Kwame MA McPherson

  • Kwame MA McPherson
    Published 5 days ago
    Memories of the Windrush

    Memories of the Windrush

    It was big with an off-white colour. Long with rows of small round portal for windows and rust speckles blemishing its off-paint as if a battle of hues was taking place where the vessel’s own history had left off. A dark strip, running the length of the ship, indicated the gangway. While high above me, two smoking black-painted stacks poked from the ship’s middle or its amidships - according to the shipbuilder’s definition - making the vessel seem even higher; its tall structure out-of-place on the edge of the capital’s harbour. The day was already hot. The blazing Caribbean sun as merciless as the stewards on the pier shouting at the top of their voices in the melee and mayhem. The smell of the sea assaulting my nose and me thanking God that I never once had to ditch in it.