I flop down in the squeaky old leather armchair and wipe a rag over the metal briefcase. I’m surprised to find it in such good shape. I prod the latches; it’s open. Aha. So that’s what it is. For all these years, it’s harboured a dull collection of loose papers, the receipt for the central air conditioning I so enjoyed, some insurance policies I put back at once as if to pre-empt an allergy attack, a large manila folder. I open it: papers and some photos. I stick my hand farther in and flip through the yellowed sheets. OCCRE documents, some letters establishing the branches of my family tree. My surname, with Jeremiah Lynton and Rebecca Bowie written above it. I say the names aloud. There’s a letter-sized photo, black and white. It’s them.

She’s a woman seated in a wicker chair, black hair drawn back, broad jaw, small eyes, in a long-sleeved, high-collared white blouse and a black skirt that covers her shoes. She can’t be over thirty. Standing, with a hand on her shoulder, he’s wearing a day suit, a tapered beige jacket with large square pockets, white shirt and bow tie. Balding slightly, maybe forty, he’s got a moustache and the corners of his mouth sketch an almost imperceptible smile. She looks to the right as he stares serenely at the camera in… in the studio of Duperly & Sons Photographers, it says, in Kingston, Jamaica, in 1912. I can’t take my eyes off them. I sit there for several minutes, engrossed. The image is 105 years old, but it’s new to me. Rebecca and Jeremiah. Rebecca Bowie. Jeremiah Lynton. I say their names as I switch on another light for a better look. They’re the reason why my movement and residency card says I’m Raizal. This is the information my dad filed with OCCRE over twenty years ago.

There are more photos of the same two people. He looks a little older in close-up. The image is sepia, and I conclude that he probably had blond hair, although his skin is olive-toned at least. I look at her. I’m sad to see that her gaze is vacant, her neck tense in this photo, too. Her jaw is clenched, defiant-looking. ‘Jeremiah and Rebecca, my great-grandparents,’ I say. I’m starting to nod off despite myself – I place the photo on the old desk, feeling heavy. I want to set it aside and close my eyes for a moment. I lean against the backrest and hear the screech of the worn-out office chair. A cicada sings on the other side of the wall, then goes quiet. A few seconds pass and the silence breaks with a scratching sound on the roof. I jump and open my eyes, looking up. Then another scratch, and another.

III. DIVISIONS

III. DIVISIONS