Backdraft of Barba?ianism

I had psyched myself up for the backdraft of my reintroduction into BIM's inferno so I was able to see the artistry in God's literary form. I was awoken to my mother's frantic screams at 3:30am Easter Sunday. "WAKE UP!!!! WAKE UP!!!!! THE GARAGE IS ON FIRE!!!!!!!!"

I fumbled for my bedroom light, wrapped in a towel and went to investigate from an upstairs window. I could feel the heat on my face, the smoke in my lungs and the red eye was wide and vicious.

Too late.

Ricky's car was engulfed in flames and being parked in the garage and near to the cooking gas, the situation was dire.

I called my numbers 211 for the Poh-leeece, 311 for a fiiiiire....

...and for the next 15 minutes which seemed an eternity I clung to my purse, my child and my faith, screaming at Ricky that the hose was a waste of time and to step off before the car exploded.

Our service men were exemplary. Considering my location behind God's back they could not have stalled a moment in coming to the rescue. The police first- silent and sensitive. The firemen next- outing the blaze in seconds. I stood there with sad gratitude- my synicism in 'what if?' restored- but i didn't look at the damage. It was too fresh. Too ugly.

When the sun came up and I'd had a chance to let it sink in, I took my ashen clothes off the line to be washed anew and peeked to my left, holding my hands over my face. The colour of hell. The colour of envy. The colour of Barbadian cowardice and evil.

Poor Ricky is in a state of utter dejection. How can a bad boy from the block ever lift himself up from the ashes? He secured a license. He worked hard for that car. Earned the eight grand by the strength of his hands. Every single day he was outside tuning it, servicing it, shining it. It seemed to run on pride-not gas.

But in Barbados, Pride is a threat worse than Fury. A man like him should never get ahead. His caste belongs in prison or in morgue. He is nothing- he should have nothing. And so, with a match lit by jealousy, his hope was completely incinerated and replaced by something unsettling.

Though the delivery of God's reminder was pure Art, the reminder itself was obscene. Easter Sunday... what a sick and twisted lot! I too have risen from the dead and now I wait patiently but with absolute conviction in God's justice. Her wrathful and equally artisitc re-enactment of Acts 1:18 upon the ass of the firestarter is something I dare say, I'll almost enjoy.