THE EDITOR, Sir:IT'S 12:30 ON a Sunday afternoon. The phone rings.
"Hello?"
"Hello, I trying to reach Kimberly Robinson."
"Speaking."
"I'm calling from the Registrar General's Department. I have some documents for you. [Said documents were applied for some four months previously.] Meet me at Price Rite Supermar-ket at 5:30."
"What?!"
"I say, meet me at Price Rite at 5:30. Listen out for your name."
"But but I can't make it at 5:30! I have to be somewhere else at that time!"
"Well, it's up to you, but if you don't come today the documents going go back to Spanish Town, and I don't know when you going get them."
"But but this is outrageous! What kind of system is this? When I applied for those documents I was told they would be sent by registered mail, and they should have been sent months ago!"
"Listen, you coming or not? Talk quick, 'cos my credit soon done."
Eventually I decide that, although this is probably some 'ginnalship' business, it still might be advisable for me to find my way to the prescribed location at the prescribed hour, just in case. So, later that afternoon, accompanied by a male relative for protection, I make my way across town from a family function in Mona to the foot of Red Hills where Price Rite is located.
We arrived at 5.35 p.m. It is raining. Sheltered under the roof edge is a small group of five or six people who look up hopefully when we parked.
"Registrar General?" one asks.
"No, I'm looking for him too."
The group resignedly resumes its patient wait. As the minutes pass, more people assemble. Soon the size of the group has doubled. At five minutes to six, a young man appears. With an air of importance, he walks up to the wall, places a folder on a wall edge, opens it, removes a stack of envelopes and calmly starts calling out names.
One by one, those who have heard their names called go up to him, sign a receipt slip, collect their documents, and leave. Nobody is looking at all surprised at any of this. It is almost as if this is a normal practice of the Registrar General's Depart-ment, a normal use of the space in front of a supermarket-cum-bus stop on a rainy Sunday afternoon. Or is it?
"Kimberly Robinson." I walk up, all sorts of sarcastic words on the tip of my tongue. Then I am within touching distance of the precious documents for which I have waited many months, on which all sorts of other critical processes and procedures are totally dependent. The anger disappears and relief replaces it.
Like everyone else, I meekly sign the receipt form, gratefully receive my certificates, and leave.
I am, etc.,
KIM ROBINSON
kimberly.robinson@uwimona.edu.jm
