[dropcap]M[/dropcap]y name is Ananias Nobody; my sister is Miss Silly Nobody. We were born on the outskirts of a place US President Trump would call a “shit-hole” village. Our parents lived as common-law partners; people called them Mr. and Mrs. Nobody. They did not have the benefit of schooling but they were not stupid. They lived an exemplary life compared to other nobodies on the island who happened to be married. Their unwedded bliss was reason for their contentment.
A friend once confided to Mr. Nobody that he had caught his partner in an act of near marriage, against a small coconut tree in the neighbour’s backyard. She had met the vagabond at a dance in the society hall that evening. The words “near marriage” spread wildly in Shit-hole Village with imaginative add-ons.
Another early experience was the time when a group of men calling themselves politicians held a meeting near my father’s little shop. My mother, Mrs. Nobody, was not in favour of the meeting. But she kept quiet when Mr. Nobody said the meeting would bring good luck and increased sales.
At the meeting, the politicians made many promises. They promised to turn Shit-hole Village into Remembrance City. They promised to fill the little ravine with fish that would multiply and feed the people. They promised to make bread from local sweet potato flour mixed with cassava flour. They also promised roads, electricity, water, and health centres. To their credit, they never promised to change water into wine, although some people swore that they did. Neither did they promise to change the peoples’ thinking from one of low self-esteem, to a higher, more respectable evaluation of themselves.
The villagers remained sceptical. Some believed that the politicians had spoken plainly because no other person, save a handful of white missionaries, had ever visited the village to offer either hope or salvation.
In time, my father’s house was upgraded and more people patronised his little shop. A problem soon arose: neighbours and strangers came to the shop with hand-written notes from politicians seeking credit and promising to pay later. Mr. Nobody obliged! The politicians had often referred to the people of forgotten Shit-hole Village as malaway, meaning poor persons. The people were without but they had never depended on anyone for anything before the arrival of the politicians.
It soon occurred to Mr. and Mrs. Nobody that the profits from the little shop were dwindling. Their customers began to think of themselves as helpless poor people in need of handouts from politicians. Indeed, the politicians had convinced them they would always be there with a shoulder to lean on, especially in difficult times.
The promissory notes were not settled until many months later. Meanwhile, people were helping themselves to the sweet potatoes and cassava Mr. Nobody had planted on his little plot of land. It appeared to some that the politicians and the white missionaries had said that God had given the land to man as an inheritance. Neither the white visitors nor the politicians bothered to explain what became of the inheritance after Adam and Eve’s little fall-out with God. Mr. and Mrs. Nobody did not believe the inheritance story. They believed that people should rise before the sun and work hard at being self-supporting.
Mr. and Mrs. Nobody refused to feed people who did not work. They did not agree with their fellow villagers that the politician’s job was to find work for people. No one had created employment for Mr. and Mrs. Nobody, or their hard-working friends. Said Mr. Nobody, to nobody in particular, “It is for the people, not the politicians and foreigners, to turn Shit-hole Village into Paradise Village. Forget Remembrance City; remembrance is for people who had created things of value.”
Soon, a gentleman whom the Nobodys knew only casually came seeking permission to hold another public meeting. Mr. Nobody relented, sensing profits for his shop. The meeting was very successful. These politicians were different, thought Mr. Nobody. They said that they would help people up by their own efforts. They wanted people to think differently about themselves. They said freeness must stop! These words were sweet music to the ears of Mr. and Mrs. Nobody and their friends. The new politicians told the people to pick up their beds and walk. That was more sweet melody to the Nobodys.
That evening, Mr. Nobody made more money from sales than he had in months. He was smiling broadly and shaking hands with the new politicians. They quietly promised to make the nobodies of the village better, more prosperous citizens. The first group of politicians had forgotten to consult the nobodies in their plans. The nobodies had seen the light. They wanted to be somebodies!
They no longer wanted to think of themselves as poor nobodies. My sister, Ms. Silly Nobody and I had attended secondary school and we did not want our children to depend on handouts from politicians.
Mr. and Mrs. Nobody had risen to become God-fearing, middle-income citizens who provided jobs at their businesses. They were now entrenched business people, buying and selling at a profit, and saving their hard-earned money to expand their business. They encouraged the villagers to sign a petition to change the name of the village to “Paradise”. They wanted nothing to do with the old name. And so it came to pass!
This tale reminds us of Odysseus and the one-eyed, man-eating Cyclops (Polyphemus) of Greek mythology. Odysseus told Polyphemus that his name was Nobody. Odysseus got the Cyclops drunk and impaled his only eye as he slept. The giant writhed in pain. When his friends asked who did this to him, he answered: “Nobody did it!”
A clear lesson is that names matter. If the people of Saint Lucia are organised and determined, they can impale the man-eating political hacks that bestride our little island, like Cyclops, destroying good men. The moral of the story is that hard work and determination can transform a Mr. Nobody into a somebody of value. Amen!
