Disclaimer: The views and opinions expressed by the author(s) do not represent the official position of Barbados TODAY.
It is August 2021 almost two long years into the COVID-19 pandemic. Winston has taken a seat and Mary has emerged as the great leader of the land. All across the island chants of “Mary, Oh Wise One” can be heard! World leaders globally are now clamouring for her wise counsel and strategic guidance.
She has been embraced by the greats like the House of Saud, the Koch Brothers, and the Rothchilds and has now been inducted into their inner circle. Scratch grain has become our local staple.
Meanwhile, the virus has taken its toll on Barbados. The sounds of sirens are everywhere as BDF ambulances blaze through the streets.
Outside is dark and the stench of death and despair permeates the air.
Black flags are flying at half-mast on the houses of the stricken and red Xs of doom are marked on the doors of the homes of the infected.
Harrison Point quarantine facility and the Queen Elizabeth Hospital have reached capacity and Lionel C Hill Supermarket has been converted into a war-time hospital.
The recent Bridgetown Freedom March has resulted in the death of hundreds and the death toll continues to rise. Buses have stopped crawling.
It is pandemonium; Two Sons men dressed in hazmat suits are frantically removing corpses from the otherwise empty streets, alleys, and gutters. The City has lost it a soul. It’s sadness and sorrow from Nelson Street to Reid Street, from Sobers Lane to New Orleans, Gills Road, Greenfield.
Gabby is sad for Emmerton has been forgotten. Suttle Street is under corona siege and Lamumba and Bongo Lights have stopped filming and have lost their beards to the dreaded virus. The corona plague is everywhere and their representative Bostic, now a broken man, pleads in anguish, “no more Mia, no more”.
From the town to the country fevers rage and gut-wrenching screams of pain punctuate the silence. The wailing sounds of women can be heard, their grief is deep as they bury their children from ages newborn to 11.
Catholic priests in long black robes led by Father Paul make their way hastily through the deserted streets to perform last rites and comfort the people. Cemeteries have reached capacity and are closed.
Mass graves are being dug on Newton Plantation and the dead are being buried by somber men mourning and drinking ESA Fields rum as their shovels clink quietly against the rocky soil.
The sound of sadness is now the music of the day as old Spiritual Baptist ladies, bibles in hand, limp slowly through the street singing and praying to their God; their faith is strong.
The coronavirus plague has left no stone unturned, even the dogs are dying.
The rastas, Wickham, and his husband have taken the vagrants and together they have all fled to Mount Hillaby.
Saffrey is alone! Bill Gates has dimmed the sun as he said he would and the sky has fallen.
The St Michael Cathedral is filled with politicians who are completely covered from head to toe in the Delta variant. They have fled the halls of parliament with Redman, Jong, and Henry in tow seeking redemption.
Like a scene from Mad Max the island is barren and lawless; the Red Sea patrols the island exacting vigilante justice on those who have betrayed the people.
Coloniser Clarke has passed, the private sector has crumbled. With local doctors not knowing its ingredients, the people have turned against the vaccine and for this, eternal damnation shall be their fate.
Stranger than fiction because it is fiction. Where is the Pandemic? Maybe it’s time to tell the emperor that he is naked.
Black Bear
