A Brief History of Seven Killings

by James, Marlon

  —Come on. In Funky Kingston? Not even curfew puts this city on lockdown.

  —You looking for trouble.

  —Nah, running away from it most likely.

  —Wasn’t asking no question.

  —Ha. So come on, somewhere must be jumping, curfew or no curfew. You’re telling me all of this city is locked up tight? On a Friday night? That’s some crazy jive, mister.

  —Friday morning.

  He looks me down again. I’m tempted to say yeah, bud, I only look like a stupid tourist.

  —Jump in and let see what we can find, he said. We going to have to stay off main road so Babylon don’t stop we.

  —Rock ’n’ roll.

  —That’s what you going say when you see these roads, he says.

  I want to say buddy, I’ve been to Rose Town but that’s just white people mistake number ten: being proud about visiting somewhere Jamaicans would never be proud to visit. He took me to the Turntable Club up Red Hills Road, another one of those streets that the hotel concierge gives a strict time limit on how long a person of caucasoid extraction (her words, not mine, swear to God) should consider himself safe. We passed a line of boys roasting chicken in oil drums with the smoke hazing straight across the road. Men and women sitting in cars, standing by the roadside, eating pan chicken and soft white bread, closing their eyes with big grins, as if nobody should be getting this kind of bliss at three in the morning. Seems nobody here heard there’s a curfew. Funny that we should end up at the Turntable Club because the last time I was here I was trailing Mick Jagger. Dude was going batshit crazy over all the stone-ass foxes in the club and all his favourite colour, black. The driver asks me if I’ve ever been to Turntable and as much as I don’t want to be a smartass, I hate when they think I’m just some ignorant cracker.

  —Breezed through a couple times. Hey, whatever happened to Top Hat? And didn’t Tit For Tat used to be just down the street? Saw some dude get fucking clobbered for hitting up some pot in the bathroom. Bud, just between me and you? I always liked Neptune better. Turntable gets too mellow, man. And they play too much fucking disco.

  He spent so much time staring me down in the rearview mirror that it’s a wonder we didn’t crash.

  —You know your Kingston, he says.

  And it weirds me out. I never even liked Neptune and was only guessing at Top Hat, I could have sworn it was called Tip-Top. Without Mick or Keith to tail, the Turntable Club became just any other club with too much red light. Thick with people like this curfew was somebody else’s business, not theirs. I got a beer and somebody tapped my shoulder.

  —I goin’ keep talking to you while you try your hardest to remember my name, she said.

  —You always such a smartass?

  —No, just making it easy for you. Whole heap of black women in here.

  —Give yourself some more credit.

  —I give myself plenty credit. You, on the other hand. You buying me a Heineken or what?

  And so it goes, I wake up before the sun comes out and she’s in the bed beside me, not snoring but breathing heavy. I wonder if this how every Jamaican breathes, you know, just out of pressure or necessity. Can’t remember when she wrapped herself into the covers tight, like I did something that she doesn’t want me to do again. I want to wake her up and go sweetie I know the deal with Jamaican women, hell with any foreign women. They have to take the lead and it’s cool city, really. Pete from Creem landed in jail two years back when a Bermuda groupie started screaming rape, because according to him, he only suggested they French fuck. I remembered her. Jamaican girl who said she went to Brooklyn whenever she wanted to experience ghetto life. I remember that made me laugh out loud. Dark, dark skin, straight, straight hair and voice that’s never tender, ever. Of course we slept together that night, both of us were at the Supersoul concert being bored by the Temptations trying to phone it in, and neither of us was having any fun. Truth be told I was happy to see her at the Turntable. It had been a year. Figured out the name yet? she said as we went back to the taxi that I didn’t know waited for me. The driver nodded but I couldn’t tell if it was in approval.

  —Me say if you remember my name yet?

  —No, but you look an awful lot like a girl I know named Aisha.

  —Driver, is which hotel him staying?

  —Skyline, miss.

  —Oh. Clean sheets then.

  She’s fast asleep in bed and I’m totally naked and looking at my belly in the mirror. When did it get so soft? Mick Jagger never gets a belly. I turn on the radio and the Prime Minister just announced a general election in two weeks. Damn, that’s hard to core right there. I wonder what the Singer thinks, if the government set him up to piggyback on the good vibes from his upcoming concert. What else could it have been, Third World leaders kinda revel in a sorta obviousness, I hear. It just seems so awfully convenient.

  I’m supposed to have lunch, or rather coffee, with Mark Lansing. Ran into him in the Pegasus Hotel lobby last night, after another powercut. Went downstairs looking for smokes but the gift shop was already closed, so I walked over to the Pegasus and who should I see in the lobby like he was just waiting for somebody to see him? How’d the Antonioni shoot go? I said and he snickered twice, not sure if he should answer or find it funny. Too busy with my own stuff, though there has been offers, he says. I’d ask Mark Lansing what he thinks about this sudden election announcement, but he’d be so stunned that I asked him a serious question about politics that he’ll just give me a shitty answer and ask why do I need to know since I only write for a music magazine, the same one he once said he read every week.

  At some point I must have mentioned how much I’ve been trying to get thirty minutes with the Singer or he must have heard from someone, because now he felt that I needed something from him. I remember it, him saying the exact words poor guy maybe there is something I can do for you. I did not tell this asshole to go fuck himself because, funnily, in that one split second I felt sorry for him. Loser has been waiting to have something over somebody for years. Now I’m having lunch with him later, so he can tell me how fricking awesome he is for getting to film the Singer with his expensive camera, and he’ll use the word fricking. He told me it was expensive but never told me the brand, thinking I wouldn’t know anyway. Fucking idiot probably went to bed with a stupid grin on his face, saying to himself, Look at me, motherfucker, I’m finally cooler than you. I need to get me some coffee real quick before I start to totally spazz out and freak the fuck out of Aisha. She’s still asleep.

  Papa-Lo

  People like me love to talk, everybody know that. Me par with the Singer because he love to talk too, even when he pick up the guitar and making ism rhyme with schism he still talking. And even when he rhyming ism with schism he still expect you to talk back, for is conversation we having, people. The reggae is nothing more than a man talking, reasoning with another man, conversating to and fro, as I would say.

  But check this. Some man don’t talk. And just as how man who love to talk par with man who also love to talk, man who keep quiet par with man who keep quiet. Man who keep secret par with man who keep secret. You go to certain party, certain meeting, and you see Josey Wales go up to certain man, or they go up to him, and together they keep quiet. But last night was a hot night with no moon and today barely born. Me sleep for one hour and wake up with restlessness in the spirit. For too long now, way too long, something trap up in my head that must come down out my mouth. If I was a writing man it would have come down on the paper. If I was a Catholic it would come out all over the confession booth.

  My woman gone to the kitchen to boil tea, and cook corned pork and yam. She know what me like and laugh when me cuss her out ’bout her donkey hee-hawing in the night. You don’t complain when me make other sound in the night, she say and take her jiggly backside to the kitchen. I slap it before she gone far and she look at me and say mind me tell you singing friend that you still eating pork ’pon the quiet. For a second I think she mea
n it, then she laugh and walk off singing “Girl I’ve Got a Date.” Some man never get the woman who cure them from looking for other woman. But even she can’t do nothing ’bout the restlessness in the spirit. She can make the food sweeter, and rub my head down softer, and she know when to tell the man them don’t come ’round the house today, but she know there be nothing she can do or say to put the spirit at ease.

  Maybe because is December. After all, only when we come to Reve lation that we take stock of Genesis, right? Going to December make me think about January. And not just because the PNP fucked up the country. Everybody know that communist done infiltrate Jamaica. More and more Cubans coming here, but nobody know that more and more Jamaicans going there. And when they come back, they can work an AK-47 like them born to control it. True thing, a school getting build over in St. Catherine and not one man on the job speak English. Then before even God can say, But wait a minute is what this? every doctor in the hospital now name Ernesto and Pablo. But January take something from me and give it to Josey Wales. And right now, everybody know.

  Early in December before he give we any work or any money or any goodwill package for Christmas, Peter Nasser give me a message. He say tell your people that come this season and afterwards to boil more banana, and roast more yam, fry more potato and dig up more dasheen, but forget dumpling or fritters or cake or anything that need flour. I don’t even notice what he say too good, don’t even remember passing on the message to the community or even how it spread, unless me did tell me woman.

  December 30 was the first one. January 2 end with three more. Then on January 22, God leave St. Thomas. Thirteen people, family and friend, start have headache, fits, vomiting and a few go blind. They shit and shit and couldn’t stop shit, they faint and wake up and faint and shake like God striking each of them with lightning. And even after them dead, they couldn’t stop shit and shake. All of them dead the same day from the same lunch. Rumour burst open like polio in 1964 and many man and woman lock up themself ’cause they frighten. It in the flour, it in the flour, it in the flour, they say. The flour have death write in it and death make a mark on seventeen people heart. The next day the health minister say that the counter flour that come over to Jamaica on a German ship did poison with a plant killer they call Mother-in-Law poison. But Jamaica know the poison, we ban it from before Ocean’s Eleven.

  Peter Nasser show himself in January. Again, he come hug me, but ask Josey Wales how the car working with the new battery, and me wonder how that become him business. But he talk to me in way he don’t talk to Josey Wales. Telling me ’bout how IMF should really stand for Is Manley Fault, he can’t save the country, can’t protect it, can’t even control it. Funny how he talk to Josey Wales ’bout car battery and girl and invite him to shoot clay pigeon on Tuesday, but he talk to me about politics. Me tell Josey Wales, and Chinaman, and Weeper and more, that some white businessman and politician was coming down to get convince that the Prime Minister can run the country. By the time we done, them shouldn’t even believe he can run Kingston.

  Me never need convincing, PNP never do nothing for anybody but the PNP. Is JLP that come to the ghetto without we having to beg first, come in the fifties when me reach as far as me going with school and turn the nasty shit run place into building like them building on Good Times TV show. Then they build Copenhagen City and for the first time in my mother life she bathe in private. Them talk they talk, but is not PNP come to the ghetto, they only come after Copenhagen City build and set up some hurry come up piece of shit place that call the Eight Lanes. They pack them little lanes with nothing but PNP people to antagonize we, but any fool can shoot.

  But who win West Kingston win Kingston and who win Kingston win Jamaica, and in 1974, the PNP unleash two beast from out of Jungle, a man called Buntin-Banton and another named Dishrag. PNP was never going win West Kingston, a fact then and a fact now, so they pull a jim-screachy, they create a whole new district and call it Central Kingston, and pile they people in it. Who they have run it? Buntin-Banton and Dishrag. Before them two, war in the ghetto was a war of knife. They gang did number thirty strong cutting through Kingston on red and black motorcycle, buzz buzz buzzing like an army of bees. When the Buntin-Banton Dishrag gang attack we at a funeral me know right there that the game done have new rule now. People think it way past the time when anybody can remember who start things first, but don’t get the history of the ghetto twist up, decent people. Buntin-Banton and Dishrag start it first. And when PNP win the 1972 election all hell break loose.

  First they drive we out of the jobs we get only four years before. Then them two boy start drive we out of town, like we is varmint and they is Wyatt Earp. They even attack their own, chopping up union man connected to they own party because he tell workers to go on strike. Then near this time last year, a white van pull up outside JLP headquarters on Retirement Road and just stop. The van block the view so they come out of nowhere, attack of the killer bees, Banton/Dishrag gang buzzing in on them bike. They mash up furniture, tear up documents, kick up man, beat up woman, rape two then leave. And here is the thing: during the whole time not one of them say a single word.

  But the gang was nothing but coward. They never dare come to Copenhagen City, never touch the head, so they chop the fingers and toes and keep chopping up until I tell Peter Nasser that is time for this sleeping giant to wake up. When we done with them Lane Number Six burn down and every woman start bawl because they never have to scoop brain back into a dead son head before. When we done with Lane Number Seven the only thing left that could move was lizard.

  But them two start to think they run the PNP. The party take them on trip to Cuba. Dishrag, who get the name because him was a Rastafarian and him dreadlocks look ragged, land in Cuba and gone to party with Fidel Castro himself. Nobody never tell the brethren that the national dish was pork. He lose him temper like he was Jesus in the temple that day the Jews turn it into market. He kick over even Castro table. Dishrag turn into a problem for him own party. That’s when a man call a man, who call Priest, the only man allow to walk in both JLP and PNP territory, and Priest call me. Me go after that pussyhole meself, tell Chinaman just go to Stanton Bar, quiet-like, and head wherever the girls them running from, cussing and clutching they batty, or titty or poom-poom. Chinaman skill enough to put away a boy with one shot, so when he walk up behind him and say yow pussyhole and fire in the back of him head, the woman them ’round him table didn’t even scream until the third shot go in, this one through the same hole the first one make, and blood splatter all over them. After six shot Chinaman disappear like an afterthought.

  Then in March 1975, Shotta Sherrif drop a message in a church lady Bible where Buntin-Banton was going be. Right out on Darling Street, on him way to check on him woman, just three more block from the sea, Josey and four man draw down right beside him car and shower the pussyhole until even the car engine dead. Buntin-Banton funeral was the biggest thing, word was that twenty thousand people go. I don’t know ’bout that number but I do know that the Prime Minister, the deputy Prime Minister and the Minister of Labour all go.

  But that was 1975, and this be December 1976 and one year might as well be one different century. Because every man who fight monster become a monster too, and there be at least one woman in Kingston who think me is the killer of all things name hope. People think me lose it because it bother me that me kill the school boy by mistake, but don’t realize that me losing it because it supposed to bother me but don’t. But now my woman calling me, saying, Bigger-boss, come eat you food.

  Nina Burgess

  Hello?

  —Well praise almighty Jah-Jah, it seem you finally wake up. Is the third time me a call the sistren.

  My sister Kimmy. Two sentences in and she already playing ghetto. I wonder if the sun is up yet. I don’t know if I’m up for either it or her this morning.

  —I was really tired.

  —Too much party last night. You hear me? I said you had too much party
last night. You not going ask me what you must take for it?

  —I already know.

  —You already know what you must take?

  —No, I already know you’re about to tell me.

  —Oh. What a way you facety this morning, sistren. Not used to you being so smart. Must be the morning air.

  Kimmy makes a point out of never calling me, ever since she took up with Ras Trent who told her to keep her communication with people still trapped in the Babylon shitstem as little as possible. He escapes such communication by flying out to New York every six weeks or so. Kimmy’s still waiting on a visa to go with him. You’d think that Ras Trent, son of the Minister of Foreign Affairs, could arrange a visa for his queen woman. You’d think the same queen woman would read something into him not even offering to try. But everything in Jamaica is up for sale, even an American visa, and I have things to do today.

  —How can I help you, Kimmy?

  —I was thinking the other day. What you know about Garveyism?

  —You call me at, at—

  —Eight forty-five. Eight forty-five a.m., Nina. Is soon nine.

  —Nine. Shit, I have to go to work.

  —You don’t have no job.

  —Still have to shower.

  —What you know about Garveyism?

  —Is this a radio quiz? Am I ’pon de air?

  —Stop take things make joke.

  —Then what else could this be, you calling me so early in the morning for no reason other than a civics lesson?

  —My point exactly. That you wouldn’t see it as important. That’s why the white man just downpress you so, when me say Garvey you ears should’a prick up like dog.

  —You talk to your mother today?

  —She fine.

  —That’s what she’d said?

  —Mummy need livicate her life to the struggle. Only then she can truly escape our downpression as a people.