Matthew Allen was a household name when radio was at its best in Guyana by Shan Razack.

 Matthew Allen was a household name when radio was at its best in Guyana by Shan Razack.

Every morning he would indulge the whole of Guyana to sing along with the gospel songs "I Surrender All” and "One Day at a Time, Sweet Jesus" Twenty-seven years ago seem such a long, long time, for one to forget, but for me, it seems that only yesterday this great radio and theatre personality with such a great voice was with us. I refer to Matthew Allen who departed from this life on December 1990 at the youthful age of 56. It dawned upon me that I should do something unusual on Matthew Allen that is to reflect on some aspects of his life which for most part would be unfamiliar with the younger folks while for me and the rest it would be a case of nostalgia. Matthew, who was my senior, was born at Hopetown Village, West Coast Berbice and I grew up in the same yard, Nuclear Yard- Canefield, I have no clue how that name came about- Rose Hall Estate Canje, Berbice- I wish to point out at this stage that we knew him as Ostrich; his deceased mother Esther loved calling him thus, as for us we called him Rick for short. By the way who was this guy Matthew Allen? He made quite an impression on the folks in New Amsterdam that when he died the Town Council saw fit to name the road leading to the New Amsterdam Stelling after him. The present generation and even those before would not have a clue. Those of us my age, which is young at heart that grew up on a diet of newspapers and radio, would easily recognize the name. O yes, we were glued to our radios, particular when the cricket commentaries were relaying from Bourda or other parts of the world. We were addicted to radio-you could say-we had no TV then. TV in Guyana came in full swing sometime in the 1980s and this took away the fun and joy we had with radio, although the newspapers were able to hold their own. Matthew Allen while attending Queen’s College took an interest in radio and eventually rose to become a radio announcer of class. As a disc jockey he was second to none, matter of fact he was the best in the business. He got the whole of Guyana to sing along with the spiritual songs, “I surrender all” every morning Monday to Friday at 6.45 and "One Day at a Time Sweet Jesus at 8.15. "What an inspirational way to start the day, and as soon as those songs were played we knew what time it was. I remember that voice at a time in life when the winds used to blow softer and sweeter. When adults were adults and children were children I loved him best, whenever he was doing outside broadcasting. How could one ever forget the remarkable commentary he did with another giant in the broadcasting fraternity Vic Insanally when they teamed up to cover the state funeral of the former President Linden Forbes Burnham. Those were golden days when radio in Guyana was at its very best. The name Matthew Allen was more pronounced when he left for Georgetown to peruse his secondary education and later a household name when he became a radio announcer. He was an equally good actor in the field of drama and gave an incredible performance in “Sweet Carilla” staged at the Theatre Guild in 1965. The affinity that ran between the two families,-Allen and Razack was no ordinary one, but an extraordinary. I recalled how we shared roti for bread and on Sundays it was sort of special that we got soup with foo-foo-who remembers this dish made with boiled green plantain and pound in a mortar with a long pestle- of course, and gave curried mutton in return. His formative years were spent as any ordinary youth, full of life, energetic, gaiety and rich with excitement. At an early stage, there was this inclination on his part to push ahead. He attended St. Patrick’s Anglican School and like me later years suffered at the hands of Headmaster H.C Scarder, mind you, not for our school work but playing pranks on the other kids and moreso, whenever we skipped school and go to the cinema or attend a cricket match during school hours. We had to endure; better still felt the wrath of the Headmaster Harold Christopher Scarder. He would in the presence of all and much to our embarrassment inflict six lashes on our buttocks. That however, did not deter us in anyway. Mr. Scarder was very particular with his grammar and moreso, wouldn’t spare the rod and spoil the child. I still remember, as if it were yesterday, as he inflicted the wild cane on our buttocks, he would spell it loud and clear: “Education is better than silver and gold”. Corporal punishment was common place in Guyana in those days and we had our full share of it. Even, when we branched out to secondary school, it continued unabating, it was licks like peas! I looked back at my alma mater and I’m justly proud at the fact that it had produced three outstanding writers who won the prestigious Guyana Prize for literature. Janice Shinebourne nee Lowe for her Best Book of Fiction: “Timepiece” (1986), the second was Cyril Dabydeen who produced a masterpiece: “Drums of My Flesh” (2007), and Chaitram Singh won the 2012 Guyana Prize for Literature in the category of Best First Book of Fiction with his first novel "The Flour Convoy". Singh's other entry, "The February 23rd Coup" shortlisted in the category of Best Book of Fiction. Come to think of it, the former Vice-Chancellor of UG, Dr. James Rose and I sat on the same bench while we were in sixth standard, yet with all due modesty we were not the brilliant ones, but were students just above average. Apart from radio, the cinema was the only form of entertainment for us, and we used to ‘live’ at Uncle Zab’s Rajmahal Cinema where we paid a bit-eight cents to those of us who could remember to get into our favorite spot in pit. Somehow we managed to have a few extra change to buy a glass of mauby/pine drink, or if you prefer a ‘doogla’, a mixture of both drink along with fishcake and bread at Charlie Lowe’s cake shop. The celebrated writer Janice Shinebourne nee Low was always there to serve us, right Janice? It was like a ritual, we always have the snacks, and often times we would buy channa before we enter the cinema. Rick became a member of the church choir, where he sang lustily. He took part in all games, excelling in athletes and cricket, pitched marbles, played cowboy, insisting always to play the lead role. He pulled sugar cane from the passing punts, knowing fully well how dangerous it was and, conversely, the punishment which followed, if ever he was caught. Rick stood in line like the rest of us and drank Epsom salts handed out by Nurse Drakes from the estate hospital. You might want to ask what’s so special about standing in line for Salts. Please don’t misconstrue me! I am not referring to Guy Line. That came into being sometime in the 80s, some thirty years later. You would recall when your mum gave you a dose of salts to drink and add a slice or two of oranges; you would twist and turn; turn and twist for hours before you eventually drink it. It was not so at the hospital. It was sort of regimented. You had to be in line and followed the queue-next-next-next-from Nurse Drakes, you goggle it down in a jiffy at the hospital, whereas at home you’ll take a day and a half. Once Rick had to prove his ‘manhood’, which entailed walking; it was more like squatting the whole 50-meter length under the church building. Remember too, we used to stand, sit and play among the tombs, we literally disturbed the ‘dead’ in the cemetery-the school was situated nearby the churchyard, and no one can deny that the fruits picked from churchyard tasted the sweetest. There was not too much space to maneuver and at some point you had to crawl on your stomach to get through. It was pitch dark and real frightening, scary, which I discovered in later years, when I did the same ritual. A few years later, this exercise came to a premature end. Young Kennard Dwarka who lived across the road opposite the church took at shot at it. Mid-way under the church, he claimed that he was confronted with an image, and the description he gave fits that of a bachoo. He said that the figure was small and it had a big head. As far as I can recall, Kennard, himself had a big head on his shoulders and I wonder if it was not a case of hallucination on his part. Christmas then was always a time of merriment and noise-making. Rick would get into the act and be a part of the masquerade band. He used to take the mad-bull and scare the hell out of us. As for noise-making, Rick used to fire carbon as there were no squibs and fire-crackers around. Let me explain what is to fire carbon for the benefit of the young and not so young generation. You simply get hold of a tin, pierce a hole at the bottom, put in a piece of carbon before replacing the cover, spit into it and give it a vigorous shake. Next, you affix a lighted match to the hole and there goes a loud explosion; ‘Boom’! Such a sound was heard more often when heralding the NewYear. Rick loves good food, curried chicken and roti were his special and this brings to mind two incidents I wish to share with you. Out-door cooking, commonly referred to as bush cook was a regular feature among Rick and his friends. Each member is expected to take along some ingredient for the pot and depending on what you put in; you were given a little more than usual. I know of one fellow who would readily volunteer to give the rice, obviously his share would be much greater. That day the pot smelled real good and tasted ever better. The aroma was so tempting that everyone wanted to get a first serve. No sooner, there rose a dispute over the sharing of the food. This caused a great commotion, and in the mêlée which followed, Rick decided there and then, to put his pot away, with all the food inside, of course. You could imagine how the guys felt, not getting any of the food. Du fu du is Nah obeah-a phrase commonly used back home whenever one wish to get even with someone who has done you a wrong. Well, a few of the guys decided to get back at Rick, because of what he had done with the food. It was the norm whenever the guys go swimming they would go into the fields searching for fruits. There was one particular area aback of the Senior Staff Compound where there was an abundance of banana trees laden with bananas and they were there for the taking. The guys would dig a hole in the ground, stacked it with dry sucker leaves and then place a few bunches of bananas to ripe. Come Sunday, after the swimming, the guys would have a banana treat. It was a Friday I recall. I just got home from school when Fred Sukdeo and George Gopie took me along with them to check on the bananas. Mind you, I had no idea what they were up to so I accompanied them for the fun of it. Prior to that no one checks on the bananas except when they go on Sunday. It took us some time before we could have identified the spot where the bananas were hidden. It was not that easy as you might want to believe. The bananas were ripe alright and we ate more than our normal shares. I who became an accomplice in ‘crime’ removed the remaining bunches of bananas from the hole, and then covered it up as though it had not been touched. After the swimming, we went to the place where the bananas were hidden. We carefully removed the layers of earth which were placed over the bananas. At last the final layer was removed, and to everyone, except three were astonished that there was no bananas. They had all vanished in thin air. Earlier, Rick was just longing to get his hands or mouth on the bananas, and even boasted that he would eat the most. Rick was furious, jumping up and down as if he had gone bananas! George Gopie in an effort to break the tension thought that it might have been the work of a bachoo, and I chipped in succinctly saying that bachoos loved a diet of bananas and milk. Towards the end, one of the guys said to Rick: “Boy, I know how you feel. We felt the same way when you took away the pot with the food.” Did we ever reveal the truth of the matter to Rick? We dared not! Trust me; Rick would have skinned us alive. The other incident occurred one afternoon when his aunt, Sylvie, came out with an odd pair of slippers in her hand, looking frantically for him. I told her that I saw Rick running to school. Rick had gone a far way and knowing what a versatile athlete he was, it was pointless going after him. I was told to my amusement that Rick had not only taken all the meat out of her plate but a portion of the food as well. Wait! I’ll lay hands on him when he returns, she said. It was always fun going with the group whenever they went swimming etc. The group had amongst them, Leslie and George Gopie; Leslie left in the 1960s for the UK and became a film star. George, a former Director of Demerara Distillers Limited (DDL), and part-time radio announcer, Ivan Harding Daly, a school teacher, Ivan and Moses Hussain, Moses was a radio announcer doing the early morning Indian show, Fred Sukdeo, a former Guysuco Director and Senior Lecturer at UG and Hector Talbot, businessman and owner of Big T Motel on the Linden Highway. Being the youngest then and a non-swimmer I had to keep an eye on their clothes and more so to keep a look-out for the Ranger-the guy who patrols the area to ensure that there were no unauthorized persons around. Once he is spotted, I sounded the alarm and all man jacks got out of the water and made their escape. If by chance you were caught, you not only loose you clothes but suffered the ignominy of walking home in the nude. Rick was in the habit of looking ahead and wanted always the best out of life. On day he went into the cane field, but just could not make up his mind as to which piece he wanted, as each piece appeared to be better than the other. In 1957, during Princess Margaret’s visit to what was then British Guiana, my Dad fell ill and was hospitalized at St. Joseph’s Mercy Hospital in Georgetown. As fate willed it, Mum and I stayed with Aunt Esther; Rick’s mum in Hadfield Street, a few houses near Guyana Telecommunications and the Ministry of Health, which once housed Queen’s College where the former Presidents Arthur Chung, Forbes Burnham and Cheddi Jagan and other Guyanese luminaries attended. As I looked around Georgetown, aptly called the Garden City I found the place impeccably clean, tidy and gaily decorated. The people were by and large very friendly and courteous. I think the women whom I admired most were not only gorgeous but simply radiant. There was not much traffic, and people felt at ease roaming about freely. There was no fear that you will be mugged and people went about their business in an orderly manner. You have this great feeling in you as though you are in a different world. Fruits and other form of commodities were plentiful and relatively cheap. I had my first banana split from Brown Bettys for just twenty-five cents. Everything seems just perfect. I really fell in love with Georgetown at first sight. I told my Mum, that next to Heaven it must be Georgetown!! I recall the gentleman who brought us all the way from Berbice in his black Vauxhall car encountered a problem when he stopped in front of William Forgarty. It was Uncle Narine’s first ever trip to the city, and the traffic cop was about to write him a ticket, but the old man begged his way out. In the evening we handed over some money to Rick for safe keeping and I figured out that on top of the wardrobe or deep down in the clothes trunk would have been the ideal hiding place. Rick thought otherwise. Next morning when Mum went for the money, Rick had all neatly tucked away under his pillow, safe and sound. The next day, I was fortunate to attend the big exhibition and fair at Lusignan Cricket ground on the East Coast, Demerara, which was attended by Princess Margaret and thousands of other Guyanese. It was a wonderful display of excellent craftsmanship and local produce. Getting home in the evening presented a problem. We waited for hours for the train which did not show up. Eventually we catch a car which was jammed pack like sardines, with well over 15 passengers at $5.00 each. The rest of my money I tucked away, no not there, but in my socks. We stopped out at the head of Hadfield Street, near Auto Supplies Ltd. where my Dad bought his first radio, a Murphy. The other going brand at the time was Mullard, which was sold by D.M.Fernandes. What I remembered most was that from the head of Hadfield Street towards the end where Rick had lived, the only thing I passed on the road was a stray dog and that was around 3 a.m. in the morning. When I went upstairs, the doors were left opened for me to get in. I next met Rick during my courtship days in the mid-60s. At that time he was engaged in photography, and had returned with the pictures he had taken at my intended sister-in-law's wedding. His words to me then were: “I’ll be around when you are ready!” I got married to the charming young lady alright, three years later, by which time he was fully engrossed in broadcasting. Least I run into any problem, let me say it here and now that the young lady is now my wife, Beauty to whom I got married over fifty years ago with two adorable kids. Regrettably, I lost my daughter Roshani Andrews nee Razack two years ago We have so much to epitomize in Matthew Allen. Just to mention his love and devotion to his parents. He had a special place in is heart for his dear Mum, Esther and when she died, like so many other sons, Rick suffered a terrible loss. His only brother, a former policeman Clive and Sister Jean had migrated to the UK and apart from his own family commitment, Matthew felt he had a moral obligation to double up and fill the gap left by the two. It had been a constant source of joy and amazement to me how Matthew did it. At first his visit to them in Canje was done once a week, then it became twice, and later when his Mum’s health began to fail the visits were far more regular. Rick used to surprise us all that at one time you’ll hear him over the airwaves and before you know it, he was standing besides you. I suppose Matthew wouldn’t mind me saying something about his dear mum. What a fantastic person she was, strong in character, yet humble loving and caring. She possessed all the wisdom there is and seemed to have a solution to all the problems which crop up in the compound. She saved many marriages from going on the rocks and was able to get couple together who at one time had drifted apart. She inculcated in us some of life’s precious lessons, matter of fact she helped us kept courtesy alive and taught us how good and sweet it sounded to say-“please”, “ thank you”, “forgive me”, “excuse me”, “how may I help you?” and all those loving words you know! When someone bumps into you, you say “sorry”. To show benevolence and give the greatest gift of all, love, be kind and try to help senior citizens, keep the environment clean and tidy, give up your seat to the fairer sex, physically challenged and elderly, wait until a funeral procession is over; and this we did reluctantly because in those days when someone died the whole village attended, hence a very long procession and an unending wait for traffic to resume. Speak quietly-quiet speech is a form of refinement. Those of us who attended Berbice Educational Institute (BEI) under Mr. Alfred A. Ramlochan at Pilot Street, New Amsterdam behind New Amsterdam Public Hospital in the early 1950s would readily recall that sign which was posted up in the building. The joke of the matter is that we never bother with the word refinement; instead, we had our interpretation. We were from the country and we did things differently. Whenever we refer to the sign we would say it loudly: Quiet speech is a form of refreshment. (Sic). The one thing which I could not understand then but, which makes sense to me now was, no matter if your enemy did you one million wrongs and only one good, forget the many wrongs and consider the one good and act accordingly. It seemed to me rather pathetic that at this stage and time such notions are no longer cherished, and have lost their depth and dimension. In the mid 1980s I came to live in Georgetown and once more renewed my acquaintance with Matthew. Our concern has always been that our kids never experienced the sort of exposure and enjoyment in life as we had in our childhood days. He was proud of the fact that I worked my way over the years from a junior clerk to that of Administrator at Georgetown Hospital. I saw him the day he was admitted at the Georgetown Hospital, not realizing that would have been our last meeting. Rick left something which I would like to pass on to you: Dum Vivimus Vivimus. “While we live! Let us live!” Do not keep the alabaster of your love and tenderness sealed up until your friends are dead. Fill their lives with sweetness. Speak approving, cheering words while their ears can hear them, and while their hearts can be thrilled and made happier by them. The kind words you mean to say when they are gone, say before they go. The flowers you mean to send for their coffins send to brighten and sweeten their homes before they leave them. If my friends have alabaster boxes laid away full of fragrant perfumes of sympathy and affection, which they intended to break over my dead body, I would rather they bring them out in my…weary and troubled hours, and open them, that I may be refreshed and cheered by them while I need them. I would rather have a plain coffin without a eulogy, than a life without sweetness of love and understanding. Let us learn to anoint our friends beforehand for burial. Post-mortem kindness does not cheer the burdened spirit. Flowers on the coffin, cast no fragrance backward over the weary way. Few men have served broadcasting and gave of their lives with such full devotion as Matthew Allen did. Sadly, Matthew has gone to the world beyond, and will be missed but never, never be forgotten. I am dedicating this story to my loving daughter Roshani Andrews nee Razack who departed this world on May 27th at the sweet age of 38. We missed her sadly. Shan Razack <shanrazack@gmail.com>

Updated Nov 06, 2020 12:55:26am

Dec 09, 2017 1:10:00pm