“Hey, mon!” called out a voice. I turned to see a rough-looking Rasta-type in a dirty red T-shirt and ageing jeans. His dreadlocks came to his shoulders. “Got problems?”

I needed help, but I hardly was looking in his direction.

Driving in this Caribbean paradise, I had been foolish enough to be so taken in by the enchanting scenery and glorious sunshine that I had not really been paying attention to the road. So that when the nearside wheel had caught the edge of the road, the car was into the ditch before I knew it.

Well, not exactly in the ditch. Just that wheel, which was well and truly stuck off the road. Feeling extremely foolish I’d tried pushing the car back onto the road, but it was going nowhere.

So I nodded. I did need help, I’d been praying for an angel—but looking at him I’d probably get robbed in the process.

He took in the situation, and tossed back his braided hair. “No problem, mon. We just lift it up.”

I shook my head. Did he think he was Hercules or something? But since I didn’t have any alternatives, I agreed. We both bent down by the offending wheel, and lifted the car. That is, he did. I don’t think my contribution amounted to anything much. He lifted, grunted, and pushed, and the car was back on the road.

Was I ever grateful! The least I could do was to offer him payment.

He shook his head. “Don’t need that.” He just stood there.

I shrugged.

“You going to town?” he asked.

I nodded. It would have been churlish to refuse the request. He got in.

Now I’m the one going to be taken for a ride, I thought.

But no. He talked all the way. As we neared town, he asked, “So you a Believer, then?”

“Believer?”

“Yeah, you believe in the Bible an’ all that?”

“Yes, I’m a Christian,” I agreed.

“Thought as much. Must’ve been vexing for you to see a Rasta coming and no angel,” he grinned.

I smiled back. I knew little about Rastafarian beliefs, but he was friendly enough.

“But I’m no Rasta, y’know,” he continued. “I believe too. Like in all the Bible. So when I see you there, I know it’s right to help… You can drop me here.”

I let him out. As he left, he bent down to the window. “See I was praying too. I gotta see a friend who’s real sick here in town. And there’s no bus. So I needed you just as much as you needed me. You got me, and I got you. So you had to be my angel.”

He walked away, leaving me thinking. A rough-looking guy and me. Who was the angel? Or is it a question of being brothers and sisters together and helping each other, without needing to ask for angels every time?

© Jonathan Gallagher