10/12/2025
Uncle Ramus - The Village of Sophia - Story Teller
As Reminisced by Paul Sookdeo
Under the wide shade of a mango tree sits Uncle Ramus — an old West Indian man with skin deeply tanned by the harsh West Indian sun. His face creases, lines of age long since pass folds when he grins. His mouth, soft and wrinkled like he got no teeth, holds the stem of a curved to***co pipe that always seem to glow at the right moment in a story. He’s lean and wiry, his old stained khaki pants rolled to mid-calf, hat pushed back, eyes glinting with that mischievous light of a man who was wise with age. Me and the village boys would sit around on the short grass, hanging on every word as he spins his yarns of spirits, mischief, and bush adventure. When the laughter dies down, he taps the pipe on his heel and chuckles, “A gon tell yuh boys the rest tomorrow. Now get yuh backside home before yuh mudda start holler. Leh an old man get he rest.” The boys groan but scatter, knowing they’ll be back — because once Uncle Ramus start talk, even the breeze does stop to listen.
“Come sit down, leh me tell yuh a lil story from back when the bush was wild and boys had more heart than sense.”
In a quiet village somewhere along the coast of old-time Guyana, there sits a man under a wide mango tree — pipe in hand, eyes glinting with mischief, and a heart full of stories. His name is Uncle Ramus.
Every evening, when the sun drop low and the crickets start tuning up, the village boys gather round to hear his tales — stories of spirits, mischief, laughter, and life in the old days. So pull up close, my friend… the story about to begin.
“Tales from Under the Mango Tree”
The murmuring voices coming from behind the clump of hibiscus bushes at the edge of the yard sent a shiver of excitement through my body. The boys were coming — it was Friday afternoon. No school, no homework, just the long weekend stretching out before us like a promise. It felt like getting a big tray of cassava pone with sweet, creamy condensed milk dribbled all over the top. The pone was the weekend; the condensed milk — that was the sweetness. We were heading up to the head of the village to visit Uncle Ramus.
Ryan was the first head to pop through the front gate, followed close behind by Tony and the rest of the gang. After a quick huddle and a few whispered plans, we slipped through the yard and out the back gate. Uncle Ramus’s house sat at the beginning of the village, just beyond a small trench that branched off the sideline trench and ran all the way down to Cow Pen. To reach him, we had to follow the back fence through the pasture, our bare feet brushing the dry grass, and come up to his place from the rear entrance.
After a few stubbed toes and plenty of excited murmurs, we slipped through Uncle Ramus’s garden gate. He lived in a small house, neat and freshly painted, with the front step swept clean like somebody cared for it every morning. The house might’ve been small, but the yard stretched wide — though you wouldn’t think so at first, not with all those fruit trees standing thick and close together. You see, while my grandparents were vegetable farmers, Uncle Ramus made his living selling fruit at the market. Mango, guava, soursop, golden apple — his yard was like a small forest of sweetness.
And there he was — sitting with his back against the big old mango tree, his legs stretched out along a narrow wooden bench. Uncle Ramus watched us through a soft cloud of smoke drifting from his corn-cob pipe, his wrinkled mouth curved into a smile, like he’d been waiting for us all afternoon.
Uncle Ramus — an old West Indian man, skin baked deep by years beneath the sun. His face a map of creases, the lines of a life, long lived folding deeper whenever he grins. His mouth, soft and wrinkled like he got no teeth, holds the stem of a curved to***co pipe that always seemed to glow at just the right moment in a story. Lean and wiry, his old khaki pants rolled to mid-calf, hat pushed back, he sits easy, eyes glinting with that mischievous light only age and wisdom can share.
Me and the village boys — well, we would crowd round on the short grass, hanging on to every word as he spun his yarns of spirits, mischief, and bush adventure. When the laughter finally died down, he’d tap the pipe on his heel, chuckle, and shoo us home. “Come in, come in, boys! Bin expecting ayuh all afternoon.”
Uncle Ramus waved us in, his familiar cackling laugh rolling across the yard. Almost like magic, the boys and I spread out on the short grass in front of him. No one said a word. The air felt heavy with anticipation as we sat there, watching him, willing the old man to start his story.
Night comes fast in the village, and before we knew it, darkness was creeping in. We were so wrapped up in Uncle Ramus’s story that we never noticed the light slipping away. Most of the boys lived close by, but Sonson, Prem, and I had a bit farther to go, so we had to give in — reluctantly, of course.
Uncle Ramus looked at us under his bushy gray eye brows and chuckled “Ayuh get home now, before ayuh mother have to come search fuh ayuh. You know she gon come with that orianda stick and bruk ayuh backside.”
That mischievous twinkle danced in his eyes as he went on “Don’t worry, when ayuh come back I gon tell ayuh bout the one-eye alligator I butt up wid when I use to pull punt in the back dam. Some people seh it was old man Cotton come back as that same alligator. But go on now—that is a story fuh another day.”
He was right, of course. The place was getting real dark, and our mothers wouldn’t take kindly to us coming home late. In unison, we called out our goodbyes to Uncle Ramus and dashed off through the yard, trying to reach home before we got into real trouble.
