Is that medicine or ammunition?

The matron’s motions were precise, almost military, and she cut an imposing figure in her white uniform, which was spot and wrinkle less, at half past one in the morning.

She smoothly picked up my chart, perused it, put it back down and then deftly uncapped the huge syringe, which seemed to have been magically extracted from some pocket or tray. She then looked down at me, prostrate on the emergency room gurney; a cold towel pressed to my right temple and asked, “You are Suzanne Mills, the one who writes for Newsday?” I gazed at the half-cocked intra-muscular needle in her hand and thought: “Oh God, ah dead.” You see, it was early Wednesday morning last week, just a few days after Prime Minister Patrick Manning had gone on the rampage at Lions Civic Centre and called on Balisier bearers to defend his government against the media. (And by his government, I suppose he meant him and his equally blundering wife Hazel, who was looking so incompetent, that none other than Dr Adesh “Paradigim” Nanan was giving her advice on how to manage school violence. Moreover, ironically, Mr Paradigim was making more sense than Mrs Breakfastses!) Worse, Mr Manning had promised to give his people “ammunition” so they could defend him and the Mrs against all naysayers, particularly the “fools” with their “dotish talk” who didn’t want him to have his Red House. And, given the title of this column, I could consider myself their number one target.

What if the yellowish liquid that half-filled the matron’s syringe contained not the potent analgesic and anti-nausea combo I needed to knock out Shadow’s Bassman who had found temporary lodgings in my head, but instead belonged to the cyanide family of drugs? This night nurse could well be a Patrick/Hazel fan and my days could just have turned into seconds. Should I say that the junior nurse had made a mistake on the form and I was not really Suzanne Mills, but Suzanne Hills? I had a migraine that would not respond to tablets. That injection was my only relief. However, I could not put the junior nurse — who had been very good to me — in trouble. So, instead I stuttered, “Why do you ask?” my right eye keeping a close watch on the syringe, even though letting a slither of light in only encouraged the Bassman to strike those huge steel drums with added gusto, as if he thought he was on stage in the Big Yard. “Boom boom, boom boom, boom, boom, boom, boom!” he played relentlessly.

The matron did not reply. I knew she was probably thinking that what had landed on her watch was not a migraine sufferer, but a paranoiac. I owed the woman an explanation. “You see,” I muttered, “you have to understand that Patrick just recently called on his supporters to defend him and his government, well, really him and his wife, and you never know.” The matron’s only response was a stern look. I turned a pleading, throbbing right eye in the direction of the sympathetic doctor who had ordered the shot and the charming junior nurse who had admitted me. Would they understand what I meant, that really I was only joking? Or, was I? They smiled, but uttered not a word. I was on my own. Me and the Bassman.  I signalled to the matron that I was ready for her injection, whatever it was. Indeed, at that point, if it was cyanide, the poison might well stop my migraine, that is, if it only claimed the life of Shadow’s Bassman and left mine alone. She cleanly administered the shot and a few minutes later, I could tell that Mr Bassman was starting to nod off. His “booms” were getting fainter. More importantly, I was still breathing and would live to tell this extremely ridiculous tale.

But, was it ridiculous? The matron’s question had made me think twice about saying I was Suzanne Mills of Newsday, because of the PM’s tribal call to arms. A journalist now had to be wary of everyone, for anyone could be a Patrick and Hazel worshipper. Would changing my name, purchasing a wig and dark glasses really be that paranoid, given that a man as powerful as the Prime Minister and leader of the PNM had declared war on the press? Not when one recalled how a few of the more sycophantic UNC members, at a rally in 1998, pelted bottles at reporters after former PM Basdeo Panday called on party members to defend his government against the media. As soon as Panday proclaimed open hunting season on journalists that afternoon, a few of his people fired their first shot instantaneously. Manning, last weekend, did the same as Panday. Except, he took a dangerous step further because this PM promised his people “ammunition” to help hunt journalists down. In addition, he pointed them in the direction of specific prey by identifying some of those who had “attacked” him. And, as in 1998, a PNM member immediately threatened the reporters, saying, “Somebody should teach them bogus reporters.”

Thus, it was not silly of me to imagine that people in my profession who were insisting that the PM’s bid for the Red House was pure egotistical nonsense were prime game. It was not stupid to believe that anyone who suggested that Manning was joking when he appointed the Mrs and said that she would be treated like any other Minister, was top quarry. Or that anyone who dared to observe that Hazel was not shuffled out of the Cabinet, as she deserved to be, when her husband was conducting his great reshuffle, was well worth the hunt. I even wondered whether Manning would call in his Brigadier to teach the Balisier boys and girls how to ‘shoot’ journalists. And all of this, a year after Manning had signed the Chapultepec Declaration on free speech adopted by the Americas in Mexico City in March 1994. The declaration’s preamble states, among other things, that, “We (the people of the Americas) openly support the most forthright and robust manifestation of democracy and freedom: freedom of expression and of the press, whatever the medium of communication.”

I had survived Wednesday morning, but who knew? Patrick and Hazel had long forgotten Chapultepec and were behaving like Basdeo and Oma, so why wouldn’t some of their supporters follow suit? I really looked forward to the day when Prime Ministers did not blame journalists when they were under pressure, when their governments were becoming unpopular because of their own (and/or their wives’) blunders and failures. Until then, though, I would keep a close eye on all nurses with needles. You could never tell where an armed supporter of Mr and Mrs Manning could be lurking, waiting to fire their “ammunition”!

Suzanne Mills is the Editor of Newsday.