Only Butler could play Butler

Tubal Uriah Buzz Butler shook my hand vigorously and said, “So you are the man they chose to write about me.” I replied, “I am honoured to meet you, sir . . . I mean . . . Chief.” I was face to face with this living legend — this giant of a man and I felt as diminutive as dust. My skinny hand was lost in his enormous grasp. Mr Antoine, who was appointed by the Oilfields Workers’ Trade Union to take me to people and places I wanted to visit to gather material to write the play about Butler, explained immediately. “Freddie Kissoon was recommended by Mr Ramesar of the Extra-Mural Department because he had won the first prize for the best full-length play King Cobo in the PNM — 10th anniversary national competition in 1966 and his play Zingay was the first local play on television. He is the best we can get to write about your life.” What a recommendation!

Mr Antoine went on to explain that that year 1967 was the 30th anniversary of the OWTU and they were planning to celebrate it in a big way and the play would be one of the highlights. Butler laughed heartily and responded, “I am writing my own autobiography. Look here.” He showed us about four copy books on a wooden table. “That is full with the story of my life but I just start. Plenty more to write.” The Chief was so very pleasant, we both became relaxed and comfortable in his presence. He turned to me with a big smile and said in his deep raspy voice, “Go ahead. Let me hear you. Ask what you want to ask.” Mr Antoine had warned me that Butler had made it abundantly clear that we were not to use a tape recorder at the interview. So, I took out my small writing pad and asked him as gently as I could to tell me something about Captain Cipriani.

In a flash, Butler’s face that was smiling like a cherub changed to that of a fearsome warrior and with Shaka Zulu ferocity, he blurted out, “Cipriani was a scamp!” I was so shocked that the writing pad almost fell from my hand. I stammered, “But, Chief, people say he was the champion of the barefoot man.” “What people?” he retorted. I could not find words fast enough to answer before he came back like a machine gun. “His friends and sycophants who want to make him a hero.” And he went on to utter a few more sentences completely shattering my image of the Captain. Then he said, “What else?” in an irritated tone. The pleasant twinkle in his eye, the friendly smile had both vanished and I was now dealing with the powerful revolutionary — ‘The Moses of the masses’, ‘The man chosen by God to lead the people to the land flowing with milk and honey’ — as he so often described himself.

Once again, before I could answer or Mr Antoine could say a word, Butler declaimed, “That’s the end of the interview. Thank you very much, gentlemen.” As we left Cockrane Village, Mr Antoine told me not to be depressed by Butler’s attitude and added it was difficult to fathom the man. The real problem was that he did not pay Butler up-front for the interview. Months later on stage at the OWTU Hall in Henry Street, Uriah Butler was pleased when I presented him with a copy of the play. He liked the name very much “God and Uriah Butler”. He traced the title with his finger and said, “Good, good.”

Butler never saw the play. The premiere was at Naparima Bowl and later we staged it at the OWTU Hall in Fyzabad and on both occasions, the Union sent a car for him and he refused to attend. He told Antoine that no actor could play Butler insisting that ‘Only Butler could play Butler.’ Talking about politicians, reminds me of President Richard Nixon’s message to the astronauts, “For years politicians have promised people the moon. I’m the first one able to deliver it.”