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May 2015 |
How do you measure the history of a country? Through its political events? Its technological advances? Or through its people? What if you knew a man who had lived through it all? What kind of story would he tell? In Barbara Lalla’s intricate, multi-narrative saga she wrestles with the history of Trinidad as seen through the influence of teacher, brother and uncle, Nathan Deoraj or more fondly as the book’s eponymous title, “Uncle Brother.” The book opens into unfamiliar territory for Caribbean literature fans; the year 2010, followed by an early morning text message from an unknown source: SEPTEMBER 12, 2010 - 3:45 A.M. they let me send one more raelly last one Uncle Brohther they have me ereh...help me Ullni they say money. no police or they will do it like htey said they have an axe The ominous text would not seem out of place in any modern day suspense novel, but Lalla sets up the reader for something far more complex as she embarks on the entire family history of the Deoraj clan. We learn of Uncle Brother’s humble beginnings as a young Indo-Trinidadian living in 20th century Couva and it is here that Lalla’s writing shines. When Nathan and his family are unexpectedly forced to flee their home, they come face to face with a treacherous river that threatens to engulf them all. Lalla deftly weaves their family’s dynamics with tension-filled action: “And so we went until we were almost across, but at the second-to-last stone the gap was wider and the water fierce and muddy in between, and although we were now close to the other side I shouted, “Ma, we can’t get over. Leh we go back…” Phuwa shouted at us over the tumult, and Ma stared at her incredulously because Phuwa could not have said what it sounded like she said. “Throw the baby!” Phuwa yelled again, her arms opening wide. “I go catch he.” I steadied myself and hugged Judith as tight as I could. “Throw!” Phuwa yelled.” This story stands out in the reader and Nathan’s mind, signaling the start of his obsession with documenting stories as a means of preserving his family’s history – a theme that runs throughout novel. As the figure of Uncle Brother the teacher emerges, Lalla continues to provide meta-commentary on his desire to write: “It’s a funny thing,” he said. “I don’t understand it myself. It’s like something writing itself inside me, but I don’t know how to stop and pull it out.” Anyone who has ever tried to retell a story would sympathise with Nathan’s inability to adequately capture the nuances of his family’s narrative as it unfolds, not for his lack of trying. Lalla continues to cement Uncle Brother’s character as the family’s stalwart and a man who values education above all else, but his interiority gets lost at times and is mainly shown through the eyes of other characters: “In the village, respect for Brother prevented anyone except Lezama from breathing a word like tabanca, but there were glances of sympathy against which he visibly steeled himself.” Lalla’s previous works of fiction like “Cascade” and “Arch of Fire” have also dealt with the changing face of history as seen through the lens of private family dramas both in Jamaica and in Trinidad.
The book hinges on the unfailing admiration bestowed on Uncle Brother by family and community, but this gets belaboured over time and his ceaseless devotion to uplifting lives through selflessness comes across as showy, leaving the reader mistrustful of the plethora of characters who seem to appear only to reinforce the protagonist’s greatness. While Lalla’s efforts to highlight the lesser discussed aspects of Caribbean history such as kidnappings and the use of gramoxone are commendable; it gets in the way of the story’s impetus and overreaches into prose that is ambitious in scope, but lacks the necessary payoff for readers to truly become invested. Nonetheless, Uncle Brother’s role as a fictional historiography embeds itself into the canon of Caribbean literature as a formative book, telling sides of history that should be on public record. |
In Uncle Brother, local readers can identify with the private language families share from a linguistic and emotional viewpoint. Pages are steeped in colloquialisms which are immediately recognisable to Trinis like the presence of “Limacol” at a funeral or children learning to approach someone cautiously to avoid “raising a nest of marabunta.” The frequently told Caribbean story of having a first-generation university student leave everything behind to make their own way so they could come back and better their family’s circumstances also appears and many other narratives like this however, it begs the question why?