Every day, when I return from my daily errands, I hear the grey, heavy padlock slam behind me. It is always usually my head, in a downward position, just thinking, ‘this is a death trap!’ On the right hand side, there is the stale Caribbean bread with a pinch of butter in between, no vegetables, and no bacon. We have diluted orange juice which tastes like urine and sometimes I pray that things were different. Sometimes, I look around and wish I was not here. No matter what the media and government say, no matter what people do, prison life is no life. The same burnt, semi-stale bread, the same quality of life, the same miserable, depressing and isolated lifestyle. ‘NOTHINGS CHANGED’.
Where do people answer the call of nature? Oh well, Oh well, definitely not in a bottle or plastic bag. Believe it or not, every Monday morning, we are handed a small plastic bag in which I have to dump my waste. Sometimes, it smells because of the unhealthy and unbalanced nutrition that I feed on. The stench that comes from my room is horrible, like rotting eggs. I can only have a shower once a week, whether hot or cold. The water is excruciatingly cold and lasts for only five minutes. If you are not fast enough, you are out with soap foam still dripping from your body. In addition, I have to empty my bladder in a transparent coke bottle, which is usually not enough to hold the urine; hence, I watch it flow across the floor. Imagine the hideous sight and poor state I live in.
Looking around me, I look hard to see if there is anything I can concentrate on. Something I can focus my mind on, just to try and pass away the dragging day or maybe the crushing, pathetic and tiny cell I call my dwelling place. It is as small as a cardboard box, smells like a gutter in a ghetto. The plain white washed walls are old and wrinkled and every time I place my back on it, my clothes turn white and flaky. I try so hard to push aside the horrors of this place and even when I dream at night, I dream of death. The vain of death flashes throughout the night. Suddenly, I jerk up from my bed, sweating like a lamb in the slaughter house. Strange how these things happen!
I feel so suicidal, but I cannot do it. I need to be strong, I need to have hope, like they say, “In life, there are dreams that we desperately seek in the daylight, but do not come to us in the cell. It is like running from your shadows, you have no chance. Maybe even worse, running down a tunnel which has no end. A situation where no one is chasing you, but still you are running. You see the light at the end, but all you see and all that is left behind is blackness and gloom. Prison life is gloom, the cell is doom.
At approximately 8:00pm, the guards go out. Shortly before, it is the so called ‘dinner time’. Well, what do we have for dinner today then? How exciting: over boiled egg and dry, burnt toast; undoubtedly tasteless. I say this to myself every day, ‘tasteless’. I do not even know why. I should get used to it, people get used to hot or cold weather by keeping warm in the winter and being free in the summer. However, in this place, it is freezing cold and I shiver like the autumn leaves. In the summer it is boiling hot, sticky and smelly. Which of these seasons do I look forward to? None.
Water, Oh! Precious water! They say it is the gift of life, gift of nature, but not in this place. I have to ration and minimise my one litre supply of tasty water every day. Health advisors say four litres per day, no wonder my urine looks like orange juice. No wonder why my eyes are turning yellow, like someone suffering from Yellow Fever and my crooked hands feel weak and useless. Now I know the full meaning of depression, loneliness, and boredom. I am often mad with rage, but I take out my frustration on my water bottle, my bed or my poor head. I bang, I brush, and I slap and knock over anything in sight. Once I knocked over my water bottle and that was it, I almost went mad with thirst. My hands urged for a bomb or an explosive blow this place down.
Like the famous Martin Luther King Speech, I hang onto mine, which says: “I have a dream, that one day, I will be free to glide the streets of London again, to dance like no one is watching and to say hello to anyone who wants listen”. Now I am walking, but my feet hardly touches the ground, I must be floating, my body, my mind, my soul are playing games with me and I cannot escape.
Today like any other day, I squat in the middle of my room, rocking backwards and forwards trying to seek the face of God through prayer in time of need. I do not feel or believe God can hear me and when I speak, it is utter rubbish. How can he understand? I am more determined to make myself madder than my own mind. I just cannot help it. Life in a cell is violent, ridiculous and empty.
The light is beginning to go out, it is starting to beep and blink, flicker and glow like the stars. Suddenly, pitch darkness. Where is my candle? I was not ready for this. I am afraid of the dark. It creeps all over me and there is nothing I can do. As the fire gets feeble and cold, so is my body and soul.
