OLD man Liverpool looked at his youngest son and sighed. He had listened patiently as the boy explained why he was going home to Africa. The reasoning was not only faulty it was laughable. Being black and conscious meant different things to different people. To some, it meant that the only thing good was black. Cyril was one of these. He had decided to become a Rastafarian and was now returning to his roots.

When the issue first surfaced everyone in the family took it as another of Cyril’s crazy impulses. The next thing to happen was the change of name. He suddenly announced that his name was now Kwame Inkomo. He then moved out rather than being evicted because as he put it, ‘marijuana was now a daily rite in his religious ceremonies.
Berthram Liverpool was 60 but even at that age, he could be an imposing figure if need be. His response to the marijuana rite was an emphatic, “Not in this house!” Cyril had wisely moved out.

Old Bertie felt his age as he watched his son sitting across from him in the huge sitting room. The boy-actually 24 now-was explaining his decision. As he continued his monologue, Bertie’s mind drifted back through the years to some of Cyril’s past actions.
He recalled how Cyril; he refused to call him Kwame, had asked to drop out of school during the mid-term of his final year of preparation for the CXC Examination. Bertie had suspected then that he was afraid of failure and hastened to reassure him that, his best effort was all that was important to everyone. This didn’t work. He stopped studying and bluntly refused to continue school. With much encouragement, he was enrolled in a technical institute. He excelled with the computers and aced all his exams.

Suggestions about university were rejected so his old man put him to work in the family business. The Liverpool Pharmacy was a chain of Drug Stores that served communities in all three counties of Guyana. There were three outlets in Berbice, two in Essequibo and four in Demerara, including one in Linden. The family had been in this business for three generations now and had made a good name for themselves along with plenty of money. They were moderately rich: All the things they needed they could afford.

Elizabeth, Bertie’s wife, had died eight years ago. She had been his soul mate and her death had a crushing impact on him. For a while, he had let things slip. His children had been neglected and the business left to run without him. With professional counselling and loving support from his two daughters, he had picked himself up from deep depression and immersed himself back into work. That left little time for his family. He felt guilty now realising that it was during his time of crisis that Cyril had begun to act up. How could he have been so blind? He had failed to notice that the death of his wife had adversely affected their son too.

Angry at himself he wished he could turn the hand of time backwards. His son had slowly grown apart from him. He had been too busy to notice this and had had many angry confrontations with the boy. It got so bad that they both tried their best to avoid each other. The boy had easily won the battle.

“Cyril, think this over. You know nothing about Africa. What will you do there? How will you finance this new life?” Bertie tried to sound reasonable but was sure it would be interpreted as being skeptical.

“I don’t have anything to think about.” Cyril was adamant. “I have enough saved for part of the fare. When I get the rest I’ll go.”

“If I can’t change your mind at least listen to your sisters.” Bertie sounded feeble because he realised that he could no longer reach his son. “They’ll be calling tonight from the ‘States.’ Maybe you could wait and speak to them?”
“No! Tell them I’ve made up my mind.”
“But…..”

“Daddy, I’m going now. I just wanted to tell you.” He rose to go.
“Wait!” There was panic in his father’s voice now. “What about the business? I was hoping you would take over from me and run it. I am too old to do it for much longer.”
“Not my thing. Sorry, Dad.” He walked out with a quiet goodbye.

As the door clicked shut behind him, his stunned father sat in silence. He was angry that his son chose not to listen to him. His head sank slowly and his shoulders shook. He was relieved that the boy did not see him cry.

The conference call between Bertie Suzie and Pamela was long and centred exclusively on Cyril. If he wanted to go so be it. They would send him some money to help out. Daddy should stop worrying. He hung up after promising to visit them later that year. He had to start grooming the next General Manager. Sigh!

When next Cyril called, his father asked him to collect a packet sent by his sisters. He came the next day and got the package and an envelope with cash from the girls and his dad. Bertie dared not let him know that the cash was not from his sisters alone. He feared that it would be refused.

Cyril seemed in better spirit than the last time they met. Bertie was convinced that his son meant business. Stubbornness ran deep in his family. He was disappointed but tried hard not to show it. When Cyril left that evening Bertie knew that it might be the last time he would ever see his only son. This time he cried unashamedly.

A month later Cyril travelled to Africa. He e-mailed Suzie and Pamela telling them that he was in Ghana. After a series of sporadic communication, the contact ceased.

A year later part of Africa along the ocean coast was devastated by a tsunami. Ghana was one of the worse affected areas. Over 70,000 people were reported dead or missing. Cholera and other deadly diseases began spreading rapidly. The UN and the international community responded instantly. Aid and Aid Workers moved into the affected region.

Bertie watched the macabre footage on CNN and felt sick. Countless were dead and many more missing. Among the casualties were thousands of children. How tragic. How could a continent that suffered so much remain standing proud? Slavery, colonialism, apartheid, civil wars, genocide, globalisation, and now the tsunami.

As he stared at the TV screen he half expected to see the corpse of his son among the many who were killed. Where was Cyril? Was he dead or injured? Once before, he had been negligent with the welfare of his children. He would not make the same mistake twice. He reached for the phone and started dialling.

His daughters were alarmed when he told them that he was heading for Ghana. They tried to persuade him to put off travelling there until they could make some enquiries, but he declined their suggestions suspecting that it was a tactful way of trying to make him give up the idea. He would pass through the US on his way to Accra and visit them before heading for the Dark Continent.

The New York visit was brief yet crucial. He found out that searching for his son amidst all the ensuing chaos would be like finding a needle in a haystack. It was even more difficult because he had no idea where the boy was.

Pamela worked at the European Union’s office in New York as a translator of Spanish and French. She made a few calls and set up a meeting between him and a UN official who would try to assist him in his search.

They met at the office of Mr. Peter Snyder who had responsibility for disaster relief. He listened to Bertram without interrupting and when he was finished said, “What you are doing is understandable for a father. If my son were in the same situation I would probably be doing exactly what you are. What I can do is pass the word to our people there and as they go into the affected areas they would keep an eye out for him. I suggest you stay in New York until we find something. Ghana is no place for you now.

“I am going to Ghana, with or without your help Mr. Snyder. Could you give me a letter of introduction to your people so that I could go with them into the devastated regions?” “Sorry man”. Snyder was apologetic, “that’s not allowed. Maybe you could volunteer and I would give you letters explaining your situation.” “They would help you in any way possible. You are an experienced Pharmacist and could be of great help. Bertie jumped at the offer and the next week saw him travelling to Ghana as a UN Relief Worker.

Accra was a hive of activity. Long convoys of trucks with relief supplies were slowly snaking their way towards the affected areas. Work was hard but that was nothing new to Bertram. The letters he carried allowed him to be attached to the medical supplies unit. Because of the vast number of sick these trucks were given priority status and ushered onwards by the military.

The convoy passed through an area with luxurious houses belonging to the very rich. These structures reeked of power and money. Ten minutes down the same road they encountered a poverty-stricken community where the people lived in shacks or out in the open. This made Bertie very angry. Here were people starving and homeless and a few yards down the road people living in the lap of luxury. It reminded him of home and he felt a bit homesick.

In Guyana, it was hot for most of the year but never had Bertie experienced such intense heat. He consumed water at an astonishing rate and tried his best to keep in the shade. It took them three days of driving to reach the town of Wa. Nothing could prepare him for the terrific carnage caused by the tsunami.

There were very few buildings still standing and those lucky ones were badly damaged and unstable. Wood, zinc, and other debris were scattered over the area as if a huge structure made of playing cards was blown around at will. The most striking thing about the situation was the smell. It gripped your nose and throat and clung there. The stench was so bad that many vomited from time to time. The smell of death was everywhere and clung to everything like a thick fog.

The UN set up camp and begun work. Teams of volunteers were combing the wreckage for corpses. For the next three weeks, Bertie was so busy helping people with tragedy written all over them that he had little time to think about Cyril.

Among the volunteers working in the ravaged areas were Ghanaians. People gravitated to the UN for help, advice and assignments. It was while speaking to a young volunteer that Bertie heard about the strange ‘Jamaican.’

Quamina Assinga was a university student studying Social Work at the Accra University. He had applied for Leave of Absence to do voluntary work. He, then hitch-hiked, walked and slept wherever night found him in order to get to Wa quickly.

On his way there he had gone into a remote village to ask for water and to buy foodstuff with the little cash he had. There he had stumbled onto an unusual situation. A Jamaican, as the villagers referred to him, had come to their small community and offered his help. After a few meetings, it was decided that he would teach the students how to use computers. Visits were paid to officials in Accra and two computers were acquired. The classes started soon afterwards. Pretty soon youths from neighbouring villages were walking the five miles to learn this new technology.

Quamina explained that the young Caribbean national was extremely popular and efforts were being made to get more computers. The village council had started building a bigger centre for him to work in.

Bertie dropped the glass he was drinking from and it shattered with tiny fragments falling all over. Quamina couldn’t understand how Bertie could know the Jamaican but he didn’t argue. These volunteers were a strange lot. One had just appeared in a remote village, now another miraculously claimed to know him even though they were from different countries. One thing they had in common, they were both nuts. He left a smiling Bertie and went back to his assignment. Bertie rushed back to Accra and bought four computers.

The next week a team went into the village. He was looking forward to meeting the young volunteer. He hoped to make the right impression. There was one last chance to make things right. He would be grabbing this with both hands