by Alex Wheatle
Brooding under her Blue Mahoe tree, Hortense repeated to herself in a mantra-like chant, “nuhbody ah love me now, nuhbody ah love me now, nuhbody ah love me now.”
Wanting to console her sister, Jenny, instead, was sent to Neville to inform him of the tragic news. Neville, showing no emotion, went outside alone to a nearby field. He looked up to the sky and raged in a coarse voice, “WHY YUH TEK ONE OF WE SONS? ME DAUGHTER’S ONLY SON. IS DAT YA REVENGE? MUS’ OUR SONS PAY FE DE SINS OF DE FOREFATHERS. YUH HAPPY NOW?”
Until twilight claimed the afternoon, Neville remained abroad, accompanied only by his Bible. Angry with God, he resorted to his grandfather’s secret custom that he had observed as a child. Neville, checking that nobody was spying on him, sacrificed a chicken, held it aloft to the heavens and as the blood ran down over his hands and arms, prayed to the west African river Gods to protect any future males of his family that might come into the world.
Two mornings later, Isaac led the mourners up to the burial plot, a short walk away from Joseph’s agricultural plateau. Half of the village had turned out and the other half did not go about their work, deciding to take a day off. Claremontonians were superstitious like that. Isaac read aloud from the Book of Psalms. Behind him, Neville, Joseph, Jacob, Reuben and two more male members of the extended family, carried the simple coffin made by Mr Collins, a miserly carpenter from Browns Town whom Kwarhterleg knew. Kwarhterleg, now recovered from his illness, stumped behind them. Although Isaac had advised the Rodney family to host the customary nine nights of mourning where friends and family turned up at all hours to pay their respects, toast David’s life with fine rum and eat good food, Joseph declined. This decision went much against the grain and even Neville rebuked Joseph for it, but Joseph just couldn’t see how he was supposed to be celebrating David’s life. He had no life, he thought. He was just starting out.
When the long line of mourners had finally reached David’s last resting place, they made a ring around the graveside and began to hum hymns; Joseph and Jacob had already dug the grave. Turning the pages of his Bible, Isaac was looking for a certain psalm to read out to conclude the service. He noticed a few heads turning around and looking up to the misted hillside. Levi, walking stick in hand, although he didn’t seem to require it, strode down to attend the funeral. He was only dressed in his stained cut-off trousers. Astonished by the matted brown locks that fell below Levi’s waist, some mourners crossed themselves while others were outraged. “Who de wild mon wid de Medusa head?” someone whispered.
“Lord protect us!” another said. “De legend ah de blackheart mon fe real!”
Joseph looked upon Levi curiously while Amy tried to restrain the disgust in her eyes.
Levi reached the graveside. Mourners backed away from his presence. “Me jus’ waan to pay me respect,” said Levi. “David was ah Godly mon an’ did ’ave ah true heart. An’ he was ah true friend.”
Levi’s statement didn’t satisfy anyone but nobody was willing to challenge his presence fearing that he could be an ambassador sent by Old Screwface. Levi flashed a glance at Isaac and Isaac seemed to shiver, as if a demon was fighting to penetrate his soul. The Bible in his hands was shaking and sweat was pouring down his temples. He tried to compose himself but was obliged to lift the rum flask from out of his inside jacket pocket. He took a generous gulp, ignoring the amazed glances from the mourners who thought that the preacher was overwhelmed by the reality of David’s death.
But Isaac was in a state of shock because he had just laid his eyes upon his eldest son, Levi, whom he had christened Joshua. He couldn’t believe that the young boy who had read passages aloud from the Bible, impressing his parents and well-to-do visitors at the Forbes home, was now a wild-looking, serpent-haired vagrant.
Managing to pull himself together, Isaac concluded the formalities. The coffin was lowered into the grave. Suddenly, the mourners heard someone singing in a foreign tongue. It was Joseph. The language was of the Akan districts of Ghana but Joseph didn’t know this. He simply felt that it was appropiate to sing a song he had learned from his mother. He never asked her what the lyrics meant. Everyone gaped at Joseph in astonishment but nobody could doubt his sincerity, hearing his heartfelt deep baritone delivery.
The incidents and drama of David Rodney’s funeral proved a good source of material for the higglers. In places as far as St Anne’s Bay, Browns Town, Alderton and Rhoden Hall, country folk gossiped about how this blackheart man came down from the hills with a nest of serpents upon his head and using the dark forces of the underworld, inserted a demon into the soul of Mister Rodney, causing him to speak the language of Old Screwface himself.
Following the funeral, Levi marched back to his hillside dwelling. He never spoke or acknowledged his father. Isaac watched him disappear into the mists, tears falling freely down his cheeks. Amy studied Isaac, utterly bewildered.
Later that night, laying down to rest under the roof of the kitchen, having just given Hortense another dose of the sinsimilla potion to help her sleep, Joseph thought of his mother. He couldn’t help but think of that dreadful day. It had started like any other day, Joseph recalled. It was in the fall of 1914.
Chapter Six
Seven days had passed since David’s funeral and Amy decided it was about time that she questioned Carmesha about the last year or so of David’s life. Having finished her morning chores, she placed a pot of water over the fire and then washed two mugs, preparing to make coffee. She noticed that the wind had picked up and the clothes on the washing line were blowing horizontal. Clouds above were moving swiftly. Kwarhterleg, strands of tobacco on his lips, was taking his afternoon siesta.
Spread across his face to shield his eyes from the sun was a yellowed edition of the Daily Gleaner where, on the front page, framed by reports of the assassination of King Abdullah of Jordan and the anti-British riots in Iran that had left nine dead, was a headline detailing the dwindling sugar cane fields in Jamaica and the fact that banana was now the nation’s most lucrative export crop; only the most desperate of men were prepared to bend their backs from sun-up to sun-down wielding a cutlass in a cane field. Written on the back page was an article about the newly crowned world boxing middleweight champion, Randolph Turpin, who had savagely out-pointed the overwhelming favourite, Sugar Ray Robinson. Inside the house, Carmesha was rocking Daniel to sleep; Daniel, not yet accustomed to his new surroundings, had slept fitfully during the night.
“Carmesha!” Amy called. “Yuh waan coffee?”
“Yes please, Amy. Ya well kind. Daniel sleeping at las’, so me coming.”
“Carmesha, how many times me affe tell yuh! Yuh mus’ call me Mama now. Yuh give birt’ to me first gran’chile!”
“Sorry. Mama. Me keep forgetting.”
Carmesha joined Amy in the kitchen, seating herself on a stool. Amy looked upon Carmesha with compassionate eyes, guessing that she was no older than nineteen. The cares of life had yet to etch itself upon her forehead but they soon would, Amy thought. For that is the lot of Jamaican women. While the men were fussing, fighting, drinking or working, Jamaican women had to raise families, ensure that everybody was fed, fetch the water, scrub the clothes in the river and lay down uncomplaining in the bush as their men satisfied themselves. No excuse of tiredness or a headache would suffice and the pleasure was always for the man to enjoy.
Joseph wasn’t guilty of most of these charges, Amy concluded, but he would only cook dinner if she was ill or Kwarhterleg was indisposed. She wondered what kind of world she had brought her two daughters into – the tedious cycle of rural Jamaican life. No chance for them to set off upon adventures and see the outside world. Ah well, she thought. Hortense cyan look after herself, although she will affe get over de loss of David. At least me cyan guess how she is feeling by her open expression. So full of life. But Jenny? Me never know wha’ she really t’inking. She hasn’t grieved at all. She jus’ tek everyt’ing inna her stride.
“Carmesha,” Amy began. “Me still
don’t understand why de police arress’ David. Yuh tell me dat David ah never involve himself wid any rebel dem.”
“Dat is right, Amy,” Carmesha said. “De problem was dat untold rastamon come down from de hills from above Spanish Town.” Carmesha went on to reveal the events that led to David’s death.
Led by a self-proclaimed prophet named Leonard Howell, who enjoyed the company of many wives, many rastafarians rejected the normal customs of Jamaican life and lived in a remote hillside commune called Pinnacle, north of Spanish Town. Discovering that the dreads cultivated marijuana, the police raided Pinnacle whenever they felt the urge. They were never shy to employ their long batons.
Not wanting to be a practise dummy for the unforgiving arm of the law, forty or so dreads escaped from the commune and made their way down to Spanish Town. Unsure of what to do next, the rastas walked around in confusion, attracting complaint and scorn. The police soon confronted the dreads again and thrashed them mercilessly.
Returning from his work at a government farm that bred Hereford cows, David spotted the brutality of the police in Spanish Town’s main square. He ran to the scene, confronted officers and voiced his grave concerns about the unnecessary force being used. He said, “ah brudder should nah beat ’pon him fellow brudder mon.” But a policeman spotted the infant locks upon David’s head, cracked him with his baton upon the back of his skull and frog-marched him to the police station. Meanwhile, the rastas who had remained up in Pinnacle were arrested and thrown in jail – many of them didn’t survive their beatings.
Pinnacle was set ablaze and as the smoke drifted over the northern parts of Spanish Town, Leonard Howell was committed to an asylum.
A few years earlier, David had been working upon the docks at Kingston harbour. Carmesha, who had one day journeyed to Kingston with her mother to visit relatives, couldn’t tolerate the heat and renk conditions of the downtown area so she went for a walk upon the harbour road, relieved to breathe in the sea air. She spotted David who was lifting boxes from a cargo ship. She had never seen such a handsome man, David’s rich black skin glistening beneath the hot sun. His smile was broad and welcoming but the attribute that set him apart from any other man was that he walked and stood like a king. “Hey, pretty girl,” he called.
Warned by her mother about the reputation of men who worked on the docks, Carmesha strolled on. “Hey, pretty girl,” David called again. “Me like de way yuh walk! An’ ya face coulda light up any dark night! Yes, sa! Yuh remind me of me future wife. De Most High know dat fe true! Yuh mus’ be ah nubian princess.”
“But yuh don’t even know me,” replied Carmesha, a smile escaping from her lips.
“So yuh better wait ’til me come down an’ introduce meself.”
“But me live inna de country,” revealed Carmesha. “Me only inna Kingston fe de day, so we path will only meet dis one time.”
“An’ wha’ ah time! Fate bring yuh down dis road. Yuh mus’ give me ya address. Me will look fe yuh. See if me don’t!”
Writing her address on a used envelope, Carmesha didn’t imagine that she would bless her eyes on David again. But three weeks later, David arrived at her home in the tiny hamlet of Churchpen. He tipped his cloth hat to Carmesha when she answered the door, his eyes sparkling. “Good marnin, Mrs Rodney! Wha’ name should we choose fe we first son?”
A year later, David and Carmesha moved into a rented room in Spanish Town. When Carmesha discovered she was pregnant, David took the decision to work abroad in a cotton field in Georgia, north America. He wanted to accrue enough money so he could get married and build his own home. Papa and Mama would be proud of him and Hortense and Jenny would make fine bridesmaids. Yes, sa, David thought. It would be a sweet day.
Fear stalked David every night and day whilst he toiled under the Georgian sun and slept under her stars. He learned of lynchings and murders of black folks for sometimes nothing more than a glance at a white woman’s ankle. Unlike Kingston, where a number of white people would sometimes engage in conversation and socialise with black folks, David was shocked to see the separation of the races in the American south. At work his opinion and views meant nothing to white ears. He was expected to be subservient at all times. White men addressed him as ‘boy’ and white women refused to talk to him at all. He noticed that many of the black men walked ‘bent’ with invisible weights on their shoulders and some black women seemed to want to shrink within themselves, never lifting their chins from their collarbones and they moved as if every step was an apology.
David noticed that many young black men from the American south, only carrying an extra change of clothing, were heading to cities like Chicago and New York. They hoped they could find work and then send for their sweethearts. Most of them spoke bitterly of the white man’s promise of forty acres and a mule. On many occasions David watched the packed trains disappear – some men who couldn’t afford the fare, ran and jumped aboard the moving train. David likened it to the migration of country folk in Jamaica heading for Kingston. Only here in America it was on a grander scale.
Although he tried to live like a Nazarene, David felt it would be too dangerous for him to grow locks. He was attracted to the black American church. The soulful and heartfelt singing he had heard there led him to the conclusion that black people the world over were essentially the same. They struggled the same struggle, fighting for equality and justice and gaining strength from their faith. He observed it was all they had to cling onto – some distant hope that their wretched lives will be rewarded once they reached heaven. He recalled one of the lessons of Levi when he affirmed, “we are the lost tribe of Israel. An’ if yuh doubt it, look ’pon de expressions of our brudders an’ sisters. Look in der eyes.”
He attended secret gatherings of Garveyites in church halls after the midnight hour. He was introduced to books and pamphlets that the white man banned. Being born from the same parish as Marcus Garvey, David soon gained much respect from his fellow activists. They looked after him whenever he was sick, fed him when David couldn’t afford a meal. They discussed their strategies of ressurecting Marcus Garvey’s dream of a ‘Black Star’ shipping line. Members of Garvey’s old ‘back to Africa’ movement came from as far afield as Harlem, Detroit and Chicago to visit. They left before the sun rose. Then the gathering would return to their labours picking cotton and growing peanuts, feigning ignorance, stupidity and docility to any white man they met.
David was instructed in self-empowerment and the pride of the black race and he learned to hide his new-found intelligence from his employers – others who were not so discreet went missing or their homes were set on fire.
Writing to Carmesha every week, David revealed that there was an unwritten curfew for black people. He dismayed that he couldn’t take the chance to walk the fields at night and take in the cool air, smell the plants and admire nature at its most serene. America has ah deep stain, Carmesha, David wrote. De stain of slavery. Even inna Jamaica ah black mon is free to ah certain extent. But over here, ah mon jus’ cyan’t tek him foot to de mountain side an’ live off de land like ah mon me used to know. Nuh, sa! An’ dey say dat slavery carry on fe 400 years. Me fear dat it will tek anoder 400 years to remove de stain. Carmesha, almost every young black mon is leaving here. Dem cyan’t tek de white mon’s anger nuh more. Me don’t understan’ der hatred becah wasn’t it we who cut dem cane an’ pick dem cotton when de white mon ah sit inna de shade watching him wallet get heavy. Jus’ de udder day dem kill off ah sharecropper’s son. Ah good, proud mon. Too proud an’ him tongue run away from him. He could nah hold back him temper nuh more. Ah frien’ of mine said ‘dey came inna de night’. His fader did own ah liccle land but him always cry an’ gnash his teet’ becah of debt. Dem old mon work so hard but still ’ave not’ing. Debt shadow every old black mon me know who own ah liccle piece of land. Me own papa is lucky becah him owe de white mon not’ing. Carmesha, de land of de free is not’ing but de land of black mon misery. De curse of Ham ring very true inna
dis broad land. Me will soon come back home. De wider world is ah ugly world an’ me nuh waan nuh part of it. Dat’s why me say NUH when ah nex’ frien’ invite me to go Chicago wid him. Nuh, sa! Me cyan’t wait ’til me reach home an’ live de simple life. Kiss de baby fe me an’ pray fe me deliverance.
Returning home in March, 1951, David won a job with a Spanish Town farmer only because he could read the government instructions and invoices that were sent to the farm. He could also understand the ‘uppity’ words of the businessmen who occasionally visited the establishment. David could see a bright future for his family – until the dreads came down from their mountain.
Carmesha concluded her tale with a knowing smile, as if she was reliving a pleasant memory. Amy rose to her feet. “Carmesha, yuh waan ah liccle rum inna ya coffee? Joseph ah t’ink me only drink de fire-water ah nighttime after me dinner, but me cyan’t see why woman cyan’t enjoy de good t’ings ah life when de sun high inna de sky. Come, Kwarhterleg sleeping so him cyan’t say not’ing, an’ if him do me gwarn fling away him crutch!”
