Retold by Danielle Swain; danielle@newsroom.gy
Photography by Shatanand Anude
When I was small, Orealla was thatch and manicole. Some houses stood with walls of Baromalli, bound together with bush rope. No nails, no screws, only wood and leaf and rope, everything cut and peeled by hand. Some people managed boards for floors, but most of us lived on manicole. That was tradition.
When school was out, my sister and I went on holiday with my aunt in Suriname. She had no daughters of her own, so we were hers for Easter and August. But for me, it was like jail. In Suriname, you were in the car, back in the house, to the market, then back again. You sat indoors, watching television. If I slipped outside to watch the street, boys would whistle at me, and my aunt would call loudly and say “Come in now. You got them boy whistle, whistle and walk, walk in front there.” I would laugh, but I knew, Orealla was freedom.
Here, I paddle to the pond with my parents. We roasted fish, ate it with cassava bread and a little salt and pepper. That was sweetness.
I married at sixteen. I made twelve children. Five boys and two girls lived. I lost three before they were born, and two more as babies. Even now, it hurts me. I would have had two more sons.
Today, my daughters are big. One lives in Paramaribo. The other built her house near me. My sons are still here in Orealla, though they’re not as easy as the girls. But I don’t quarrel.
I glad I stay. Orealla is home.
Orealla is an Indigenous village on the Corentyne River, along Guyana’s eastern border with Suriname, where the Lokono and Warrau peoples have made their home for generations.
About People of the Republic
The News Room team travels across Guyana, capturing stories from Guyanese to highlight our collective identity. ‘People of the Republic’ showcases these tales, connecting us as a nation and celebrating our shared humanity, one story at a time.
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