About the book
Force Ripe is not just about the usual damaged or lost childhood which we so love to write
and read about. It is also a wonderful and exciting evocation of an important part
of Grenada’s history, portrayed from a child’s eye.
Extracts - First Memories
Mommy wake up and make tea. She put mine in me little pink cup,
The bite-up one with the plastic peeling off. Then Mommy go to work. She working by the Gleen people
next door. Daddy is a bus driver. He take me and me brother to Teacher Redhead school. He give me a
piggy-back. When we passing through the cemetery I so ‘fraid I grip Daddy neck tight tight and I squeeze
me eyes tight too. When me brother ask Daddy for a piggy-back Daddy say, ‘Boy you too big for dat boy.’
Me brother get vex. He vex with Daddy. He vex with me too. He stretch he mouth long long and watch me
bad eyes, but break-time he still pick bread and cheese from the tree in the cemetery for me.
Then we staying in another house. A little house by the road. Me and me brother sleeping on the floor on
Sunday afternoon. The sun waking me up, fuss it burning me face. Sweat running down from me brother face.
When I hear the ice cream van, I wake up me brother, then I run outside quick, quick to stop the van before it
pass straight.
Daddy does not come home so much. Mommy does cry. Then Mommy go away with the plane.
Me and me brother go and stay with Mammy and Papa in a big house and we have a big bed
for weself.
From Chapter 4
Kite flying was a serious thing. When it was kite season, all the boys would gather to make their kites with flex,
from coconut branches, bamboo or sticks. They had competitions and the best part for them was chasing - nanaing
a kite when it failed or cut. Rally was a real chicken hawk. He was always on the look-out, for a kite dancing in the
sky; ducking and diving in slow motion, tail swaying, down the hill. Then Rally would chase that kite, sliding down
the hill, diving through the bushes, scrambling up any tree. I bet he would have jumped over barbed wire and all,
to get that kite. He did not care if he ripped-up his pants and bruised - gasheyed his backside. And at nights the
kites sang so loud that sometimes people went out and cut them with cocoa knives. Papa used to do it too, when
he was stronger. Me and Rally would lie in bed and listen to the kites. Rally would say ‘listen eh, you hear that one?’ And I would say ‘um hm.’
‘You hear how it sounding heavy, like a engine? Tha’s Buffie kite.’ Or ‘You hear that one? Listen, Listen!’ And I
would strain my ears. ‘You hear how that one sound just like a mibone? Tha’s Stevie own. Bangalay own is the
one what sound like a horn. You hear it? And that one is Boyo own.’ Boyo’s kite sounded just like Bell crying,
when she got locked outside. And I would listen to my brother until I fell asleep with the kites singing in my ears.
