A lizard scurried across the concrete wall. Darting from an open louvered window, it headed for the roof. Pausing, tilting a long head, its black orbs surveyed the surrounding area, watching for predators. Seated on an upturned block, Wayne stared at the animal. Taking a pebble, he tossed it, missing. Startled, the lizard scampered diagonally down the wall, disappearing around a corner.
Looking skyward, Wayne searched for the plane he heard, its engine noise loud before its actual fuselage could be seen. Tugging at his shirt collar, he released the stiffness ringing his neck. A deep blue tie knotted at its front disappeared into his woollen jacket. Under the heavy garment sweat rivulets coursed down his back and arms. Adjusting the uncomfortable coat, he sought a better position within it.
The lizard’s light brown head peeked from around the corner it had disappeared. A large eye observed Wayne. Kicking a large stone at it, he swore as he scuffed polished black shoes. He looked for the lizard, it was gone.
“I don’t want to go.” He quietly said the chirping of the birds and hum of the nearby traffic, his answer. Lifting the school rucksack by his leg, he took out an exercise book. Digging into a side pocket, he retrieved the pencil he was using in school the previous day. His English teacher, Ms Stevens had dared her students to use their imagination, of flying away, about how happy they felt with their friends, school and family. Wayne was unable to so. There was nothing he could recall - nothing which made him smile or placed joy within him. Not his mother leaving him behind to live with relatives he hardly knew or the father who was never around; neither the aunt never sparing the strap, making him sleep on the cold concrete whenever he wet his bed. Yet, it was all he knew.
The lizard scampered by his leg, dashing to the far side of the small garden. This time losing itself in weed clumps. It was Wayne’s turn to jump. Lashing out a leg in its direction, he almost shouted. “You can’t make me go. I won’t go!”
He grimaced. The kicks from Brian were still sore. He wanted to cry. Using the back of his jacket sleeve, Wayne roughly wiped his eyes.
Shocked by his outburst, a flustered bird escaped from a clutch of nearby mango trees and raced towards the blue heavens, screeching at Wayne as it flew out of eyeshot. Staring at where he last saw it vanish, he opened the book, starting to scribble. A determined smile creased his face as a tear crept down his cheek.
The lizard crawled from the undergrowth and sat watching him.
Tuesday, 1 November 2011
Pon Di Gully Bank
A small path meanders between the concrete wall of a two-bedroom structure built close to a gully edge. A further yard towards the lip and the house would balance precariously as if ready to topple into the deep channel. As a little yute, Tyrone remembers eating out of the same pot after romping with his friends in the gully. Seated on the gully edge, his legs splayed into the yawning abyss, he smiles as he reminisces on their fun times.
“Mi shot yuh Sassy!” Shouted nine-year-old Jimmy slinking behind bushes congealed on the gully floor, pointing his crudely shaped wooden machine gun at where Sassy, a year older, lay.
“Yuh aim nuh dat gud!” Sassy yelled, crawling from behind a large concrete block, holding a wooden handgun. “Mi nuh dead, yuh miss mi!”
Above them, Tyrone crept along the gully bank. Easing over the lip, he let rip. “Brappp! Brappp! Brappp! Unnooo dead! Fall dun! Mi kill unooo!”
Jimmy and Sassy dived behind their remnants shooting at the partly hidden Tyrone. Trading shots back and forth with no actual fatalities, Tyrone decided to take matters into his own hands. Jumping from his vantage point he ran screaming madly towards Jimmy, who was closer. Unnerved, Jimmy leapt from his hiding place and ran in the opposite direction. Tyrone shot him.
“Yuh dead now!” Jimmy cursed his luck. Tyrone took his gun.
Diving behind his enemies captured rampart, Tyrone turned his attention to Sassy. He fired a few shots in his direction while sizing up their positions. Pausing, he worked his way to Sassy’s left flank. Unsure of the silence, Sassy knelt behind his defense, peeking at Tyrone’s position, his weapon ready. Creeping on his hands and knees, Tyrone made it to Sassy’s exposed side. Jumping to his feet, he threw himself into Sassy’s direction, screaming at the top of his voice. Surprised Sassy dropped his weapon, stumbling. Tyrone stood over him, coldly smiling. And shot him too.
“Yuh dead now! Seh yuh nuh dead nuh!” He took his weapon too.
Smiling ruefully, Tyrone shakes his head. Those days feel like yesterday, time moving so quickly, he forgot where he chose to align himself to one of the island’s party. It was only eight years ago, he reminds himself. Pulling a ready-made spliff from his top shirt pocket, he places it to his lips. A lighter flicks a bright orange flame as it ignites the twisted end of his wrapping.
Fixing a weapon in the small of his back, he then unconsciously fondles a scar above his left breast. Sassy was dead and Jimmy had shot him, eventually. Shaking his head again, he winces. His friends would never be able to tell their tales. Now.
Wednesday, 6 July 2011
HER AFRICAN BEAUTY
Complexion is cool as the breeze across the Sahara
Skin beauty, an inheritance from an elder, a glorious Ancestor
Her legs shapely, like the River Nile
Breasts round,
Voluptuous
Like hills across Afrika abound
Her buttocks full, firm,
A reminder of who she is,
A legacy journeyed across seas,
Filling ships from bow to stern
Her body arched in the right places,
Like Her-Em-Akhet, the Sphinx, in Kemet
An anatomy to yearn for,
For loins already set
Lips so succulent,
Like the juicy fruit on trees
Across green fields, buzzed by busy bees
Feet so dainty,
Toes perky
Fingers tender, smooth even from the hard work reality
Her Golden Jewel, a treasure of the past, present, future
It’s sensuous, sweet, enticing
For some a challenge, a trophy, even tempting
For a King, an invaluable gem
A blessing from Our Father,
To be nurtured, cherished,
Treated with honour
Her spirit as wide as the Motherland,
Deep, bright, an eternal light
Her smile, a testament to the free spirit inside
Seen in her eyes, dancing all the time
The way she walks, a sweet aroma left in every stride
An Afrikan Queen, she stands tall
Head held high, no way is she small
Surely, an Angel from above
See the halo, aglow with love
Her African Beauty is no myth
It is obvious as others try to emulate
Her shape, her lips, her butt, her walk
Her spirituality, even the way she talks
Try as hard as they might,
They’re not blessed with Our Almighty’s delight
For she is a Queen,
A gift from heaven, an Angel from Afrika,
A sister’s presence needing to be felt,
Her beauty for all to be seen
Skin beauty, an inheritance from an elder, a glorious Ancestor
Her legs shapely, like the River Nile
Breasts round,
Voluptuous
Like hills across Afrika abound
Her buttocks full, firm,
A reminder of who she is,
A legacy journeyed across seas,
Filling ships from bow to stern
Her body arched in the right places,
Like Her-Em-Akhet, the Sphinx, in Kemet
An anatomy to yearn for,
For loins already set
Lips so succulent,
Like the juicy fruit on trees
Across green fields, buzzed by busy bees
Feet so dainty,
Toes perky
Fingers tender, smooth even from the hard work reality
Her Golden Jewel, a treasure of the past, present, future
It’s sensuous, sweet, enticing
For some a challenge, a trophy, even tempting
For a King, an invaluable gem
A blessing from Our Father,
To be nurtured, cherished,
Treated with honour
Her spirit as wide as the Motherland,
Deep, bright, an eternal light
Her smile, a testament to the free spirit inside
Seen in her eyes, dancing all the time
The way she walks, a sweet aroma left in every stride
An Afrikan Queen, she stands tall
Head held high, no way is she small
Surely, an Angel from above
See the halo, aglow with love
Her African Beauty is no myth
It is obvious as others try to emulate
Her shape, her lips, her butt, her walk
Her spirituality, even the way she talks
Try as hard as they might,
They’re not blessed with Our Almighty’s delight
For she is a Queen,
A gift from heaven, an Angel from Afrika,
A sister’s presence needing to be felt,
Her beauty for all to be seen
Saturday, 8 January 2011
Buzzin'
Donna rested in her queen size bed. Her plaited head propped deep within a big pillow. A dimmer switch reading lamp burned on a side table. Its light, a beacon in the gloom. Half asleep, almost lost in her subconscious she counted moves.
1…2…3. 3…2…1. 1…2…3.
Over and over, the recesses of her mind turned the routine like a scratched record.
An open book splayed on its pages sat beside her, titled: “A Hundred Ways To Win”, Donna was already halfway through it. It was another one of those motivational books she constantly read to be on top of her game. Tirelessly narrating on where her presently was, forcing her to query where she needed to be. A question, she consistently asked herself.
Across from where she lay, a tall book case stretched from one wall to the next. The majority of her reading material - self-help books.
She was close now. Her mind drifting deeper and deeper into the blackness called sleep. But just as she teetered on the brink overlooking into the gloom, she heard the buzzing.
A persistent, irritating chain-saw noise as if a large greenwood tree about to be felled by callous lumber jack workers.
There, toes fumbling on the cliff edge. Dressed in blue cotton pajamas, Donna swatted at nothing in particular. A blank darkness is all she could see, the universe, infinite, eternal. Its vastness even more frightening with the incessant din. It seemed like there were a million unseen Bluebottle flies, their bodies cloaked by their environment.
Tossing, rolling and twisting the covers, sweat clung to Donna, soaking parts of her pj’s. Too afraid to plunge into the gloom she took a step back. The noise deafening now. Right on top of her. It came closer. And closer. Eventually the racket's in her ear…
Donna leapt from her stupor, slapping her ear. She grimaced from her own self inflicted damage.
Laughing, she looked at her hand.
Splattered across the middle, its minute life at an end, a mangled mosquito.
Reaching for a towel at the end of her bed Donna wiped her stained hand. Easing back against her pillow, she closed her eyes once more.
(c) Kwame M.A. McPherson, September 2010. All rightes reserved.
1…2…3. 3…2…1. 1…2…3.
Over and over, the recesses of her mind turned the routine like a scratched record.
An open book splayed on its pages sat beside her, titled: “A Hundred Ways To Win”, Donna was already halfway through it. It was another one of those motivational books she constantly read to be on top of her game. Tirelessly narrating on where her presently was, forcing her to query where she needed to be. A question, she consistently asked herself.
Across from where she lay, a tall book case stretched from one wall to the next. The majority of her reading material - self-help books.
She was close now. Her mind drifting deeper and deeper into the blackness called sleep. But just as she teetered on the brink overlooking into the gloom, she heard the buzzing.
A persistent, irritating chain-saw noise as if a large greenwood tree about to be felled by callous lumber jack workers.
There, toes fumbling on the cliff edge. Dressed in blue cotton pajamas, Donna swatted at nothing in particular. A blank darkness is all she could see, the universe, infinite, eternal. Its vastness even more frightening with the incessant din. It seemed like there were a million unseen Bluebottle flies, their bodies cloaked by their environment.
Tossing, rolling and twisting the covers, sweat clung to Donna, soaking parts of her pj’s. Too afraid to plunge into the gloom she took a step back. The noise deafening now. Right on top of her. It came closer. And closer. Eventually the racket's in her ear…
Donna leapt from her stupor, slapping her ear. She grimaced from her own self inflicted damage.
Laughing, she looked at her hand.
Splattered across the middle, its minute life at an end, a mangled mosquito.
Reaching for a towel at the end of her bed Donna wiped her stained hand. Easing back against her pillow, she closed her eyes once more.
(c) Kwame M.A. McPherson, September 2010. All rightes reserved.
2011
This another great year
Blessings in abundance are continue rain
Wonderful are people in my life
So much more for me to gain
The Establishment tries to drive me insane
Our Creator has everything in hand, I feel no pain
Everything is blessed....
Thank you Ancestors once again
Blessings in abundance are continue rain
Wonderful are people in my life
So much more for me to gain
The Establishment tries to drive me insane
Our Creator has everything in hand, I feel no pain
Everything is blessed....
Thank you Ancestors once again
Friday, 24 December 2010
Wished Today was Tomorrow
A heavy wind buffeted Lorraine standing on the edge of the playground. Camouflaging her against the graying brick wall, her coat and the brick’s concrete merged seamlessly into one, its nylon thickness keeping her warm from the elements. A hood covered Lorraine’s face; she liked keeping it hidden especially from the taunts and jeers she normally received. But wearing the hood became difficult whenever she returned to class. School rules meant removing her coat. She wished she could wear it all the time.
This morning, she tried concealing her face on her way into the school grounds. At the main gate, heavy-set Principal Patterson stood in the middle of the thorough-way as if she was a traffic policeman stopping vehicles – in this case, her students.
Approaching the school, Lorraine walked alone, head bent, the hood obscuring her face. Children screamed and shouted around her; some gathered in groups, the boys playing on their phones while the girls giggled comparing teeny magazines. A start of another school day.
This was her third day at her new school, since travelling from Ghana Lorraine found it difficult to adjust to the new environment. Grey clouds and cold atmosphere matched the unfriendly, unkind and rudeness of the people. The city, with its narrow streets, busy roads and small homes, added to her claustrophobia. Lorraine hated it but she had no choice. Her Dad had said she needed to be in England since this was where Doctor Stewart lived.
Lorraine wondered why the doctor hadn’t just left her alone. Leave her in Ghana. But Ghana was no different; unfriendly, unkind and rude people lived there too. Lorraine remembered walking through the village once, a posse of children laughing and teasing her as she made her way to the local shop. Their feet kicking dust up as they danced in her wake; voices loud, singing, making rhymes. She disliked all of them too.
Now, she was in England walking towards her temporary school. Dressed in a tweed jacket, Ms Patterson stood in the middle of the school’s private road. A bun sat on top of her burnette head and squared lens glasses almost hid her twitching right eyebrow. It always did whenever she felt anxious.
She called to Lorraine. “Good morning Miss Agogubuyu.”
Lorraine’s father no longer walked with her to school. He had broken his leg stepping off a flight of stairs at King Cross Station. When Lorraine heard, a ball of anger sat in her stomach for a couple of days. Her protective crutch was gone. She would have to go it alone. At least they lived round the corner, two minutes away.
Lorraine answered, mumbling unintelligently at the Principal of her school.
Doctor Sarah Stewart had assured Lorraine the trip wouldn’t be long. She’d said the operation was small and before Lorraine knew it, she would be back in Ghana. She couldn’t wait. As much as she was teased in her homeland and appreciated Sarah’s help, Lorraine missed too much. The daily all year round sunshine and fresh food - very different from gloomy, chilly England.
Ms Patterson made her way over, her eyebrow shuddering. Wrapping a protective arm about Lorraine shoulders, she murmured in her ear while addressing a rowdy child. “Martin get to class! It’s ok Lorraine. You’re fine here.”
Shaking her head, Lorraine disagreed, her accent thick. “The other children always laugh at me.”
“They’re just laughing at your beauty, don’t you ever forget that. Look,” Ms Patterson stopped walking, holding Lorraine at arms length, pushing back the hoodie, “regardless of what anybody says or think you’re the most beautiful girl in this school. Ok?”
Lorraine nodded meekly, a weak smile playing on the side of her face. An action her face found difficult to do. “I can’t wait for the operation.”
“I know. It’s tomorrow, right?”
Lorraine nodded again.
Ms Patterson grinned. “Good, if you need anything, you know where my office is, ok. The bell will ring in a minute. Make your way to your class.”
Lorraine nodded. She liked Ms Patterson.
Doctor Stewart had arranged for Lorraine to attend Casltemont Primary. She felt Lorraine needed to continue her schooling until the operation, so, at least her education wouldn’t suffer. Close to where she lived, keeping routines for Lorraine was important.
Lorraine wandered to the far end of the ground. It was empty, except for the various play things. She wanted to get as far away from the noisy student body as she could. How she wished today was tomorrow.
Eventually, the mob queued, disappearing into the Victorian building. Silence rolled across the ground as Lorraine sat on a swing, its leather seat connected by chains at each end to a metal pole overhead, itself connected to metal poles for stands.
A tear slid down Lorraine’s face, coursing across contours, before slipping into her mouth. How she wished today was tomorrow.
(c) Kwame M.A.McPherson, Dec 2010
This morning, she tried concealing her face on her way into the school grounds. At the main gate, heavy-set Principal Patterson stood in the middle of the thorough-way as if she was a traffic policeman stopping vehicles – in this case, her students.
Approaching the school, Lorraine walked alone, head bent, the hood obscuring her face. Children screamed and shouted around her; some gathered in groups, the boys playing on their phones while the girls giggled comparing teeny magazines. A start of another school day.
This was her third day at her new school, since travelling from Ghana Lorraine found it difficult to adjust to the new environment. Grey clouds and cold atmosphere matched the unfriendly, unkind and rudeness of the people. The city, with its narrow streets, busy roads and small homes, added to her claustrophobia. Lorraine hated it but she had no choice. Her Dad had said she needed to be in England since this was where Doctor Stewart lived.
Lorraine wondered why the doctor hadn’t just left her alone. Leave her in Ghana. But Ghana was no different; unfriendly, unkind and rude people lived there too. Lorraine remembered walking through the village once, a posse of children laughing and teasing her as she made her way to the local shop. Their feet kicking dust up as they danced in her wake; voices loud, singing, making rhymes. She disliked all of them too.
Now, she was in England walking towards her temporary school. Dressed in a tweed jacket, Ms Patterson stood in the middle of the school’s private road. A bun sat on top of her burnette head and squared lens glasses almost hid her twitching right eyebrow. It always did whenever she felt anxious.
She called to Lorraine. “Good morning Miss Agogubuyu.”
Lorraine’s father no longer walked with her to school. He had broken his leg stepping off a flight of stairs at King Cross Station. When Lorraine heard, a ball of anger sat in her stomach for a couple of days. Her protective crutch was gone. She would have to go it alone. At least they lived round the corner, two minutes away.
Lorraine answered, mumbling unintelligently at the Principal of her school.
Doctor Sarah Stewart had assured Lorraine the trip wouldn’t be long. She’d said the operation was small and before Lorraine knew it, she would be back in Ghana. She couldn’t wait. As much as she was teased in her homeland and appreciated Sarah’s help, Lorraine missed too much. The daily all year round sunshine and fresh food - very different from gloomy, chilly England.
Ms Patterson made her way over, her eyebrow shuddering. Wrapping a protective arm about Lorraine shoulders, she murmured in her ear while addressing a rowdy child. “Martin get to class! It’s ok Lorraine. You’re fine here.”
Shaking her head, Lorraine disagreed, her accent thick. “The other children always laugh at me.”
“They’re just laughing at your beauty, don’t you ever forget that. Look,” Ms Patterson stopped walking, holding Lorraine at arms length, pushing back the hoodie, “regardless of what anybody says or think you’re the most beautiful girl in this school. Ok?”
Lorraine nodded meekly, a weak smile playing on the side of her face. An action her face found difficult to do. “I can’t wait for the operation.”
“I know. It’s tomorrow, right?”
Lorraine nodded again.
Ms Patterson grinned. “Good, if you need anything, you know where my office is, ok. The bell will ring in a minute. Make your way to your class.”
Lorraine nodded. She liked Ms Patterson.
Doctor Stewart had arranged for Lorraine to attend Casltemont Primary. She felt Lorraine needed to continue her schooling until the operation, so, at least her education wouldn’t suffer. Close to where she lived, keeping routines for Lorraine was important.
Lorraine wandered to the far end of the ground. It was empty, except for the various play things. She wanted to get as far away from the noisy student body as she could. How she wished today was tomorrow.
Eventually, the mob queued, disappearing into the Victorian building. Silence rolled across the ground as Lorraine sat on a swing, its leather seat connected by chains at each end to a metal pole overhead, itself connected to metal poles for stands.
A tear slid down Lorraine’s face, coursing across contours, before slipping into her mouth. How she wished today was tomorrow.
(c) Kwame M.A.McPherson, Dec 2010
Thursday, 2 December 2010
A Ghost Story
Nadia gingerly stepped tiptoe, furtively looking into the darkness.
The road was quiet, only the creaking, croaking, chirping sounds adding any morsel of comfort.
Pitch black, the nights in Portland, Jamaica, were like walking into a crammed shu-been. A dancehall where there’s nowhere to move, people packed sardine-like listening to the heavy rub-a-dub sounds thumping from loud speaker boxes.
At eight years of age, Nadia had no idea what that felt like but she only knew that she was scared of passing the blackened cemetery on a blackened night.
Even with all this murkiness, people living in the country always had a knack of knowing where to step and how to walk, even if they couldn’t see where their next footfall would land. Because of this unfamiliarity, on visiting the countryside, many city folk would tumble into a precipice.
Miss Matty, Nadia’s grandmother had no qualms in sending her to the little grocery store in the square. The country free from the pressures and violence of the city allowed children from early ages to go to the shop - regardless what time of day or night.
The only thing that scared most country dwellers were the supposedly restless spirits.
Nadia was no different, many a night she would lay in bed, overhearing Grandpa Ames chatting with his friend, Uncle Babsy, about bygone days and their encounters with spirits.
“Babsy, you remembah the time we were going to sckool, early one morning? And this headless man in full white, standing at Mister Smith’s Shop?”
Uncle Babsy guffawed, their laughter carrying easily in the quiet of the night.
“Yes man, we run like cockroach stealing crumbs off a table!”
Both men would laugh aloud, nearly waking the people in the area. Nadia, in the meantime, would fling her covers over her head, feebly trying to protect herself. Fear like a bad friend seeking to keep her company.
Standing still, watching the spot where she knew the cemetery to be, Nadia swore she saw movement. Her eyes, now accustomed to the night, focused on what she thought she saw.
Immobile for a few seconds, her guard-like stance only interrupted by the growl of a car approaching the upcoming deep bend, its headlights dancing on hill side across the valley.
Taking the opportunity, she scampered uphill heading away from the location of the cemetery, towards the
sound of the car.
***
“Child stop your fooliniss, you didn’t see anything!” admonished her sprightly Grandmother. Dressed in a soiled apron, toiling over an iron wrought stove, a bubbling pot of Chicken soup steamed on its grill.
“I keep telling your Granfather to stop chatting dem fooliniss, he talk’s bout. From I was born, I’ve never seen a ghost. So I don’t how you, who just came into the world recently, seen a ghost already!”
Using a ladle to furiously stir the broth, Miss Matty kissed her teeth.
Pleading her case, her granddaughter vainly defended her position.
“But I’m telling you Mama! I did see som’thing but I don’t know what. Has I was looking, I see som’ting white, then when I looked again. It was gone!”
Looking into Nadia’s saucer-like eyes, Miss Matty suddenly realised how distraught the experience had been for her granddaughter. Immediately she felt compassion for her younger relative.
“Ok, my love, don’t worry about it. Next time, we’ll go together…ahrite.”
Reaching over, hugging her into her large bosom, she kissed her forehead.
“Everyting is alrite, my love. Don’t worry.”
***
Claude and Baldwin hunkered down behind a large headstone, a small fire hidden from the road.
Small ten-year old boys, their nightly adventures included catching fireflies by using a lit fire to draw them in.
Dropping out of school since their parents could no longer afford to send them. This was one of the pastimes they enjoyed in addition to swimming in the nearby river, climbing mango, breadfruit and other fruit trees.
Now and then they would find work by delivering groceries or newspapers to the elderly and infirm within the area.
“How many did we catch last night?” asked Claude, a ragged vest hanging loosely on his meagre frame. Short hair on a long face held his grin while surveying the Heinz bottle in his hand. Like the fireflies in the container, his eyes danced with carefree abandon. His friend’s huge dishevelled growth of hair contrasted against his as he tried counting on one of his hands.
“I don’t know,” a squeaky response, totally out of place with a fat body and round head, “you forget that I can’t count!”
Closing his eyes, shaking his head, Baldwin always wondered why Claude would ask the same question day-in-day out. As if anything had changed from the time they dropped out of primary school.
Himself unable to count, Claude countered, “Cho! It was a lot though. I want to catch more tonight!”
***
Walking in the gathering gloom, Miss Matty and Nadia laboured up the steep hill.
Wain Road grew out of Port Antonio and into the high hill meandering its way to the beginning of the Rio Grande River, the longest river in the island. By now the sun had long gone, falling of the face of the earth to the east, its accompanying friend already slowly creeping across the island.
“Wait for me, my child! I’m not as young as you, you know.”
Puffing, Miss Matty struggled behind Nadia.
Waiting for her older relative, anxiously watching the night envelope them, Nadia replied, “Sorry Grandma, I don’t love walking so slow like how the night is coming down. And I want to pass the cemetery quickly.”
“Ok, I know my child but I’m here right? Nothing is going to happen!”
Rounding the final corner before passing the cemetery, Nadia glanced cautiously into its midst. Momentarily, she paused, staring hard into the darkness.
A WHITE LIGHT!
Excitedly she called out as it skipped and danced.
“Grandma look there! See it there!”
Taking a peek, looking at the apparent apparition bouncing unerringly in the distance, Miss Matty’s mouth dropped.
Even in the collecting darkness, her eyes confirmed her growing fear. Screaming loudly, grabbing Nadia’s hand, she sprinted up the road.
Leaving behind her yard slippers scattered on the quiet road.
The road was quiet, only the creaking, croaking, chirping sounds adding any morsel of comfort.
Pitch black, the nights in Portland, Jamaica, were like walking into a crammed shu-been. A dancehall where there’s nowhere to move, people packed sardine-like listening to the heavy rub-a-dub sounds thumping from loud speaker boxes.
At eight years of age, Nadia had no idea what that felt like but she only knew that she was scared of passing the blackened cemetery on a blackened night.
Even with all this murkiness, people living in the country always had a knack of knowing where to step and how to walk, even if they couldn’t see where their next footfall would land. Because of this unfamiliarity, on visiting the countryside, many city folk would tumble into a precipice.
Miss Matty, Nadia’s grandmother had no qualms in sending her to the little grocery store in the square. The country free from the pressures and violence of the city allowed children from early ages to go to the shop - regardless what time of day or night.
The only thing that scared most country dwellers were the supposedly restless spirits.
Nadia was no different, many a night she would lay in bed, overhearing Grandpa Ames chatting with his friend, Uncle Babsy, about bygone days and their encounters with spirits.
“Babsy, you remembah the time we were going to sckool, early one morning? And this headless man in full white, standing at Mister Smith’s Shop?”
Uncle Babsy guffawed, their laughter carrying easily in the quiet of the night.
“Yes man, we run like cockroach stealing crumbs off a table!”
Both men would laugh aloud, nearly waking the people in the area. Nadia, in the meantime, would fling her covers over her head, feebly trying to protect herself. Fear like a bad friend seeking to keep her company.
Standing still, watching the spot where she knew the cemetery to be, Nadia swore she saw movement. Her eyes, now accustomed to the night, focused on what she thought she saw.
Immobile for a few seconds, her guard-like stance only interrupted by the growl of a car approaching the upcoming deep bend, its headlights dancing on hill side across the valley.
Taking the opportunity, she scampered uphill heading away from the location of the cemetery, towards the
sound of the car.
***
“Child stop your fooliniss, you didn’t see anything!” admonished her sprightly Grandmother. Dressed in a soiled apron, toiling over an iron wrought stove, a bubbling pot of Chicken soup steamed on its grill.
“I keep telling your Granfather to stop chatting dem fooliniss, he talk’s bout. From I was born, I’ve never seen a ghost. So I don’t how you, who just came into the world recently, seen a ghost already!”
Using a ladle to furiously stir the broth, Miss Matty kissed her teeth.
Pleading her case, her granddaughter vainly defended her position.
“But I’m telling you Mama! I did see som’thing but I don’t know what. Has I was looking, I see som’ting white, then when I looked again. It was gone!”
Looking into Nadia’s saucer-like eyes, Miss Matty suddenly realised how distraught the experience had been for her granddaughter. Immediately she felt compassion for her younger relative.
“Ok, my love, don’t worry about it. Next time, we’ll go together…ahrite.”
Reaching over, hugging her into her large bosom, she kissed her forehead.
“Everyting is alrite, my love. Don’t worry.”
***
Claude and Baldwin hunkered down behind a large headstone, a small fire hidden from the road.
Small ten-year old boys, their nightly adventures included catching fireflies by using a lit fire to draw them in.
Dropping out of school since their parents could no longer afford to send them. This was one of the pastimes they enjoyed in addition to swimming in the nearby river, climbing mango, breadfruit and other fruit trees.
Now and then they would find work by delivering groceries or newspapers to the elderly and infirm within the area.
“How many did we catch last night?” asked Claude, a ragged vest hanging loosely on his meagre frame. Short hair on a long face held his grin while surveying the Heinz bottle in his hand. Like the fireflies in the container, his eyes danced with carefree abandon. His friend’s huge dishevelled growth of hair contrasted against his as he tried counting on one of his hands.
“I don’t know,” a squeaky response, totally out of place with a fat body and round head, “you forget that I can’t count!”
Closing his eyes, shaking his head, Baldwin always wondered why Claude would ask the same question day-in-day out. As if anything had changed from the time they dropped out of primary school.
Himself unable to count, Claude countered, “Cho! It was a lot though. I want to catch more tonight!”
***
Walking in the gathering gloom, Miss Matty and Nadia laboured up the steep hill.
Wain Road grew out of Port Antonio and into the high hill meandering its way to the beginning of the Rio Grande River, the longest river in the island. By now the sun had long gone, falling of the face of the earth to the east, its accompanying friend already slowly creeping across the island.
“Wait for me, my child! I’m not as young as you, you know.”
Puffing, Miss Matty struggled behind Nadia.
Waiting for her older relative, anxiously watching the night envelope them, Nadia replied, “Sorry Grandma, I don’t love walking so slow like how the night is coming down. And I want to pass the cemetery quickly.”
“Ok, I know my child but I’m here right? Nothing is going to happen!”
Rounding the final corner before passing the cemetery, Nadia glanced cautiously into its midst. Momentarily, she paused, staring hard into the darkness.
A WHITE LIGHT!
Excitedly she called out as it skipped and danced.
“Grandma look there! See it there!”
Taking a peek, looking at the apparent apparition bouncing unerringly in the distance, Miss Matty’s mouth dropped.
Even in the collecting darkness, her eyes confirmed her growing fear. Screaming loudly, grabbing Nadia’s hand, she sprinted up the road.
Leaving behind her yard slippers scattered on the quiet road.
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