Dear Editor,
The reckless chaos on Guyana’s roads is maddening, an unforgivable storm we’re forced to endure each day. Drivers move with no regard for life—neither their own nor the souls trapped beside them. It’s as if they’ve become hired hands of death, servants of the funeral homes, collecting bodies and snatching souls as the daily toll climbs higher, fed by their careless hands.
Despite the constant warnings, like whispers in the wind, they remain deaf to the cries of danger, blind to the grief they leave behind. They speed toward nowhere, racing against time that isn’t theirs to beat. And when the inevitable collision comes, they stand there with hollow eyes, claiming innocence, as if their recklessness didn’t just break bones and shatter lives.
When will we learn that this deadly dance brings no reward, no early arrival, only pain? With every reckless turn of the wheel, another family is left in mourning, and funeral homes grow fat with sorrow. Soon, they’ll need to expand their walls just to hold all the bodies this madness leaves behind.
And the motorcyclists—wild and untamed—dart between vehicles, helmetless and thoughtless, believing themselves invincible. They forget the only thing standing between them and death is the fragile grace of God. If this madness doesn’t end, these roads will become the Grim Reaper’s playground, a field of shattered dreams and stolen lives.
But perhaps the cruelest truth of all is that death knows no boundaries. It transcends race, wealth, political power—no one is immortal, and no one is immune. When that recklessness, which we so callously turn a blind eye to, barrels toward us, it doesn’t care who we are or what we believe. No political affiliation, no status, no privilege can shield us from the consequences of our own indifference. In that moment, when we stand at death’s door, there’s no escape, no anonymity. The very recklessness we ignored will be the one that finds us.
And still, the police seem powerless, mere spectators to this madness. There’s no preemptive action, no real interference to stop this reckless dance of death before it unfolds. Instead, shallow measures are taken after the damage is done—just enough to snap a photo, just long enough for a brief moment of fame. Then, it’s back to business as usual, while the roads continue to claim lives.
How much longer will we tolerate this? How many more lives must be lost before we finally say, “Enough is enough”? How many families must be shattered before we demand real change? It’s time we stop turning a blind eye, because the next tragedy might be ours to bear.
Sincerely,
Kevin Anderson
