Saint Lucia
One day in 1974, my son and I landed on the island of Saint Lucia in the Caribbean. We’d taken the wrong plane. While waiting to be repatriated—which wasn’t easy at all—we were hosted by a local guy who lived in a hut with five siblings, all from different fathers. Their mother had left. He was the head of the household. We slept on cardboard boxes. In the evenings he went to work at restaurants. He was a fire-eater. I said:
– If you want, I’ll come with you.
– But, do you know how to breathe fire?
– Of course; in France, all astrophysicists learn how to breathe fire.
– Ah, I see...
I won’t explain how it’s done because I’d be afraid of causing accidents. To tell the truth, there are actually very few astrophysicists who can breathe fire. Reeves, in particular, can’t do it. True, he has a beard, which does increase the risks somewhat.
Saint Lucia, think of me
In my wooden hut
My God, don’t leave me
Poor black man abandoned
I hear my brothers and sisters crying
Over there
Saint Lucia doesn’t give a damn
If you’re cold, if you’re hungry
And if your skin is black
Then there’s no hope for you
I hear my brothers and sisters screaming
Over there
White hat, silk dress
Here, white is king
You walk in the rain
In the mud, in the night
I hear my brothers and sisters struggling
Over there
Saint Lucia, it’s over
Tomorrow I’ll be gone
On the whites’ ship
It’s there, it’s waiting for me
I see my brothers and sisters coming
Over there