It is always sunny in Belize, that is what my aunt has always told me.
Her Creole crackles in the air like the grease she uses to make fry jacks.
Often, she tells me she dreams of home on the coast. The beautiful city built on top of the trading posts of Jamaican slaves brought by the Spaniards. It was the Spanish who first spilled the blood of the natives, now it is the sons of their captives who kill each other. When I was little, Aunty would explain “We are a people whose forefathers pushed themselves into our grandmothers. The Spanish Inquisition replayed itself in their wombs. How are we supposed to know how to love?”
I didn’t know until I met you.
In the kitchen the fry jacks are waiting for you. It was she who gave me the recipe to make for you, “a good boy” she says. I will never tell her I have fears of of us being the greatest love story never told, like Soloman and Makeda or Celie and Shug Avery.
