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This story is heavy.
I believe I was just 7 years old. Backpack on. Sweaty from the whole-day Primary School playing, dropped off at home by Mr. Bartley. A regular family friend who usually picks me up from school, since his daughter when to the same school as I did.
Guilty for having being at a bar all evening with us hungry kids tagging along, he opted to take me straight home instead of taking me to his house,where his wife , Aunty Dian and his neighbor -my aunt Thelma would vibe every evening. This was THE REGULAR AND AGREED PICK UP POINT. Read that again. Because I’m not sure why I’m that day Mr Bartley decided to be led by his guilt.
Mr Bartley made an almost fatal mistake of dropping me off without inquiring whether anyone was home to receive my 7 year old self.
I circled the entire house and no one was there. I used my blouse sleeve to wipe every bit of sweat that permeated my face from anxiety. This was serious. I was home alone.
It was dark. A car pulled up to the side of the house and this wasn’t unusual to me because we regularly used Taxi’s in The dry outskirts of Hellshire Heights. It was an early Portmore development scheme in Portmore, St. Catherine which anyone from Kingston would describe as ‘far from every where else. ‘
A Dark stern but similar looking face stared me down with curiosity. He must have asked me where is mom and I must have mumbled to him what happened because everything gets blurry where conversations are concerned at this point.
When I woke up, I was in his car and asked him where was I. He told me we were in Greater Portmore and at that time, Greater Portmore was a newly developed community now home to more than 10,000 residents and 1 of the most populated communities in the Caribbean. I felt no sense of fear yet all I wanted was my mom.
The car stopped and he lead me to his 1 bedroom home where he introduced me to his wife and 7th grade daughter who went to Alpha High School, which later became my alma mater .
His family was delighted to see me. And they assured me that as soon as mom was home, he would take me back. I felt no fear.
Little did I know that by this time, a missing child report was filed, my mom was home and hysterically crying. Her boyfriend- a police at the time was vigilant about the call of duty to find me. It was no joke. In Hellshire, little 7 year old Renee was missing.
Blue flashing lights pierced my little , half awake dark eyes as the Taxi Man’s car pulled up to my gate, late that night, with Police sirens drowning out the cries of my mom , hollering out my name and sprinting to the car to retrieve a part of her, which she thought she had lost. Police heckled him to the floor and asked him where and why did he takeme. I did not understand what Mr Taxi man had done wrong. I was confused . He took care of me.
The police forced him to swear never to even look at me again. I clearly remember a hand at the back of Mr Taxi man’s head, being slammed to the his car’s slide glass, while he fearfully repeated the commands of the officers yelling to his now battered face.
They made him sweet never to look my way again.
Whenever we crossed paths, he did just that. He looked away, he never ever spoke to us again.
From that day on, that taxi man never looked at me again.
He kept his promise. But he was a good man. A good labourer, father and husband.
I learnt today that he was murdered a few days ago.
Dedicating this post to a hard working man, husband and father.
R.I.P
Transformation 
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