An article by Nazma Muller on Patois (capital ), for which I cant find the date. It must have been in 1994 as Miss Augustine Fairy Fournillier was 77 then and was 97 in November 2013 (https://facebook/media/set/?set=a.525893794096537.126401.502063396479577&type=3). Thank you, Nazma - this must have been one of the first articles in recent times about our UWI Patois programme. Salmanere decour mama decour salmanere. Diable la deya mwen. Mama look de devil behind me... From a Houdini Calypso. From The Trinidad Express: Patois Progress By Nazma Muller We were liming in the car, Tonys pelau had given us all pause. The chef, eyes wandering lazily over the football field and a quiet, deserted Canada Hall, was explaining in his mellifluous, patois-accented English the complex issues involved in learning to read and write patois. Suddenly he went silent. A shapely young woman strolled past. Tonys eyes shone with an almost spiritual glow, and he broke into patois: Cest lè té ka pasé famme-la. Gadé famme sa la. Choco leaned forward immediately. From the backseat, his eyes followed the slow roll of her bumsie. Oui, gadé bòdé famme-la. Mwen sa moutwé ti famme sa la palé patwa wou konnet. Now both heads moved in tandem, slowly, following every step the totally unaware female took, their eyes riveted to her bòdé. I rolled my own heavenward. For once I could understand their Paramin patois perfectly. I interrupted their reverie. But you ent even see her face! Ah, replied Choco, with a wicked grin, I dont need to see her face. I have seen her spirit. Their day made, we drove back to UWIs Centre for Language Learning. From the car park we could hear the drumming. In the lobby, which had become the dance floor, Tantie Yola was holding her own among the youngsters. Her portly little figure rolled and jiggled in perfect time to the kadans-like rhythm being played by an exotic-looking threesome. St Lucians, I guessed, impressed by their nonchalance in the face of a rising tide of dancing old ladies; especially the burly dread who wore his huge pair of skull-and-bones gold earrings with a certain je ne sais quoi. (Turns out they were actually Junior Noel, Everald Watson and Gary Harewood from the Northwest Laventille Cultural Movement, playing what they had been taught was traditional creole music). Soon the dance floor was a mass of bobbing flowered scarves. My two Lotharios, Tony and Choco, of the famous Constantine and Tardieu clans of Paramin respectively, shook a leg from the outer circle of dancers, too citified to jump in. Tonys mother, Say Say, watched the action from the discomfort of a folding iron chair, feet tapping even as she massaged her 77-year-old swollen, arthritic knees. The slightest of smiles creased Ma Fairy Fournilliers stern yet sweet face. White-haired and frail, the grand dame of Paramin was even older than Say Say. She held her tiny frame upright, eyes twinkling at the sight of the French Creole Day organiser, a voluble Martiniquan called Nathalie Charlery, adding her own two hips to the mix. Charlery, a tutor in St Lucian patois at the Centre, is the engineer of the annual Jounen Kwéyol, which, last Wednesday, was a bittersweet celebration of patois. Language not only communicates; it defines culture, nature, history, humanity and ancestry. Preserving endangered languages is a vital part of securing the culture and heritage of our rich human landscape. Language keeps traditions alive, it inspires knowledge and respect about our past and the planet on which we live, and it links communities across borders and beyond time.
Posted on: Tue, 11 Feb 2014 12:17:16 +0000
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