A story submitted to the Guyana Prize for Literature 2024

HE got up and went out onto the verandah, where he could see part of a building at the back of the house that had been the servants’ quarters in colonial days.

Just behind that building was the huge mango tree in his mother’s sketchpad.

Shaan took a deep breath and said, “It’s time to unlock this story.”

He exited the house quietly, making his way cautiously to the old servants’ quarters. The door was padlocked, so he climbed the mango tree carefully, reached the window, and pried it open.

The room was in semi-darkness, but Shaan could see it was the same room in his mother’s sketchpad.

A shiver passed through his body as he stood there, where her life was destroyed, and he said, his voice choking with emotion, “I-I found the room, Mum.”

He didn’t sleep at all that night and went downstairs late that morning with a plan.

Uncle Jarred was on the porch smoking, and Shaan rested the urn on the living room table and went outside to join him.

“You slept late. Feeling better?”

“Nope,” Shaan answered as he poured a glass of orange juice.

“I keep thinking about my m-m-mother’s life here, how she lived and why she left such a-a beautiful place.”

Uncle Jarred said nothing, keeping a steady gaze across the farmlands.

“I wonder why she ran away from home and self-destructed in the way she did,” Shaan continued.

Uncle Jarred looked at Shaan and remarked, “You may be challenged, but you ask smart questions.”

“My mother said I’m s-s-smart and s-she believed in me.”

Uncle Jarred smiled wryly. “She was smart too, but made a poor choice in having a rebellious boyfriend. That’s why our father cut short her studies at the university and brought her home.”

Shaan shook his head, a puzzled look on his face, trying to put the pieces together. Uncle Jarred got up and looked at him curiously as he crushed his cigarette in the ashtray.

“The night my mum died,” Shaan told him in a steady voice, “I sat by her bedside, watching her take her last b-br-breath, and the last words she said w-were, ‘There’s a room.’”

Uncle Jarred paused in lighting a new cigarette and gave Shaan a perplexed look.

“What room?”

“The r-r-room where she was imprisoned and abused for m-m-onths before she escaped.”

Uncle Jarred scoffed, his expression shifting to subtle anger. “She probably lost her mind due to the years of being an alcoholic, because she had a family who loved and cared for her.”

“She did not lose her mind,” Shaan rebutted, “because on m-m-my eighteenth birthday, her lawyer read her will to m-me and left a letter and sketchpad detailing what h-happened to her.”

Shaan paused and, taking a deep breath, he said, “I came back, and I found the r-r-room.”

The silence was so heavy it felt suffocating. Then Uncle Jarred said, a deep edge in his voice:

“That could point a finger at anyone and create a problem within the family, so I think you should leave and never come back here.”

Shaan shook his head, saying boldly, “This is my m-mother’s birth home that will belong to me, so you can’t s-t-t-op me from coming here.”

Uncle Jarred looked at Shaan for a long moment, then said with deep disdain, “You are not normal; you’re a challenged boy who is unfit to own anything and to carry the legacy of this family!”

“My m-m-mother recognised in me what no one else did so that no insults could h-h-h-hurt me.”

Shaan looked at his uncle’s hand and stated, “T-t-that’s one of the things I saw in the sketches t-t-that points to y-you being in the room.”

“What?!”

Shaan pointed to Uncle Jarred’s wristwatch.

“And a full ashtray of cigarette butts under the bed.”

A darkness unfurled across Uncle Jarred’s face, and he said in a low, deadly tone, “You think you can make such an accusation and stand in front of me, boy? You have a death wish?”

“No, I just want justice for my m-mother.”

“Justice?!”

He lunged at Shaan, but Shaan swiftly moved back, pulled out a sharp machete he had hidden under the breakfast table, and slammed it against the table as a warning.

That stopped Uncle Jarred, for though he was a big man, he knew of the boy’s ability. “You will answer me,” Shaan demanded. “Why did you abuse your s-s-sister? What kind of m-monster are you?”

“She was not my real sister!” Uncle Jarred shouted angrily. “I was born to a servant woman through our father’s infidelity, living my life between those servants’ quarters and this home.”

He took a deep breath, a bitter tone in his voice. “I watched her grow up, so sweet and pretty, always wanting to be closer to her, wanting to share my life with her, and I waited. But when she went away to university and started a relationship with a stranger, I couldn’t take it.”

His eyes suddenly went wild, and with a swift movement, he punched the wall.

“I couldn’t take it; she was supposed to be with me!”

“S-she was s-still your sister,” Shaan stated, wary of the man making any more sudden moves.

“No, she was my soulmate. So, when she was brought back home, and the family went out one night, I told her about my feelings, but she got scared and tried to run away from me. But I caught her, knocked her unconscious and took her to my old room.”

He paused, hugging his head, then he hit the wall again, viciously.

“She didn’t want me; she rejected me, but she had to be mine. I made her mine!”

Shaan’s hand tightened on the handle of the machete, and he said with a deep, incensed feeling, “Your evil and s-sick desire ruined her life. S-s-she was so scared she couldn’t return home a-and drowned her pain in alcohol while you watched her parents die slowly in grief.”

He looked at Shaan with no remorse. “I felt no pity for them, but I missed the love of my life.”

“She was n-n-never your love, you monster!” Shaan screamed, enraged, and swung the machete so fast that Uncle Jarred didn’t see it coming. The first chop took off a piece of his ear, then following strikes left deep gashes on his shoulder and arms as he tried to ward off the blows.

“This is for what you did to my mother, you evil man.”

Uncle Jarred fell to the ground, trembling, blood flowing out of his wounds, yet he did not say sorry for his sins.

Shaan lifted the machete as though to deliver a fatal chop but held back, saying, “Death is too good for you.”

The rest of the family arrived at the said time, late, for he had sent a copy of his mother’s letter to them, and they stared, shocked, at the bloody scene.

Shaan went inside and came back out with the urn that held his mother’s ashes and, sitting down, he hugged it close to his body and broke down in tears. “I got the truth, Mum; I got justice for you. Now you can rest in peace.”