Guyana has witnessed a deeply troubling spate of deaths involving children recently, including the murder of seven-year-old Adriel Aftab Mohamed at Zeelugt, East Bank Essequibo; the deaths of three-year-old Keron Latchman and his 29-year-old mother, Donette Albert, in a suspected arson attack at Charity, Essequibo Coast; the murder of six-year-old Zi Feng Cao at Parika, East Bank Essequibo; and the gruesome killing of six-year-old Orlando Jaikarran at Bath Settlement, West Coast Berbice.
At the same time, our people are still reeling from the MV Barima tragedy, in which scores of deaths were confirmed, including those of children, with others still deemed missing, feared dead.
On October 22, 2026, the News Room reported that at least 64 children have died in Guyana in 10 months due to unfortunate circumstances, including murders, violent incidents, road crashes, fires and drownings.
This is an alarming number of children lost in a country with a relatively small population. Indeed, a troubling number in any country. Guyana and the rest of the world have been deprived of children who should have been allowed to grow, dream, aspire to greatness and contribute to positive development. They are now remembered for the joy they brought to their families, and sadly, even that has been overshadowed by the vile way in which their lights were snuffed out.
So many tears have been shed that it is perhaps only by some miracle that our lands remain arable and have not yet succumbed to intense salinity.
We are then forced to look at our own children and lose ourselves to sadness. What is a parent expected to do to protect their children from such cruel ends? Many still mourn. The wounds are still open and bleeding. Hearts are still heavy and tormented.
Sadly, there is a disconnect between that reality and what they must feel when they walk in their neighbourhoods or city streets or see on TV that the glitter has begun to adorn our monuments, the lights are already strung and merriment fills our streets as we embrace King Charles III.
The hurting are the very people who must now give way to the shimmering colours of red, blue and incompetence of the flashing lights of the Guyana Police Force’s escorts, and the lazy, forced wailings of sirens through a city that encompasses a wheezing heart forced only to beat by those with short memories and unconscionable and selective will.
This editorial is by no means an attempt to disparage the enthusiasm and cheer of the many who are happy that the King of England visited our shores. Nor is it an objection to his visit. But it is only natural for the bereaved to feel emotionally disconnected from these celebrations and, instead of merriment, harbour feelings of neglect and, yes, resentment.
The King’s televised arrival and the ensuing ceremonies were contextualised by the sentiment that so many decades after his visit, “Guyana has come a long way”. In some ways we have, but in the ways that should matter the most, there is much to be desired.
We simply cannot be inflicted with such pain one day and then throw grand parties the next. And yes, some may argue that we cannot mourn forever, but some would also agree that the King’s visit and the fanfare should not be cosmetic to the pain we still feel.
To the families who have lost a loved one to the tragedies in the last six months, we must keep them in our hearts for as long as we possibly can. Death does something to the spirit of those who have witnessed its wrath.
The bereaved must feel disenchanted with such merriment where, just months ago, we huddled and prayed for strength, draped our monuments in black and white and our leaders, with teary eyes, called for spiritual relief and the intervention of all-powerful beings.
Now, those who are hurting must be staring at this spread for His Majestic-ness and wondering if time is indeed this fickle, or if we are a people whose memory is as short as the black ribbon we wore above our hearts just weeks ago.
If we are to be grateful for anything, it must be the miracles we have witnessed in the last couple of weeks ahead of His Majesty’s visit.
The pavements and walkways have been repaved, the roads widened and pitched with fresh asphalt with a speed never before seen. Demarcations from city roads to market squares, stretching from Stabroek all the way to Kitty, have been brightened. The very contractors whom many thought were incompetent have been revitalised like never before and toiled literally day and night to make the avenues perfect and the roads smooth and presentable to the King.
They plumbed every column, laid every block, mixed every drop of mortar and delivered masterpieces that would even rival the craftsmanship of Hephaestus, all to secure the prize of a tiny smile and perhaps a nod of agreement that, decades after we shed the yoke of Great Britain, we have come far. So far.
If something is to be said of these actions, it is that anything is possible with the right political will. Yet, there is a disconnect between the will behind the rapidity of these works and the pussyfooting taking place in other parts of the country, probably not on the King’s list of places to visit.
The billboards are fresh, subject and verb disagreement aside, but dazzling and bold with a welcome to the patriarch of a foreign land, whose cruelty left Lucifer scurrying off into the dark recesses of his abode. There is a disconnect there too between the red carpet and the push for reparation talks.
It is as if time has forgotten that dark chapter. It is as if time has forgotten the MV Barima tragedy. It is as if time has forgotten the children lost. It is as if time has forgotten that we are still mourning; that a mother still waits for her children to come home; and children still long for parents lost to the dark and unforgiving waters.
Some of us have not forgotten. We remember. We carry you in our hearts and thoughts. We feel your pain even if it was a fleeting moment for those whom we call leaders.
Note that tales to the King about our prosperity will be exaggerated, our plates described as full, our hearts painted as content and our future conveyed as bright as the lights that adorn our magnificent Bharrat Jagdeo Demerara River Bridge. The King would be tempted to believe these are true by those of considerable means who gain the most and were invited to be in his presence. But there is a disconnect between them and those who still struggle to make two uneven ends meet.
Those are the people we can understand if they feel like beaten and battered jewels on a shelf in a show, left uncleaned, rumpled and unceremoniously shoved in a duffle bag and rushed to another stage where they are once again exhibited as prizes to a visiting audience.
Rest in peace to those we have lost and long live the King.
