This is a chapter from my latest book called Breezes of Tobago.
The smooth sounds of conscious reggae music fill the hall. The rickety standing fan oscillates breezes that carry the smell of fresh paint. Today we are with a group of volunteers at the community center applying a new coat of paint. The color of the paint for this room is Soca Rose, a rich matte pinkish red. For breakfast we had saltfish and coconut bake. Like a new coat of paint, Tobago does not change what it is, it just reminds you why you loved it in the first place. There was a Pomerac tree in the yard so we helped ourselves to a few of the freshly picked fruits. If we took the time we could have made some pomerac chow by cutting the fruits into pieces and seasoning with shadon beni, salt, black pepper and habanero pepper. The idea alone is enough to make the mouth water.
In the yard sit steelpan carriages that transports my imagination to a night at Panorama. In a corner was a bin for adding plastic bottles to recycle. We sat on a bench and chatted with the caretaker. He told us the center had seen everything—weddings and wakes, pan practice running late into the night, children learning to read where their parents once did. There is even a new computer room that helps them keep up with the times. He laughed softly and said paint helps, yes, but what really keeps the place standing is people showing up, again and again. Tobago, he said, is like that too: not perfect, not pretending—just held together by care, memory, and a stubborn kind of love.
As I admired the new coat of paint, I thought, this island is a masterpiece that never feels finished, only ever-refined by the people who refuse to let the color fade. My friend Chatty noticed that I was making notes in my smartphone for the latest book I was writing. He says to me that a new coat of paint is an invitation. It tells people this space has been cared for, that it is ready to receive them again. In the same way, a writer opens a room with words—clearing away the dust of neglect, choosing colors that make readers want to stay. The walls are familiar, but something has shifted; the light settles differently, conversations soften, memories stretch their legs. Writing does not demand attention the way a sign does. It simply says: come in, there is space for you here.
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