Django and Sharma knew the storm was coming. The warnings were on the radio, on the telly and all over social media. First it was a tropical storm, then a hurricane and then the categories escalated from 1 to 4 and it was tracking right on target to their little windward island. No escaping it at that point. Everybody who had the means and the foresight had already left for Trinidad or Barbados.

            ‘What should we do, where do we go? The church or your uncle’s house? He has a concrete basement and it will be safe,’ Django said.

            ‘The church will be safe because it’s the house of God,’ Sharma insisted. Suddenly her faltering belief in the almighty was restored in the face of the fury and anger of the oncoming storm.

            ‘It has only a tin roof but your uncle Polo’s house is concrete and has a utility basement. Let’s go there.  It will be safe. There will also be fewer people there and he did invite us,’ Django insisted. He was the older one and being the man, he pulled rank and made the practical choice for them. They gathered up some personal stuff like their phones and some clothes, a machete and whatever dry foods they had. Some rice and pasta, cans of tomatoes, sardines and a couple of papayas. A last look around their small wooden house, with the hammock out front between two palm trees. The ocean was stirred up with whitecaps and had taken on a greyish hue. The air was hot and still, humid and quiet. The palm leaves waved leisurely in the slight wind that seemed to come from all directions. An ominous and eerie feeling hung in the air with high, fast-moving cirrus clouds the colour of wheat. 

            Dolores and Jami were already sheltering at Polo’s house. Both of them were from the main island but had been living here for a few years now. They were a musical duo, him on guitar and her on saxophone. Dolores also had a sweet, clean voice. They made a meagre living playing some local gigs in the winter when the tourists and yachties crowded the beach bars and the rest of the time they took whatever local jobs they could snag. Jami even tried his hand at fishing but had to give it up because he was prone to sea sickness. ‘I can’t fish when I’m constantly throwing up,’ he said to Dolores who had taken on some cleaning work for a couple of the rich white folks on Resurrection Hill. 

They lived in a wooden house near the small airport which was basically a big one room shack with a kitchen in one corner and a table with four chairs in the adjacent one. A couple of old assorted chairs with an antique steamer trunk for a coffee table functioned as the living room. A folding partition separated their bed from the rest of the house. There was an outhouse at the back and a shipping container full of instruments they had collected over the years. Acoustic guitars and hand drums, typical of the island; a couple of old electric pianos, a Roland and a Yamaha, some percussion instruments and even a simple drum kit a rock band had left behind. They were hoping to turn their small house into a music school for the kids on the island. Something they had planned to do for a long time. The stashed whatever valuables they had into the container, their PA and amps, their laptop and tablet, a couple of carved African masks, Dolores’ party dress and some pots and dishes they had bought over the years, hoping they would be safe.