" Nathalie pointed out she had lots of bags to carry and she had a date with of her boyfriend's friends that night. "Come into the gaffer's office wit... me Miss James and I am sure he will be able to help." Nathalie followed the lad into the back office. An older black man sat behind a desk. He smiled when he looked up and saw Nathalie. "What's the problem Desmond?" The young lad indicated Nathalie, "we have carried out a full service on Miss James' car but she does not have her credit card to. I remember days when angry Haitian men and women armed with machetes marched through the streets of Cap Haitien, my native town. They burned houses. They destroyed vehicles. They rounded up people they considered to be their enemies and beat them senseless. And the whole time, there was nobody around to stop these madmen and madwomen because the cops were gone and chaos reigned. Yes, I saw all that. And I didn’t like it one bit. I wanted to stop them but what could I do? Years later, I am. Along the walls were bookshelves with titles that seemed to be on either spirituality or mysticism. On shelves on the wall behind the display counter were jars with handwritten labels, most, if not all, were hard to read from a distance. The contents of the jars were either powders of varying colour, consistency and texture, or the oddest things dried out so they twisted and distorted into the weirdest shapes imaginable. In front of one section of the counter were three wooden stools and the. Anyway I’d made it finally to my own living space, my own bijou, one bedroom apartment. There was no need to hide anymore, no sneaky visits to my sisters’ underwear drawer and make-up bag, no more squalid stolen minutes with part of me on the alert for the sound of keys in the latch and unexpected footsteps. I thought I had been very brave it was the one job I wasn’t happy with doing myself, I had attended a nail parlour in a town far enough away, that I didn’t care whether or not.
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