A Kamudi for Christmas

“A mongoose, Grandma, a mongoose.” The mongoose probably heard me; it disappeared before Grandma looked up. Grandma stood watching into the back yard, pondering how many chicken delights the mongoose had last night.
The silence of the pre-dawn scenery was broken by an unexpected caller. Grandma quickly ran to the front of the house; she had several reasons why she would answer a caller, even if at an ungodly hour.
Firstly, she was the mayor of Rose Hall town, and therefore constituent would call at any time. Secondly, being a religious woman she was in charge of many church affairs, and this was Christmas; a time when the church was buzzing with activities. Lastly, but not least, Uncle Berry, was missing, he had gone in search of El Dorado in the interior of Guyana.
Grandma’s heart descended into disappointment, it was no messenger bringing news of her son. It was only Reshma, the pandits daughter; she had come to pick flowers for the near by temple.
This was not my uncle’s first search for El Dorado, the difference was it had been weeks since grandma had heard from him and she was worried. Any news would quench her thirst for information, even if it was news of his death.
I too was awaiting his arrival. He had promised me a special gift. I would be the envy of all my friends in Georgetown with my great big gift! No, other child would have such an extra-ordinary gift.
A thick stream of smoke drifted away from the crimson tip of the mosquito coil; filling the room with smoke. The smoke did nothing to bother the bevy of mater waiting patiently for their orders. Clangorously they chatted filling the room with momentum.
Mrs. Castello, who was a short brown skinned woman with huge black pupils and milk like retina was the first in wait. She had the largest order, her sons were coming home this Christmas after twenty-five years and she was enthusiastic.
All the women boasted and bragged endlessly about what jobs their relatives were doing over seas and how much they had spent to decorate for Christmas. Grandma just sat quietly in her sewing room, working the pedal furiously thinking about her son.
Grandma pulled the last pan of Guyanese Black Cake out of the oven, whiles singing “deck the halls with boughs of holly.” She poured herself some cold ginger beer and proceeded to the gallery.
Walking along the house, she let out a long sigh. The house sat still, like a beautiful art gallery on a bank holiday. Everyone sat solemn; there had been no word of Uncle Berry and Christmas was upon us.
A combination of annoying mosquitoes, and the pitch black darkest of black-out made the house additionally dismal. The only sound emanating from the house was a battery operated radio broadcasting Christmas carols sung by the Westminster Abby choir.
The broadcast was interrupted by the gruesome tune of the Death Announcement program. Grandma and grandpa glued their ears to the station, as if expecting to gain some relieve from great anguish.
In the midst of pitch darkness the door swung open unexpectedly, sending shiver down the spine of all in wait.
A loud clatter of voices drove me from sleepiness. Between sleep and wake I heard my uncle’s voice.
“Uncle Berry, Uncle Berry, where is the Kamudi you promised me!” Sleepy I shouted.
The room descended into quietness. In the state of great innocence and ignorance I did not know that Kamudi was the local word for; giant anaconda.