. I started selling sweets and juice.

Like myself, there were other child labourers trying to sell their wares. Competition was stiff, especially with the adult sellers around. After a short while, I stopped selling. There was little or no profit and there was always the danger of being physically and verbally abused by my fellow sellers despite despite having the body of a 15-year-old)

Begging eventually became my second job. It was much more profitable, but there were too many questions asked. I did not want the authorities to take me away from my mother. My last customer appeared very respectable.

"Boss man, mi is a little youth trying to survive. What yuh can do fih mi beg yuh a small change nuh Mr. Big Man?"

He held me by the hand, looked me in the eyes and said, 'you have committed a crime by begging me. Don't you know that to be poor in this country is a felony? Come with me. Let me take you to the relevant authorities where you may get help. My car is parked over there," he said pointing to a silver Toyota Camry.

"Stingy bastard," I shouted, while sinking my teeth in his hand and kicking him in his shin. He yelled and put his hand to his mouth. I took off as though the devil himself was after me.

PART 3 NEXT WEEK

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