We were driving together from somewhere in Miami back to home in Miramar. My dad and I. Henry. He was visiting from Jamaica. I cannot remember precisely why we had gone down to Miami, but we decided to make a pit stop during the return leg for a quick bite. Surely, food was at home, and though I knew I would have to explain to my wife why we didn’t wait, I told myself I would take the chance. What the heck? It would give us time to sit and chat while filling our bellies. Oh, we could check out a newly opened KFC restaurant somewhere off University Drive. The taste would not be the same as back home in Jamaica, but we would make it work.

As we pulled into the parking lot, I noticed a woman sitting in a car by a tree. A ton of stuff piled on the seats behind her and the passenger side up front. Just a fleeting observation. I didn’t take a second look to try and figure out what was going on. Plus, she looked like she was trying to make herself invisible. Despite that, I caught her glancing our way. But I didn’t think much of it either. We were just peckish and wanted to go and eat.

Inside, the place wasn’t too crowded. We joined the short line to order our food. What should we get? Should we get a big bucket of chicken so we could take some home? How about sandwiches and fries? Or maybe some original pieces instead of sandwiches? A few seconds into our pondering, the same woman from the parking lot walked in. She looked around nervously before heading straight for us. Her eyes darted between me and Dad and then settled on me.

“Excuse me,” she said softly. “Could you get me something to eat?”

I looked at her closely. She seemed exhausted, worn down by life.

“Of course,” I said. “What would you like?”

She hesitated. “I… I’ve been living in my car,” she explained, her voice barely above a whisper. “I’ve fallen on hard times. I’m diabetic and haven’t eaten all morning. I’ve been sitting in my car, trying to work up the courage to ask someone for help. And when I saw you with this gentleman I assumed was your dad, I don’t know… something about your spirit. I felt like you were the one I should ask.”

I felt a lump in my throat. “You can order anything you want,” I told her. “But keep in mind your diabetes.”

She looked at me, her eyes full of uncertainty. “Could you order for me?” she asked. “I’ll accept whatever you choose, no matter how small.”

I could see she was afraid to ask for too much. “Go ahead,” I insisted. “Get something that’ll fill you up.”

She finally ordered a regular meal, probably still worried about asking for too much. I thought to myself, if I were in her shoes, I’d have ordered something more substantial.

I ordered everything for all three of us and paid. When the food came, I handed her hers, and she took it with both hands, holding it like it was the most precious thing in the world. “Thank you,” she said, her voice full of gratitude. “I’m going back to my car to eat.”

“No problem,” I replied. “Take care of yourself.” 

Henry and I finished our meal, talking about everything and nothing. When we got back to our car, I saw her still sitting in hers, eating slowly. She looked up when she saw us, smiled, and waved. I could see her mouth the words, “Thank you.”

We waved back. As we pulled out of the parking lot, I couldn’t help but feel a mix of emotions. Sadness for her situation, but also a strange sense of peace. Dad turned to me and said, “You did good, son.”

“Thanks, Dad,” I said. “Just trying to do the right thing.”

We drove on home. Later in bed, I reminisced about what had transpired at the KFC store. Needing and not having is not a nice thing. It made me think about one of my life’s philosophies: We all have only one life as we know it and want to live the best possible. It behooves me to reach out and help someone else, no matter how insignificant it may seem, to live their best life. Hunger is a need that is not nice if you cannot satisfy it. I know, because I have been there many times back in the day when I left my parents’ home to Kingston to attend university. But that’s another story for another time.

My reminiscing made me think of my mother. It is hard not to think about her when you grow up with someone so selfless. Someone who seemed to be guided by an invisible force that always knew the right thing to do. She made you feel like everything would be okay, no matter how little we had. Perhaps I got my philosophy of looking out for my fellow man from her. Let me tell you a little story about her. Her name was Lillian.

Growing up in Norris, a small, rural part of St. Thomas in eastern Jamaica, wasn’t always easy, but she made it work to the point where we felt normal. And it was the same for all my friends in the neighborhood. When we talk among ourselves now, we realize that life was not easy back then. But, to us, it was normal. We did not know anything else. Even today, we feel we had the best life!  

In Norris and the surrounding districts, there wasn’t much public transportation back in the day, so people often had to walk miles to get anywhere. Our yard was like a little oasis. We had these big, cooling mango and breadfruit trees that cast a comforting shade. We had a pipe with cool, running water underneath a giant breadfruit tree, next to an orange tree. People walking the long roads in the hot sun would stop by our yard to rest and catch their breath. And when they did, my mother would always ask if they needed anything. Some would even pre-empt her and ask, “Miss Lil, you have anything can eat deh?” And she’d always have something to offer.

It never ceased to amaze me how she did it. Some mornings, she’d say, “I don’t know what we’re going to eat today.” But then, as if by some miracle, when someone stopped by, she’d make food appear out of nowhere. A little bit of rice, some greens, a piece of bread and butter—whatever we had, she’d share it. I’d watch her, this quiet magic unfolding in our kitchen, the way she’d move so quickly and calmly, pulling together some bickle from seemingly nothing.

I used to wonder how she did it and where this endless generosity came from. But as I grew older, I began to understand. As I noted earlier, hunger is not a nice thing. It’s a cruel feeling. One that can make you feel small and powerless. My mother knew that. She knew what it meant to be hungry, and more importantly, she knew what it meant to be kind. And here it was that I had exercised this trait of understanding and kindness at the KFC store. And what comes around, goes around. When you bless someone, a blessing comes back to you. You get paid back when you pay it forward, and the cycle continues. Again, I can attest to this. Stay with me.

A few years ago, I traveled to Paramaribo for work. It was a short trip, just a few days to handle some business. The night before leaving, I hung out with an old colleague from my days in a previous job who lived there. Paramaribo has a charm to it—an old-world vibe mixed with something distinctly Caribbean. The only problem? The airport is quite a distance from town.

I had an early morning flight back to Port of Spain, which meant waking up around 4 a.m. My hotel was still dark and quiet, and the kitchen was closed. Not a soul was awake. I thought about grabbing something to eat on the way to the airport, but I quickly realized nothing would be open at such an ungodly hour. No fear, I told myself. There’s bound to be a café or shop open at the airport for early-morning travelers.

By the time I got to the airport, I was tired, hungry, and desperately needing coffee and something to snack on. The drive had been long, and the roads were eerily quiet, with only the occasional flash of headlights cutting through the darkness. But the airport was bustling. I sighed with relief. I could smell the faint aroma of pastries and brewed coffee, and my stomach growled in anticipation.

I made my way to a small café tucked away in a corner. The line was short, with a few bleary-eyed travelers, like me, clutching their bags and yawning. I picked up a sandwich, a cup of coffee, and a small bottle of juice—nothing fancy, just enough to tide me over until I got back to Port of Spain. I would be able to have a substantial brunch in transit while I awaited my connection back to Miami. I joined the line to pay at the cashier, feeling more at ease.

When it was my turn, I handed over my items, ready to swipe my card and be done with it. The cashier, a middle-aged woman with a warm smile, rang up my order. Then, as I pulled out my card, she shook her head gently. “Only Surinamese dollars, cash,” she said.

I blinked, taken aback. “No debit or credit card?”

She shook her head again, apologizing. My heart sank. I rummaged through my wallet—some US dollars and a few Trinidadian bills. No Surinamese cash. I hadn’t thought to get any, assuming my cards would be fine. I stood there for a moment, a mix of embarrassment and frustration washing over me.

“I’m sorry,” I mumbled, stepping away from the counter. I left the food on the counter and turned to leave, my stomach rumbling with disappointment. But as I started to walk away, I heard a voice behind me calling out, “Mijnheer!” I turned around, surprised. The cashier was looking directly at me, waving me back over. I pointed at myself, a little unsure. She nodded and gestured for me to come back.

I walked back to the counter, and she handed me the food I’d picked out. I was confused. “I don’t have any Surinamese dollars,” I said. “I can’t pay for this.”

She smiled softly and pushed the items toward me again. “It’s okay,” she said. “Take it.”

I felt a surge of gratitude but also a bit of guilt. “Are you sure?” I asked. “Can you give me your contact info? I can send the money to you once I’m back home in Florida.”

She shook her head, “No need,” she replied. “Enjoy your flight, and have a good day.”

I was touched by that small gesture. She’d shown me a kindness I wasn’t expecting. Over the years, I’ve had the good fortune of receiving help from others, often in the most unexpected places and moments. Perhaps that’s why it feels so natural for me to help when I can. I believe in paying it back and paying it forward. A small act of kindness, but it meant the world to me at that moment. I boarded my flight feeling a bit lighter, a bit more hopeful. Sometimes, it’s the little things that remind you of the goodness in people. Was it the woman in the KFC store in Florida paying me back through this cashier in Suriname? And as the plane took off, soaring above the city, I made a promise to myself to keep the cycle going. Help when I can, as others have helped me. Pay it back and pay it forward. Always.