I remember where I am coming from, but I dread going back (for good). I do think of my earliest memories fondly – waking up in a small, wooden house surrounded by dewy pineapple farms and cattle commons. My father was the most hardworking man I ever knew. He’d wake up at four in the morning and head to the ‘bush’ as we’d call it. There, he’d move the goats and cows from one place to the other; plough the land; plant heads of dasheen, pineapple, sugar cane and so many more crops on which we depended for survival. By seven o’clock he’d be at school getting ready to teach his students for most of the day.

My mother always had a smile on her face even if all she had to offer us were boiled bananas from the field with ‘run dung’ made from coconut milk and God knows what else. I never saw her much because she had to be at work too – teaching her students how to sew. I wore my school uniforms proudly because Mommy worked magic on them. I used to be worried the day just before the first day of school each year because the uncut material was still sitting in the bag from the fabric store but on those September mornings, I’d wake up and find my uniform ironed and hanging on the bedroom door just waiting for me to put it on.

I have come a long way. The kitchen in which I now cook is decked out with appliances. From there I can watch the television in the living room. The first kitchen I knew was smoky, black, soot-covered and a few feet from the house. Nowadays, I go to the bathroom as often as I like and flush, flush, flush; I can even soak in the tub and relax with scented candles. The first bathroom I knew was the farthest building from the house and did not even have a shower. In fact, it was wooden, dark, and tiny and my grandmother or mother had to bail water from the water tank into a bath pan from which I would splash.  The pit toilet was a peephole away.

 I do not remember the last time I had to get on my knees and polish wooden floors nor do I remember the last time I jumped over a pothole yet I find myself complaining each time an expectation of mine is not met. If the power goes for a minute, I complain. If the hot water is out for an hour, I complain. It’s like the more I live a better life, the more ungrateful I become.

I used to pride myself on being a ‘soldier’ because of the way I was raised. When it rained heavily, the roof leaked but I set pots and pans and took an outside shower. I did not complain. I didn’t know better but I was happy.

Why is it that the more I get, the more I want?

Written by: Ruth-Ann Brown