Growing up on Clarence Street in St James gifted me a childhood that time itself cannot erase.
Even now, as the years stretch behind me and life has taken on new responsibilities and rhythms, there are moments when I find myself driving back through that old neighbourhood, slowing almost instinctively as I approach the street.
When I stop, everything returns —not in fragments, but in full colour, full sound, full life.
I lived then with my grandmother —really my great-aunt—Big Tanty, as everyone called her. She had raised my father as her own after his mother, Daisy, died of tuberculosis when he was just five years old in Cumuto village.
Then there was my grandfather, Dada—known to everyone as Uncle Ram. His real name was Ezekiel Ramnarace. He was a working man in every sense, employed with Tugs and Lighters in Cocorite, a job that demanded long days and carried the scent of ships.
But to me, he was more than that.
He was my anchor, my example and, in many ways, my first teacher.
I can still see it clearly: standing in the gap in front of the house, peering up the street as the sun began its slow descent. Waiting. Watching. Hoping.
Then, in the distance, the familiar figure would appear—Dada, walking home.
My heart would lift, not just because he was back safely, but because there might be something in the bag he carried. A sweet, a fruit, some small treasure. It didn’t matter what it was. It was his thoughtfulness that made it priceless.
But Dada gave me more than treats. He gave me vision.
On many evenings, as we sat together after his long day, he would speak about people in the community—men who had made something of themselves through discipline and learning.
One name stood out: Mr Neehall.
Dada spoke of him with deep respect—a scholar, a gentleman, a man who carried himself with dignity. In those days, such a reputation meant something. It was not about wealth or status alone, but about character, education and contribution.
Dada would often point beyond our immediate surroundings, toward the Savannah, and tell me about a great school for boys— Queen’s Royal College.
In my young mind, it became almost mythical. A place where boys became men of substance. A place where someone like Mr Neehall had once walked its halls.
Those conversations stirred something in me. What began as simple storytelling became quiet motivation.
Standing there in our humble surroundings, I began to dream — not just of toys in a bag, but of a future beyond the street I knew so well.
By the grace of God and the persistence of that early encouragement, that dream became reality.
I passed the Common Entrance Examination and earned my place at Queen’s Royal College.
For a boy from Clarence Street, it was more than just a school. It was a doorway into possibility. Every step I took there carried with it the voice of Dada and the example of men like Mr Neehall.
Clarence Street, however, remained my foundation—a world rich with characters and community.
Next door were the Sookrams, and across from us lived Pelham Goddard, already known then as an ace music arranger. We didn’t fully grasp his stature at the time. We just knew music lived there.
There were the boys too— Steve and Gary, brothers who were always up for an adventure. Sheldon, known to everyone as Shelly, and Robin, another brother pair, just as energetic. Then there was Tom from across the street.
Together, we formed our own little army of imagination.
Under the rose mango tree in our yard, we gathered daily, sharing stories, laughter and our evolving understanding of life. That tree wasn’t just a tree. It was our meeting place, our council chamber, our refuge.
But among all the figures in that season of my life, one stood out in a way that time has only made more profound — Jago, pronounced “Jay-Go”.
Jago was an old Indian man who lived in the same yard. In those days in St James, every yard was populated by a cluster of houses.
He was deaf, a crab catcher by trade and a collector of what others discarded. He moved through St James with a coloured box cart, gathering what many would call garbage, but what he seemed to see as value.
As a boy, I didn’t fully understand him. But I watched him closely.
In the evenings, when I sat on the wooden back step waiting for Dada, Jago would be over there in his old wooden shack too.
His presence was quiet and loud all at once; quiet in his isolation, but loud in the way he played Indian music blasting from his old Philips transistor radio, an iron clothes hanger serving as an antenna. The radio hung crookedly from a nail on his broken front door, filling the yard with rhythm and culture.
He would speak in Hindi to himself, especially on those nights when the bay rum had taken hold of him.
I didn’t understand the words, but I understood something deeper, the sound of a man living in his own world, carrying his own stories.
Jago would head down into the mangroves south of the Mucurapo Cemetery to catch crab. In those days, there was no highway, no MovieTowne, no stadium—just thick mangrove jungle.
I can picture him now, navigating the muddy terrain, doing what he knew, surviving the only way he perhaps ever learned.
There was something resilient about him, something that stayed with me long after I left that yard.
Our adventures as boys knew few boundaries.
Despite stern warnings from parents and guardians, we found ourselves drawn to the cemetery. It was forbidden, which made it irresistible.
There, among the tombstones and graves, we played cowboy and Indians, hide-and-seek, turning a place of rest into a playground of imagination.
Fear and excitement lived side by side, and somehow, that felt like life.
Saturdays brought their own magic.
We would wake up early, eager and excited, dressing up for the matinee at the Alper Cinema on the main road. That was our escape into another world, films that fuelled our imagination and shaped our dreams.
On the way, we would stop outside the Kirpalani store on the main road, gazing longingly at the Scalextric racing car set displayed in the window.
Our eyes filled with wonder, even as we knew such a thing was far beyond our parents’ reach.
Still, we dreamed.
Then there was Hosay.
The festival transformed St James into something extraordinary.
We would visit the Hosay yard at the bottom of Clarence Street, watching the Ali family build the tadjahs and listening to the tassa drums during practice.
The rhythm was infectious. The energy undeniable.
We each had our favourite yard, but that one—we claimed it as ours.
It was culture, community and celebration all rolled into one.
The mornings, too, had their own soundtrack.
Around 5 am, the street cleaners would begin their work. You could hear them before you saw them — the scraping of metal scoops against the road, the steady rhythm of their labour, the creak of the horse-drawn cart as it moved from street to street.
It was a sound that signalled the start of a new day.
Then, like a scene from a movie, came the dog catchers.
The County Council van with its cage trailing behind was both spectacle and warning. We watched in amazement as pothounds, once roaming freely, vanished at the mere sight of it.
It was drama right there on our street.
Those were the days.
Simple. Rich. Formative.
Today, when I drive through St James and stop along Clarence Street, I don’t just see buildings. I see life as it was.
I hear the laughter of young boys, the distant strains of Jago’s music, the steady footsteps of Dada coming home. I hear the scraping of metal scoops and the early morning calls of workers beginning their day.
I remember something even deeper.
That greatness does not always begin in great places, but it can be born there.
It was born in conversations with a grandfather who believed in more. It was shaped by the example of a scholar named Mr Neehall.
It was realised in the halls of Queen’s Royal College, where a young boy from Clarence Street stepped into a future he once only imagined.
And I smiled.
Because that season, those moments, those people — they shaped me. They charted my journey. They gave me dreams before I even knew how to name them.
Oh, how life changes on you.
But some memories, they never leave.
