Men Rat la

By Jean Venel Casséus In general, in our commentaries, we always quickly and definitively pigeonhole Men Rat la, the cult song by Ensemble Sélect de Coupé Cloué, into the category of the lewd or easily comical. Yet, by listening to the lyrics and not to the image we have of it, this song seems, in reality, to express a cry. A cry of pain and abandonment. That of a Haitian child calling for help from their shadowy corner, somewhere in a dilapidated house where rats and cockroaches reign supreme. From the very first lines, the scene is set: “Limen limyè a manman, limen bòch la ti chou, limen tèt gridap la pou m ka wè kote m’ap met pye m.” This naive request from a child to their mother says it all. The absence of electricity, the reliance on makeshift lamps, the fear of walking in the dark, in an environment infested with pests. Far from the sexual innuendo often believed to be present, this song establishes a miserable setting, familiar to many Haitian families in popular neighborhoods. The testimony continues with brutal realism: “Ayè swa mwen dòmi, rat la mòde mwen nan pye m. Wete m atè a manman, pou m kapab dòmi swa.” These are not metaphors, but facts. It is not a joke, but an SOS. The child is literally attacked in their sleep. They ask for neither toys nor school; they simply ask not to sleep on the floor anymore, to be sheltered, even if just a little higher, to be able to rest without being bitten. And then there is this heartbreaking sequence, often misinterpreted: “Banm dra jelatin lan ti chou, banm zòrye plastik la manman, pou rat la ka gade mwen nan vitrin.” Far from being a grotesque image with a double meaning, this surreal request shows the futile attempt to protect oneself with makeshift means, plastic, cold, useless objects, in a world where sleeping becomes an act of survival. Some believed they saw a sexual allusion, especially since the song was released in 1987, the year when activist Colette Jacques, nicknamed “Madame Kapòt,” publicly launched a vast HIV/AIDS prevention campaign in Haiti. But this historical coincidence should not obscure the interpretation of the song. Here, there is no question of sex. The distress described is too direct to be ambiguous. Men Rat la is not a mockery. It is a complaint. A scene of life recounted by a child who cannot even put on their shoes because “rat la mòde l nan pye li.” It is also a lesson on how Haitian popular music, through the tradition of double meaning and humor, can mask realities of extreme violence. This is not a contradiction; it is a strategy of cultural survival. To re-listen to Men Rat la is therefore to relearn how to listen to Haiti: that of the forgotten, of children on the bare ground, of powerless mothers, and of laughter on the surface to better conceal the cries we no longer dare to hear. May 12, 2025