Under the Open Sky
by Jean Joseph & Kaitlyn Babb
For countless individuals, homelessness is a daily reality shaped by systemic failures, scarce resources, and unforgiving laws. Behind the statistics lie stories of lost jobs, sold homes, and unforeseen crises – each a testament to the fragility of stability.
Thousands of Junkanoos take to the streets of Downtown New Providence, filling the roads like ants in a freshly uprooted ant farm, to participate in the annual Boxing Day and New Year’s Day parades. On these nights, the city centre doubles as the centre of the Bahamas’ cultural and economic identity. The downtown area stretches along Bay Street, from the high-end luxury of Paradise Island’s bridges to the historic enclaves of East Street and beyond – over the hill. In the more urban locales of Bain Town, Grant’s Town, Centerville, and Kemp Road, the luxury of yachts and diamond stores gives way to quieter, forgotten corners. Downtown is the beating heart of Nassau’s tourism and business districts – a juxtaposition of wealth and want that thrives under the Bahamian sun.
Each year, Junkanoo draws thousands of spectators, both locals and tourists, who fill the streets with anticipation for the parades that turn Bay Street into a kaleidoscope of colour, rhythm, and jubilation. Elaborate costumes, shimmering with sequins and feathers, flow past in perfect time to the thundering beat of goatskin drums and the piercing notes of brass horns. The scene is vibrant, joyous, and utterly captivating – a deliberate collision of culture and commerce. In 2022 alone, the Bahamas welcomed over 7 million tourists, contributing billions to the national economy. Much like its sister industries of offshore banking and real estate, tourism infuses the nation with wealth – but this wealth doesn’t flow to every Bahamian.
While Junkanoo celebrates Bahamian identity, resilience, and unity, it also casts shadows on many people hidden in plain sight. Among the revellers are those who live on Bay Street year-round – not for spectacle or tradition but out of necessity. Beneath the fluorescent glow of storefront signs and the clamour of festive drums, you’ll find people tucked into alcoves or lingering on park benches. These people have taken on chameleon-like qualities, their lives folding into the city’s fabric, unnoticed by many.
Some take to the streets voluntarily, driven by choice or ideology, while others are forced into homelessness by circumstances beyond their control – loss of jobs, broken homes, or an economy that swells with wealth yet fails to reach everyone. The Bahamas is a land of extremes. It boasts the highest GDP per capita in the region, underpinned by the stunning affluence of its tourism hubs and gated communities. Yet this prosperity exists alongside staggering income inequality. The land is rich in beauty and opportunity, but for some, the promise of paradise remains an unfulfilled dream.
As the Junkanoo parade marches forward, celebrating a nation’s history and resilience, it leaves behind the quiet echoes of another reality. This story is not just the tale of a cultural festival or a national identity – it is also the story of those for whom the streets are not a stage but a home.
Homelessness
FOR PRACTICAL PURPOSES, everyone knows what a homeless person is. As usual, though, there’s much more to know than most of us care to think about – it all depends on your interests. Socially speaking, a homeless person is someone without a fixed residence, navigating society’s margins for shelter, food, and survival. They are characterized by their resourcefulness, resilience, and, often, invisibility. Like many marginalized groups, they are hunters and scavengers, constantly seeking meals, safe spaces, or opportunities to regain stability. They walk among us in broad daylight, their belongings tucked into backpacks or shopping carts, moving between bus stops, beaches, and city corners.
The definition, while seemingly straightforward, masks a far more complex reality. Homelessness can happen to anyone – regardless of education, employment, or background. In The Bahamas, the issue is compounded by rising costs of living and a lack of affordable housing, forcing some individuals to sleep in their cars or on the beaches of Nassau. These are not just the destitute or unemployed; they are also men and women with jobs, paychecks, and, often, families – people who park their vehicles under the stars because they have nowhere else to go.
The law, however, doesn’t offer much comfort. The Bahamas’ statutes on vagrancy focus on criminalizing visible homelessness, lumping those without homes into categories of loiterers, nuisances, or worse. The emphasis remains on managing public spaces rather than addressing the root causes of homelessness or providing viable solutions. For the thousands affected, this means navigating a precarious existence, forever aware of the watchful eye of law enforcement.
Homeless individuals adapt as best they can. During the rainy season, many seek shelter in abandoned buildings or even in the alcoves of churches. Colder nights are a particular challenge. Blankets, when available, serve as insulation against the wind, while others huddle together for warmth. Every day is a struggle to survive.
Richard, a food vendor on Junkanoo Beach, tells me the problem is more pervasive than we realize. As he closes up for the day, we chat, and he describes the routine that unfolds once most beach businesses have packed up. “Around 4 or 5,” he says, “that’s when the night residents start coming in. It’s like clockwork.”
He points toward the pier, where a woman he often sees sleeps with her back to the wooden beams. “She faces out,” Richard explains, “so she can see what’s coming. She told me it’s to protect herself – from getting jumped, sexually assaulted, or even robbed of what little she has. Can you imagine sleeping like that every night?”
By nightfall, the beach transforms. The chatter of tourists and the rhythmic hum of steel drums give way to an eerie stillness. It’s a world that belongs to people like Charles, who calls himself the king of these areas. Charles moves through Junkanoo Beach and its surroundings with a regal air, his tattered belongings slung across his back like a royal mantle. “This is my kingdom,” he says, gesturing toward the sand and sea. “I don’t need walls or roofs – I’ve got the stars and the ocean. They’re better than any palace.” His domain’s vast expanse stretches from Potter’s Cay Dock to Junkanoo Beach and extends across the Sir Sidney Poitier Bridge to Paradise Island.
Charles’ bravado masks a harsher truth. Even kings of open-air realms must contend with storms, law enforcement, and the creeping loneliness that comes with being invisible to society. Still, his resourcefulness – and that of others like him – remains a testament to human resilience.
The city’s dualities become strikingly clear as the sun sets over Downtown Nassau. By day, it is a bustling hub of commerce and culture, buoyed by a tourism industry that brought in $5.5 billion in 2022. Yet, by night, its shadows reveal another side – a growing population of men, women, and children forced to find sleep under the stars. For them, the wealth of the land is a distant promise, one that remains heartbreakingly out of reach.
King Charles
For Charles, the night is not merely a time to endure but a time to reign. With the tide whispering over the sand and the stars casting pale light onto Paradise Island, the shadows become his kingdom. His patchwork shelter, a fortress of necessity pieced together from discarded tarps and the skeletal remains of broken beach chairs, rises like a defiant banner against the world’s indifference. “The beach,” he says, his voice steady with conviction, “is more than my home. It’s my kingdom.”
At 73, Charles commands his domain with the quiet authority of someone who has endured and adapted. He moves through Nassau’s overlooked spaces not with the aimless shuffle of the defeated but with the deliberate gait of a ruler inspecting his lands. Every bench is a waypoint, every fountain a resource, and every shadowed corner a potential refuge. To outsiders, he may seem like another weathered figure in a city that blends wealth and poverty in stark relief, but to those who know him, Charles is a storyteller, a guardian, and a king in exile.
Charles often reflects on the choices that shaped his solitary existence. “I was too busy ruling the world to build a family,” he says with a rueful smile, his eyes scanning the horizon. While he had fleeting relationships and a daughter he rarely saw, settling down never aligned with his vision of life. “The world was my home; I thought that was enough.” Yet, as he speaks, there’s a quiet acknowledgement of regret, an unspoken wish for companionship in the long nights beneath the stars.
When the rains come, as they often do, Charles abandons his “castle” on the beach for a drier refuge. He makes his way to Pompey Square, a bustling tourist hub by day that, by night, transforms into a quiet shelter for people experiencing homelessness. He finds a corner beneath the sparse cover of a tree or settles on a bench, his belongings bundled tightly at his side. If the downpour worsens, he moves just a few feet away to the steps of the Prime Minister’s office. “Funny, isn’t it?” he says with a chuckle. “A king finding shelter at the gates of another king.”
Yet even these temporary sanctuaries come with risks. The police often patrol these areas, enforcing vagrancy laws that criminalize survival. Charles recounts the countless times police have arrested him for loitering or sleeping in public. “They think they can make me invisible,” he says. “But I know the system better than they do.” In court, Charles transforms from a quiet figure into a fierce advocate for himself. He questions officers, exposes inconsistencies, and secures his release with a sharp wit and an unshakable belief in his right to exist. “The magistrates see through it,” he says. “They know I’m not a troublemaker. I’m just trying to live.”
His stories, punctuated by flashes of profound insight and bursts of glorious embellishments, weave a narrative that spans decades. He recalls the sea breeze of his youth in Doctor’s Creek, where his mother, Estelle, balanced the weight of motherhood and a new marriage to Albert Adderley. He speaks of mail boats and turquoise waters, where he learned the language of survival as a teenager. “The sea,” he often says, his eyes distant, “teaches you to read people – what they want, what they hide, what they fear.”
Yet, for all his confidence, the king of the sand carries the scars of a life lived on the margins. His beachside “castle” offers little in terms of comfort or protection. When the rain comes, and it often does, the tarps sag, and the sand turns to mud. Wind claws at his shelter, threatening to scatter it across the beach. “I’ve weathered hurricanes out here,” he says with a pride that borders on defiance. “The rain, the wind – they can’t break me.”
The nights are lonelier than Charles admits. As the city settles, its vibrant hum replaced by the occasional bark of a stray dog or the distant wail of a police siren, the world feels vast and indifferent. The darkness carries with it a kind of foreboding – a reminder that the streets are not merely a place of rest but a battleground for survival. Still, Charles remains watchful, his senses sharp, attuned to the dangers that come with the shadows.
He knows the dark well. Thieves circle like vultures, preying on those with little to give but everything to lose. Charles has experienced their cunning firsthand. He recalls the night his boat, his last semblance of stability, was ransacked. “They came when I wasn’t looking,” he says, his voice heavy with the memory. “They took everything – my clothes, my stove, my mattress. Even the blankets I used to fight the cold.” The boat, anchored near Potter’s Cay, had been his refuge, a place where he could rest his head without fear of the elements. But that night, it became a target.
Charles describes the betrayal of that moment in vivid detail – the first sight of his belongings scattered across the dock, the emptiness that filled the space where his bed once was. “It wasn’t just things they took,” he says. “They took my peace. My place to think, to breathe.” Unsatisfied with theft alone, the vandals had cut the boat’s moorings, leaving it adrift. The boat was lost to the depths when the tide shifted, sinking with what little remained of his possessions.
The loss forced Charles to confront a harsher reality. Without the boat, he had nowhere to go, nowhere to keep even the most modest collection of belongings. “After that,” he says, “I learned to travel light. You don’t hold onto things because things don’t stay.” He took to the streets with a bundle of salvaged clothes and a resolve to protect what little he could.
Yet, the experience shaped more than his approach to possessions. It deepened his empathy for those who share the streets and face the same relentless cycle of loss and survival. He speaks of others like him with a mix of authority and care, often describing himself as their protector. “There are people out here,” he says, his voice softening, “women, children, old folks – they don’t know how to fight back. Someone has to watch out for them. There’s no one else.”
The thought keeps him awake many nights; his ears tuned to the faintest sound of trouble. He watches over those who sleep nearby, his presence an unspoken promise of safety. “I’ve lost plenty,” he says, “but I won’t let them lose more than they must. Not while I’m here.”
Even as a guardian, Charles knows he is not immune. The predators of the night do not discriminate, and his watchfulness is as much for himself as it is for others. He recalls nights when he had to defend his small territory, using only his voice and presence to ward off intruders. “They come thinking I’m weak,” he says. “But I remind them – I’m not easy to scare.”
As he speaks, there is a flicker of something defiant in his gaze, a glimmer of the resilience that has carried him through the years. For Charles, the nights may be lonely, the dangers ever-present, but they are also a testament to his enduring spirit. He knows the risks, the losses, and the heartbreaks that come with life on the margins, but he also knows this: the world can take much, but it cannot take him.
By day, Charles dons another role: a vendor, a historian, and a performer rolled into one. On the white sands of Paradise Island, his cooler filled with coconuts and pineapples becomes his storefront. For a few dollars, tourists buy drinks infused with rum and laced with charm. But the real draw is Charles himself, his stories as rich as the drinks he serves. “They don’t just pay for the drink,” he says, grinning. “They pay for the story.”
The tourists often linger, captivated by the tales of a man who claims to have shaped the Bahamas. “Atlantis?” he says, gesturing toward the towering resort. “I helped build it. Brick by brick. They don’t give me credit, but I know the truth.”
His declarations of grandeur reveal as much as they conceal. Beneath his stories lies a man grappling with the weight of memory and the ache of what was lost. His past is a mosaic of triumphs and trials: a youth spent navigating the waters of the Bahamas, a career that touched the glittering edges of Nassau’s tourism industry, and a descent into homelessness after vandals sank his boat, his last semblance of stability.
As he moves through the city’s overlooked spaces, Charles navigates a world that offers little but demands much. He knows every fountain where he can wash, every corner where he can sleep. The city’s dualities are not lost on him. He sees the opulence of the tourists who sip cocktails in the shadow of the Atlantis resort, and he sees the shadows of those who, like him, fight for survival.
For Charles, his resilience is his rebellion. He speaks of the streets not as places of defeat but as battlefields where he asserts his sovereignty. “They think they can break you,” he says. “But the truth is, you only break if you let them.”
As the tide recedes and the city awakens, Charles begins another day. His “kingdom” may be fragile, its borders dictated by the whims of weather and chance, but it is his. And in every step, every story, and every defiant gesture, Charles reaffirms a simple truth: the world may strip him of comfort, possessions, and even stability, but it cannot strip him of his dignity.
Maude
As the breeze cools the saltwater lapping at Charles’ feet, it travels over town, past the Paradise Island bridges, along the strip of East Bay Street. It glides down the gravel of Village Road, carrying past Montague Motors and the cultural lighthouse of Doongalik Studios. The wind finds its destination at a corner house just before Queen’s College. It sweeps the doorstep of Maude Ann Lockhart. Or more fittingly, it finds the gaping hole of her dilapidated roof, flowing in through the withered ceiling, traveling through the corridors like a thief in the night.
Inside is cold and wet. Night after night rain pours and with it comes flooding.
Maude remembers when she used to like storms in the darkness. With her hair tied in bubbles and accented with barrettes, she used to drag the living room’s piano chair over by the window overseeing the front of the yard, and peek slyly through the blinds. The harshness of the downpour sounded like an angry shower and the stream of water gushing down the roof and onto the concrete of the house’s walkway was hypnotic. The white, glowing light of the porch reflected in the puddles. The clap of thunder made her heart race like a hummingbird beneath the boned cage of her ribs. It made her eyes grow wide, pupils enveloping her brown irises until they were reduced to thin rings.
When her mother caught her, as was inevitable because Lilymae Lockhart was a light sleeper and held a sixth sense about herself that often left Maude feeling uneasy, it would be worth it. Lilymae would stand there, in the archway that led deeper into their home, where the bedrooms and bathrooms were. She’d clap her hands together to capture Maude’s attention, ripping her away from the weather raging outside, and she’d scold, with her arms crossed tightly over her chest, and her expression severe, “Come from there, Maude! Lightning soon strike you!”
Maude would tumble out of the piano chair, giddy and unfazed. She was used to breaking the rules and she was used to her mother catching her in the act. She’d drag it back over to where it belonged, and as she was ordered to bed, she’d receive a pinch to her arm that was supposed to discourage her. Her flesh would burn lightly from the punishment but as the pain dissipated, and Maude stared up at her bedroom ceiling, she would smile to herself. She would toss and turn, feeling at the cotton duvet underneath her, and the pitter patter of rain on the gutter would lull her to sleep. In the morning, she would wake to the sun peeking over clouds and drying leftover rainwater. She would wake to a breakfast of corned beef steamed with onions, bell peppers and ketchup, white grits with too much butter, and piping hot English tea. Then she would go outside with her brother Harrison and stick her toes into the damp grass.
Now, as lightning licks and thunder roars, Maude curls on her couch, facing the porch window. She blinks her eyes against the hazy warmth of a nearby candle’s glow. The lights are dead. The couch is her last remaining piece of furniture. Behind her, in the vacant dining room, situated just below the hole caving the roof is a bathtub vignetted by a crust of papaya colored rust. Water fills it halfway, and the night has only just begun.
Exhausted as she is, sleep does not come easy. The sound of the tub catching rain is deafening and haunting. It feels as though it taunts her–I’m almost there. I’m almost at my limit. I can’t hold much more. In the morning, she won’t wake to the smell of corned beef and buttered grits or a house full of familial noise. She will wake only to snakes slithering past her feet, hungry mosquitoes at her neck, and the stale scent of damp carpet.
The thought gives her a headache.
This house isn’t what it used to be. It’s a pathetic mimicry of the past. An unreliable shelter that makes strange insects feel safe and holds a permanent odor that’s stuck in the walls, nestled beneath peeling floral wallpaper. Maude isn’t the girl with barrettes in her hair and excitement in her heart. She’s the woman who cut her hair down to the scalp and dreads the scent of incoming rain in the air. Her father is dead and her mother might as well be too. Harrison ignores her calls from the comfort of his own home with working electricity and plumbing. While she carries a five-gallon Aquapure jug to the outside pump to tote water, he turns the knob of his own shower. While he and their mother enjoy hot dinners, seated at a round table, Maude eats stale bread directly from the bag. She runs her fingers over dwindling dollar bills.
Nothing is the same as it was and Maude can’t afford to restore it to what it used to be.
She hopes ardently that her realtor will call with good news in the coming weeks. It’s that thought that eventually brings her to sleep.
She dreams only of: Hey, Maude, we find someone, they want to come look, they willing to pay cash and they ain’t ga try bargain!
It’s difficult to sell the house.
Maude began to think about selling back in 2017 just after her Aunt Ruthie passed and her mother moved out to live with Harrison. Time alone made her introspective.
At one point, Maude lived here with her mother, Lilymae, her father Ed and her brother Harrison and they were a true family. Then they broke apart, each individual falling away like petals from an aged flower. Ed was first, his split from Lilymae gorier than anyone would’ve wanted—the separation settled more like a ripped off limb than the softness of torn paper. Maude felt drenched in the blood. Harrison was next. He melted away to be with a woman in America. To start his own family, like a proper man. He’d come back holding the broken dream in his two calloused hands, the only thing to show for the marriage a son shared between him and his ex-wife. It was okay. He’d try again with a new woman, like Ed did.
Two petals left.
Lilymae and Maude were alone for a time and then they weren’t. Maude met Carl sometime in the 70s. He was a fun kind of man and she liked that. He was white–not conchy-joe, which is an important distinction. He was white, real white, from some place in the United States. He was tall, fun, and for a while they loved each other so much they got married. They loved each other so much they had a child together.
Maude grew up sitting in the wooden pews of Salem Union Baptist Church. She grew up hearing her grandfather, Rev. Enoch Backford I, preach sermons about the natural order as if his life depended on it, spittle flying from his mouth as he quoted Ephesians. Because of this, she knew from a young age that it was important to follow the word. Religious paraphernalia was in every room of her home–a thick, wooden cross just above the front door, a Holy Bible on the coffee table, a Jesus shaped sculpture in the China closet, praying hands in the bedrooms. She knew it was important to do certain things as a woman.
Love, marriage, children. Check, check, check.
Maude had done it all. She’d become a woman, she’d taken on a job, she’d taught herself to sew, she’d married a man and they’d had a child. She did everything as she was supposed to.
Though Rev. Backford, who seemed to have all the answers, existing as an other-worldly being, a tie between reality and the godly, spiritual realm, had never advised her on what to do in the event of divorce. Maybe it was because he was unfamiliar with the subject himself. He had lived to have two wives. The first one a fair-skinned woman from the family islands who met a cancerous end and the second a dark-skinned woman from Fort Fincastle who had a loud reputation for practicing black magic that church folk liked to keep quiet. Her grandfather hadn’t known what it was like to be unwed, much less what it was like to choose that path.
Her mother knew a thing or two.
Even so, Maude hadn’t banked on divorce. She hadn’t banked on Carl leaving her and their son Hans to move back to America.
Three petals now. Maude, Hans, and Lilymae. A frail flower, indeed. They made it work, somehow. Life wasn’t easy, but the sun shined, Lilymae baked pies and Johnny cakes, Maude stitched purses, dresses, pouches–and her own split apart heart–, and Hans smiled and skinned his knees outside playing, leaving blood stains on the concrete. They were all content in knowing that the rain would come and wash it away.
Too content, perhaps. One thing Maude finds is that in life, you can’t stop the fall from coming, no matter how much you might wish to hold onto the summer. She learned that when she had to place an urn filled with Hans’ ashes on the shelf next to her own childhood photograph.
Maude finally attains a buyer after a full year of runarounds, fall throughs and disappointments. Her day to day life had become a scratched record, a mixture of complaints and questions and useless negotiations, repeated over and over.
We can’t work out a deal? If you gimme this for 200,000, I’ll help you out! 420,000 is too much for this. I have to buy it commercial? Why you ain’t sellin’ it residential? Girl, you ain’t ga never get this sold. Maude, another person coming to view the house. He say he want it for 300,000 flat.
You sure you don’t want to lower the price?
Finally obtaining a buyer felt like God’s favor. It felt like the answer to all of the prayers uttered while on her knees, while clutching at the white sand of Montague Beach.
But what people don’t tell you about selling a house is that when you sign the dotted line and the funds grace your palm, the buyers often want you out before sundown. It’s understandable.
No one likes a squatter.
The Orchard Garden Hotel has seen many faces. Bought in the 1970s by Dr. John Knowles, it is a stone’s throw from Maude’s childhood home. She remembers passing by often, not giving the sign more than a second glance on her way to events at Doongalik, boxes of crafts bustling in the backseat of her car, ready to be sold and eager to be bought. Orchard Garden consists of unique, colorful fauna, pink old-timey cottages, and a modest wait-staff. It’s marketed as a home away from home, comfortable, cozy, and affordable, perfect for those who wish to survey the Bahama land quietly. The hotel cites the visit and stay of the Duke and Duchess of Windsor as one of its most prolific, aiming to draw visitors in.
At Orchard, you’ll be staying where royalty once stepped! You’ll feel right at home!
Maude must admit that as she sits on a quilted single bed in an $80 a night Orchard Garden studio-efficiency, she does not feel very honored. She must also concede that it is difficult to feel at home when the place she grew up is only a four minute walk away and it’s currently in the beginning stages of demolition.
Staying at the Orchard feels like an out of body experience. Perhaps it is her reckoning with the fact that she no longer has a key to turn in a door that is her own, perhaps it is her relief at finally being free from the torture of selling a place that was more trouble than it was worth, perhaps it is the overarching guilt of throwing away somewhere that held so much of her–or perhaps, most certainly, it’s the loud, thumping music of other guests throwing parties.
Nights are better. It smells like burning tobacco, spilled rum and fallen poinciana, but Maude has a pillow to rest her head on, an insect-free room, and she has a stomach full of food. However, even with money in the bank, living is restrictive. Her belongings are compiled in suitcases borrowed from a friend, tucked in the corner of her room. When she unzips one of the suitcases to search for something to wear to bed, it feels like she’s looking at her entire life–and isn’t she?
This is all she has to her name. Three pairs of jeans, plain t-shirts, church dresses unworn for years, hygienic products, and a photograph of Hans as a child. Other belongings, like her sewing machine and her pots and pans, are in storage at a friend’s house for a fee of $50 a month.
Days aren’t so bad either. She gets to breathe fresh air, bathe under warm water shooting straight from a showerhead, watch television and think about what she’s going to do next. The uncertainty of her plan eats at her with every phone call between her and a merry-go-round of realtors. She wishes to buy a new home in cash and her budget is no more than $200,000. She should be happier than she currently is, but it’s hard to shake off the feeling of depression when paying off the mortgage of her last house put a heavy dent in her bank account, and renting out the Orchard daily is beginning to add up.
It’s funny. For a fleeting moment, when the sale went through and she had 400,000+ dollars sitting in her account, she felt like she could, for once in her life, be the kind of woman that has everything figured out. Now, as she watches her money deplete, sources for food, wellness, and rent taking a nosedive, anxiety begins to creep up on her once more. She’s haunted by the idea of having to dip into funds allocated for her new home just to stay afloat and begins to skip meals as she used to, holding onto the free breakfasts served in the hotel’s lobby, stretching it throughout the day.
As it turns out, The Orchard Garden is short-lived. Between room switches and late night visits from drunk, wandering tourists knocking at her door, her stay is a month spent feeling unsafe and unstable. It is time spent delivering complaints to the front desk and talking with the singular security officer on hotel grounds, hoping to find common ground. It is time spent daydreaming about the future and wondering when she would be able to see light at the end of an otherwise pitch-black tunnel.
Maude’s cousin, JoAnn, has a friend that has a friend that owns an Airbnb on East Street. By the time Maude moves in, she’s lost weight and she’s lost just a bit of hope, spending her waking moments scouring newspapers for homes within her budget and wishing after her realtor’s call.
The Airbnb isn’t too shabby for her second destination. It feels more stable and Maude sinks into the atmosphere like butter–which is to say that it permits her what she has known for so long: loneliness. It’s a small house she can maneuver around in by her lonesome, take care of as if it is her own and there’s a deadlock on the door to prevent intruders. Though the rent is accepted at a weekly rate, it’s higher than what she paid at the Orchard and before she knows it, her money for food is at zero.
She eats according to pension payments, her right to food defined by the government. She receives visits from JoAnn every so often who brings groceries along with her but Maude often wonders if the look of pity on her cousin’s face is worth the food at all. Calling her brother is out of the question and her relationship with the rest of her family is fractured. She doesn’t feel that she can trust anyone and she also feels a sense of shame about her circumstances.
How did I end up here at 70? Maude wonders.
Although the Airbnb offers Maude a sense of security she did not have at The Orchard Garden, she cannot afford to stay longer than money permits. It’s how she ends up packing her things and finding her third destination after nearly four months of paying rent on East Street and moving in with a friend.
Maude’s friend Agatha is a woman of strange circumstance. Doctors do not know precisely what it is that plagues Agatha, but Maude knows every night when the clock strikes 3, Agatha’s wails of agony echo quietly through the streets of Coral Harbour. Agatha is sickly and frail and despite having no prior nursing experience, Maude is mostly employed as her caregiver.
Though she does not pay in money, she pays in labour. Maude cooks and cleans after Agatha, preparing her meals, constructing her daily schedule, and attending to her needs, while juggling her own tentative situation. Her mounting stress combined with Agatha’s chronic pain and suffering makes for a cocktail of melancholy that weighs heavily on Maude. Her position as a makeshift, on-call nurse is crippling for a woman who is used to being by herself. While with Agatha, Maude finds herself sleep-deprived and feeling more hopeless than she did before. In her almost manic state of rest deprivation and desperation, she spends hours praying for an opportunity to present itself.
The opportunity comes in the form of a little house tucked away in Jubilee Gardens. Maude sees it in the paper for $119,300.
She goes to see it when it’s raining.
The house doesn’t leak. It’s spacious and it’s owned by a sweet, older woman who longs for her own change. Maude makes a deposit as soon as she’s able. The process drags on longer than it should due to matters within the legal office. In frustration, she calls the office herself, demanding a key for her new home. The previous homeowner joins hands with her during her fight and in the end, Maude is able to obtain the cold, steel promise of a new life.
But even as she begins to make her way down a new path, the demons of her past are steadfast at her feet, not wanting to be discarded so easily.
Completely out of money from purchasing her home, Maude must wait on her pension to satisfy the fees accompanying first time home ownership. After paying those fees, Maude must deal with the issue of money–how will she buy food and groceries? How will she purchase furniture? As it stands her home is more of an empty building, a lonely carcass made of brick, than a home.
The more time she spends inside her new house, the more flaws seem to manifest. Broken flooring, holes in screen windows, and most pressing, black mold spread out under the kitchen sink like spilled ink. Maude gets it, truly. When she bought her house, she knew it was something of a fixer-upper. She was not naive to the fact that she would be broke after buying–she had considered renting, but she had wanted something tangible of her own. She had longed for something so many humans do. A legacy. Something left behind for her only grandchild. Something that would make people think of her when they passed by. Something that could keep her alive in the minds and the hearts of others, even long after she died.
Maude also longed for her own space to be herself. She was born and raised within a house. Some of her best memories were because of her childhood house. So then, it stood that maybe it was only right to finish her life within a house, the traditional way.
Even a year post buying her home, she still feels unstable, which amazes her at times. With living her life off pension checks and the proceeds from sewing projects, she often feels like stability is still just out of her grasp. It confuses her. She is better off than most. She never had to sleep on the sidewalk. She never had to seek food from a soup kitchen–mainly because of her own pride, she preferred to suffer the pain of her stomach eating itself–and she never had to ask people sitting in traffic for a dollar bill.
She battles with whether she can even truly call herself homeless.
Homeless sounds like a bad word. Like a label she hasn’t earned.
But, she admits that the thought of what could have happened if Agatha hadn’t offered a helping hand and she had to dip into the money for her house,is nightmarish. She can’t determine what she would have done then.
Even now, when she sticks food stamps and drives her $3000 dollar Japanese car to the nearest Super Value, she feels a sense of nervousness on the checkout line. As the scanner beeps and the bill crawls higher, she wonders, do I have enough? When she calls for quotes on a new kitchen sink, she wonders, do I have enough? When she peruses Furniture Plus and sees the dollar signs and offered plans, she wonders, do I have enough?
Though she is in a completely new environment that is all her own, Maude can’t help but feel that she is exactly where she first started.
Sitting on the singular wooden stool in her living room, gazing out of windows with no curtains, and drinking water from the tap, the dread of being trapped within an ouroboros of poverty and uncertainty continues to plague her.
She wonders, will I ever have enough?
A Family Without Shelter
The evening breeze swept through the city streets, stirring dust and leaves as it whispered through alleys and boulevards. Somewhere amidst the glow of streetlights and the hum of distant traffic, a small rented car sat further down the beach from Charles’ palace. Inside, a young family huddled together—mother, father, a newborn, and two toddlers—trying to make sense of a life that had unravelled entirely in just a few months.
The mother, her face lined with exhaustion, cradled her newborn in her arms, her gaze distant as the baby’s rhythmic breaths provided fleeting comfort. The two toddlers pressed against her sides, their tiny frames tucked beneath a blanket barely shielding them from the cool night air. She whispered to them softly, trying to offer reassurance she did not feel.
Just months earlier, this family had a home. They had stability. The mother worked a steady job, and the father—a man she described as a “real provider and protector”—did what he could to keep their lives secure. They were ordinary people, the kind you might pass on the street without a second thought, their existence anchored by the quiet routines of work, play, and family life. Then came the dismissal.
The mother had given birth not long before losing her job – fired despite promises from her employer that her pregnancy wouldn’t affect her position. She was just five contributions short of qualifying for National Insurance benefits, a bureaucratic technicality that left her without a safety net.
And then the violence.
Her partner had gone out one night, like so many before, to work and hustle for the family’s survival. But this time was starkly different from the rest. She remembers getting the news that he had been ambushed, robbed, stabbed, and shot—a vicious attack that left him broken and bleeding but somehow alive. The physical wounds were deep and numerous, but he carried on. There was no choice. Bills didn’t wait for recovery. Rent didn’t pause for healing.
Despite their attempts to catch up on past-due bills and rent payments, their landlord had waited long enough. With no means to pay, the landlord evicted the family, their belongings scattered as they searched for somewhere—anywhere—to stay. The mother’s voice trembled as she recounted their efforts: turning to social services, pleading for shelter. But every option was full, stretched to capacity.
“They can’t evict people to make room,” she explained. “So there’s no space for us. We begged everyone for help, but all we got were false promises.”
Desperation brought them to the car. The money from the partial return of their security deposit wasn’t enough for a new place, but it was enough to rent the vehicle—a temporary refuge from the streets. For nearly a week, it had been their home. The children’s laughter, once a joyful soundtrack to their days, had grown quieter, replaced by questions too heavy for their small voices to bear.
“Mommy, why can’t we go home?” one toddler asked. The mother didn’t have an answer.
The father, despite his injuries, refused to rest. Each morning, he left the car with its windows fogged from the close press of their breathing, his steps heavy but determined. He worked wherever he could—odd jobs, hustling for scraps of income—pushing his body past its limits. Open wounds stretched and bled beneath hastily bandaged gauze, and his weakened frame often swayed under the strain. Still, he persisted.
“He’s sacrificing everything for us,” the mother said, her voice cracking with admiration and helplessness. “His mind, body, soul—he’s giving it all, and I don’t know how to help him.”
Her partner returned each night weaker than the last, his movements slower, his voice softer. She watched him with growing fear, wondering if his determination would be enough to outpace his failing health.
Inside the cramped car, survival was an exercise in endurance. The toddlers cried through the night, their restlessness mirrored by their mother’s sleeplessness. She pressed her forehead against the cool glass of the car window, wishing for just an hour of peace.
“I’m so tired,” she whispered. “I just want to sleep. My kids are tired, too. I can’t do this another day.”
Her voice was raw with exhaustion, but beneath it was an ache deeper than fatigue. She was angry at a system that had failed them, the empty promises of help that never came, and the employer who assured her that motherhood wouldn’t cost her a job. Most of all, she was angry at herself for not being able to shield her family from the storm that had engulfed them.
Every night, the mother hoped for a miracle; this time, the world answered. Her post on Facebook, a desperate cry for help, began circulating widely. Friends, strangers, and even local organizations shared her story, amplifying her plea for shelter. Offers of support trickled in then surged—a cascade of generosity that restored a glimmer of hope.
Within 24 hours, the family had a new glimmer of hope as a kind benefactor who wanted to help offered them a place to stay – a roof over their heads so they didn’t have to gaze at the starlit sky and face the cold ocean breeze and the equally cold reality of homelessness. Others contributed food, diapers, and clothing for the children. For the first time in weeks, the mother felt a weight lifting, the crushing despair giving way to cautious relief.
“We’re safe now,” she shared in an update. “Thank you to everyone who cared enough to share our story and those who reached out to help. My family can finally rest.”
But even as the mother expressed her gratitude, she focused on a broader horizon. The relief her family experienced was a reminder of how much needed to change for others still in similar situations. She wanted to use her voice to advocate for those left behind—families living in cars, on beaches, or under the open sky, struggling to hold on.
“I know what it feels like to be invisible, to think no one cares,” she said. “But no one should have to live like that. We need more shelters and better resources. People are slipping through the cracks every day.”
Her story underscores the broader homelessness crisis in The Bahamas, where rising costs, economic inequality, and a stretched social safety net leave many vulnerable. While her family found safety, many others remain without shelter, navigating lives of uncertainty and danger.
This mother’s journey—from desperation to a fragile new beginning—is both an inspiration and a challenge. Her resolve to help others reminds us that behind every story of survival lies a call to action: to build a society where no family is left out in the cold.
Conclusion: A Call to Action
Homelessness is a shadow that lingers, stretching across our cities, hidden in plain sight yet impossible to ignore. It manifests in Charles’s quiet desperation, Maude’s unspoken grief, and the young family fighting to hold on to hope in their car. It is a reality that starkly contrasts the glittering celebrations of our cultural identity—the vibrant colours of Junkanoo costumes, the rhythm of goatskin drums, and the joyous parade that fills the streets. Beneath the same stars that light the revelry, many Bahamians lay their heads to sleep on benches, beaches, and under makeshift shelters, each a testament to the fragility of life and the endurance of the human spirit.
Charles speaks of his “kingdom” on the sands of Paradise Island, his patchwork shelter a defiant statement against the world’s indifference. He guards his dignity as fiercely as he guards others like him, navigating a system that too often criminalizes his existence. Once a girl captivated by storms, Maude lives amid the ruins of a home that echoes the systemic neglect of those who fall through society’s cracks. And the young family, thrust into homelessness by the domino effect of job loss and violence, reminds us that the line between stability and despair is thinner than we care to admit.
Their stories compel us to confront the systemic roots of homelessness. Vagrancy laws, relics of a bygone era, offer punishment rather than protection, perpetuating cycles of criminalization and stigma. Economic inequality widens the gap between those who thrive and those who struggle, while rising costs leave many families one crisis away from eviction. Mental health, a critical piece of the puzzle, remains overlooked, pushing individuals further from the stability they need to rebuild.
Yet even in their struggle, there is resilience. The family’s cry for help resonated deeply, sparking an outpouring of support from the community. Within days, they found temporary shelter, a flicker of hope amid the darkness. The mother now speaks of using her voice to help others, but she knows many are still sleeping in cars, on the beach, or under the open sky. Their stories call us not just to feel compassion but to take action.
This moment asks us to reimagine how we respond to homelessness, to shift from short-term fixes to transformative solutions. The University of The Bahamas (UB), standing at the crossroads of research, education, and policy, holds a unique responsibility. It can become a beacon of innovation and advocacy, shaping the next generation of leaders to approach homelessness with empathy and evidence-based strategies. UB’s students and faculty can drive the conversation forward, examining the intersections of inequality, mental health, and outdated laws, while training social workers, policymakers, and activists to rebuild the social systems that have failed so many.
The next generation must address the structural causes of homelessness and reweave the fabric of our communities. Governments must view housing as a human right, mental health services as essential infrastructure, and social systems as the foundation of a fair and just society. The energy of Junkanoo—its defiance, its celebration of identity—must inspire a movement that includes everyone, especially those living in the shadows.
For all of us, the challenge is clear. We must reject the indifference that allows homelessness to persist. We can support organizations providing shelter and aid, amplify the voices of those who have lived the experience, and advocate for policies that reflect our shared humanity. Homelessness is not an isolated issue; it is a collective failing, and it will require collective action to resolve.
As we marvel at the stars that light up our Junkanoo nights, let us remember those who sleep under those same stars not by choice, but by necessity. Their stories—of resilience, struggle, and hope—remind us that the line between celebration and survival is thinner than it seems. In the rhythm of the drums and the echo of their voices, we find a call to action: to create a Bahamas where everyone has a place to call home, and no one is left out in the cold.
Reflections on Ethnographic Research for Under the Open Sky
Embarking on the ethnographic research for Under the Open Sky, an essay on homelessness was an eye-opening journey that reshaped my understanding of storytelling and human connection. Through direct observation, interviews, and immersive engagement with individuals experiencing homelessness, I gained invaluable insights into their struggles, resilience, and humanity. This process enriched my writing and deepened my empathy and appreciation for ethnography as a tool for meaningful journalism.
One of my first lessons was the importance of listening without judgment. Ethnography demands that you enter someone else’s world with humility and openness, setting aside preconceived ideas to understand their lived experiences truly. Speaking with people who live under the open sky revealed a complexity often lost in statistical or policy-driven narratives. Each story was unique, shaped by circumstances like job loss, mental health struggles, or fractured family relationships. These personal accounts made the abstract issue of homelessness relatable to the average person.
I also learned the value of observation and contextual awareness. Spending time in spaces where homeless individuals gather—near beaches, the University of The Bahamas, and other public spaces—helped me see how they navigate daily challenges. Observing their interactions with each other, with housed individuals, and with systems like law enforcement provided a broader perspective on their lives. I noticed subtle dynamics, such as how to build trust within their community and learned about how they creatively solve problems despite limited resources.
Ethnographic research taught me to respect and represent participants’ voices authentically. Imposing a narrative on others is easy, but true ethnography requires letting subjects guide the story. In this project, I focused on how individuals framed their experiences, ensuring that their perspectives remained central to the essay. This approach not only added authenticity but also gave power to those often excluded from mainstream narratives.
Another critical lesson was recognizing my role and responsibility as a researcher. Engaging with individuals in vulnerable situations highlighted the ethical dimensions of ethnography. I grappled with questions like: How do I tell these stories without exploiting their pain? How do I balance truth-telling with compassion? These challenges reminded me that journalism is not just about reporting facts—it’s about honouring humanity.
Finally, the research underscored the transformative power of storytelling. Writing Under the Open Sky wasn’t just about documenting experiences but shedding light on systemic issues and inspiring action. By putting a human face to homelessness, the essay has the potential to challenge stereotypes and encourage readers to see the homeless community not as a problem to be solved but as people deserving of dignity and care.
In conclusion, the ethnographic research for this essay was an enriching experience that expanded my skills as a journalist and my understanding of the human condition. It reaffirmed the power of journalism to bridge divides, spark empathy, and drive change. These lessons will undoubtedly shape how I approach future projects, pushing me to tell stories that matter with integrity and purpose.