Anthony Holford

I was waiting outside the magistrate’s court when I saw Jamal come out, head lowered, wrists still cuffed. He’s seventeen now—barely—and this was his third time in front of the bench. Assault again. The boy has a temper, yes, but I’ve known him since he was eleven, when I first met him at the Government Industrial School. That was after his mother threw a pan at him for stealing canned sardines. She was high, and he was hungry.

I’m fifty-seven, and I’ve lived in Bridgetown, Barbados, all my life. Some mornings I wake up thinking I’ve aged a hundred years working with these boys. Still, I keep showing up. That morning, I had two other cases to follow, and Jamal wasn’t even on my schedule, but I stayed. I always stay for him.

He saw me and looked away. I called out. “You think I dressed up in this heat just to watch you sulk?” A flicker of a grin. We sat on the concrete wall in the shade of the old tamarind tree near the court. His lawyer had managed to get him released under supervision again—my supervision.

“I didn’t even hit him hard,” he said, picking at the frayed hem of his sleeve.

“You hit him, Jamal. That’s the point.”

He shrugged. “He called me a cockroach.”

I sighed. That word. It’s always the words that light the fuse.

The Juvenile Offenders Act from 1932 still governs kids like Jamal. Imagine that. The world’s moved on but our laws haven’t. Boys like him end up in holding cells with roaches and men twice their age. Girls get left out entirely when it comes to punishments—sometimes that helps, sometimes it just hides their pain deeper.

We talked for a while. I reminded him of the kitchen program starting next week. He likes cooking—says it calms his mind.

Later, as he walked off, I didn’t feel hopeful or defeated. Just... steady. This is the middle of it—the space between the sentence and the life they’re trying to build. It’s where I work. Where I live. Where I keep showing up.