They say there is a laughter only rivamuuma can hear.
They say if you play a record backwards, there are words there. And there are secrets in the scratchy silences between songs.
There is a riddim that loops from here-so, all the way across centuries. Ole-time people heard it layered under night rain.
If a sound is an echo, is it still real? Copies of copies of sound.
And if you find my voice in a fissure in your sleep, will it be less real?
Remember the babymothers who were forced to jump off the ships? Sometimes I hear their children calling, Mama.
Here’s what I know: When I call your name, my voice is their echo –
RASTAMAN
Thirst
I-man run and run – follow the bird. I neva know Kingston so big – is like town a stretch, no have no end, till me get to some part me neva even know exist, so thick with zinc and barbwire trap. Me cross a place of bottle-glass and ole mash-up Austin Cambridge car; the car-them full with newspaper and Styrofoam cup and kerosene tin, and john-crow flying all around.
And then me see one coconut tree, stand up tall-tall, all by itself in the rubble. And the tree pretty so-till and it have one wata coconut, and the bird perch on it. Thirst parch me and the coconut wata calling me and I feel to climb this tree, tall as it is, for I&I is a country-man and me and plenty tree hold council together. Me put mi club-foot at the base of the trunk and that’s when I&I see a little footpath behind. The wata in the coconut calling, but something tell me, Step out on the path. When my foot touch the ground, I&I feel it – a riddim of dread and chordstuck and tenement cry; it catch me up in a riff that play over and over, and nah let me turn back.
Then the bass line drop, and I&I know is this path I must trod –
DUB-SIDE CHANTING
Track 33.0: If the Foot Fit
Fall-down stands at the base of the nutmeg tree, searching for Bob’s tracks in the dust. He finds one and puts his foot inside of it, hoping for the way back to Half Way Tree. He longs to find Leenah. To watch her undress through her Rasta curtain window. How many times did he do that when she was not looking? And to see once again the Africa birthmark on her thigh, a perfect fit for his earring to rest. He puts his foot in the next track and holds himself steady on Bob’s short feet, looking for the other.
LEENAH
Can a Zebra Change its Stripes?
I asked Bob about Rita once. “You still love her?”
He gave me the expected Bob answer, “I-man love every woman.”
“That’s a dodge answer,” I said. “Answer me properly this time. I’m asking if you still love Rita. Don’t you did marry her?”
“Marriage is a trap that don’t serve we; is a Babylon trap. Who make that law? Tell me who make that law?”
“Do you love her?”
“Love no partial. Is only one-love me have. Same love me feel for that doctor bird, same love me feel for every woman.”
“Don’t use oneness as no bullshit cover. It too precious for that. Is a different thing I asking. You know what I’m asking. Do you love Rita?”
“Is the university a spoil you.”
“Don’t you did marry her? I hear you on the radio-show the other night denying it thrice, but don’t you did marry her?”
I always pushed Bob like that. You had to push him to peel back the layers, or else you would only get his one-love, or hope to glimpse him in passing in a song. It’s true he interested me – his good looks, yes, and urban tough and country charm, but then there was his connection to spirit. And this is what truly bonded us. Of course, there was the whole dance to get me in bed, but I always knew, and I think he knew too, there was something else to our friendship.
And then he told me the story of how him and Rita met: the hard times in Trench Town and how they struggled together. He never did say he loved her, but I felt the vibration in his throat that told me there was a place in his heart for her. I respected that.
And there was the time, I asked him about his father. The whiteman on the horse.
“He hurt you, Bob?”
I saw something well up, but he would not let it fall.
We smoked herb in my room in Ms. Ivy house. We reasoned the halfness of being both white and black.
“But fully human,” he said.
“And fully Jah.”
“Fully woman, you.”
“Yes, and fully Jah.”
“What if Jah was a woman?” He surprised me with this one.
“She is,” I said.
FROM THE ANGEL’S LEDGER BOOK
[voice archive]
September 12, 1974; Addis Ababa – Today the Dergue took H.I.M. into captivity. He surrendered as a lamb to the slaughter; did not say a word. The lions in the palace garden roared in his place.
November 24, 1974; Near Hadar – Even the ancestors cry out. They raise their bones on Ethiopia’s behalf. Today they found the skull of one of them. They call her AL 288-1. They also call her Lucy. And they call her Dinkenesh – “You are amazing”. The angel was there when she ran in a field of blue flowers.
And more ancestors will soon reveal themselves. Next time a three-year-old in Dikika. They’ll call her Selam because she longs for peace. Hear how her bones cry when the men brush dust from her femur.
Rastaman on the Run
Hear this:
A woman at the bus stop has a gun in her brassiere/ the light turns red and/ a grandmother dreams of Zion-high/ a schoolgirl sucks salt-water tears/ pigeons pick mould from a piece of dry bread/ green mangoes fall before they can ripe/ sorry, no jobs/ the baby’s milk spoils in the hot sun/ the clouds over Kingston heavy with cares-of-life tears/ Public Works on strike/ weevils in the flour/ an eviction notice nailed to the door/ rotten chicken-back in the market/ sorry, no job/ the children’s coffins are made of pine/ sorry, no/ the goat tied to the ackee tree cannot bleat/ sorry. The people are vexed with sufferation. Their tears smell like kerosene; soon Kingston will catch fiah.
Hear this:
If the stones do not cry out, then the dead will – Queen Nanny and Garvey and Sam Sharpe; or someone’s fire-eye grandmoddah, or a flint-face aunt. The bass chord of the people’s wail so trembles the ground, Bob hears it, the sound of pain-o-heart vibrating his bones at 30 Hz. The track is narrow, but not straight. It zig-zags down a slope and follows longside a wire fence, circles a tamarind tree. The bird gone, Bob walks with care on spirit feet. It is the evening of a hurricane warning, and except for a yellow dog, the streets are empty; the shops boarded up, concrete blocks securing the zinc roofs. The stillness is yellow, like the dog. A dusty yellow, a yellow that waits. The path joins a gully litter-litter with soda cans, old nails, bottle tops, rusty razors and sardine tins; the breeze makes percussion of the trash, a tinny chanting, soft at first, then growing louder. Someone has scratched red war on a wall. Bob traces the word with his finger, and rain begins to fall. And fall.
Rainwater fills and rinses every pore of him. He removes the scarf and it beats the roots of his hair; rushes down his spine and flushes the crack of his rump. He takes off his shoes and it beats between his toes. He cups his hand and drinks and drinks. All the while the dog watches from the shop piazza. Everything water. Bob lies down in the middle of the road and gives himself to the rain –
When the wind arrives, it hollers and dips, a wheel within a wheel. There is a metal drain at the curb and Bob grips the bars to brace himself. Water rushes; bits of zinc fly, a sheet of window glass, an enamel frying pan. He still holds fast to the drain as the wind lifts him in the air. See here: the pages of a book, a woman’s fish knife, a bicycle wheel, the ing from a shop sign. Rain quickening – blood-fiah – the metal grate, a shield –
The wind whirls in the spirit then lands him – give thanks-and-praise – in a yard, dry and quiet and swept clean as holy ground.
*
The others have been waiting for his arrival in the eye. The bass riddim of the people has called them too. They lea
n against the zinc fence or sit on their haunches; some of them have bongo drums. There is a congregation of birds in an ackee tree and the smell of corn roasting on hot coals. A red flag blows from a bamboo pole. A woman steps forward.
They call me Queen Nanny, she says. Nanny of the Maroons. Is me could catch the white soldiers’ bullets and spit them out. That is what the books say, but I used to do much more. I could grind a soldier’s teeth and use the powder to light a good fire. I could spot one-a-them coming between the trees without turning around. I would feel it – the too-red of their jackets on my bare arm. One of them would piss behind a tree and I would hear it a mile off. If the books really said-all, the very ink would stink of blood. Let’s leave it at that. But see me here; the people have called. I have heard their new-time music beating the ground, and the feet of the children, dancing, their hopefulness mixed with pain. Listen to me, there is an echo which travels along faultlines; it comes from their music. The strange music of the people. Sometimes the earth shudders and our bones move in their graves. How can we not arise?
Up, up ye mighty, someone sings.
An elder steps forward. His long grey locs touch his knees. He carries a staff carved with a Lion of Judah. My name is Leonard, he says. Leonard Howell. They call me the first Rasta, but that don’t matter now. And they call me a thief, same like they call Garvey. Said I tricked the people with false tickets to Ethiopia. Thief or not, I had a vision. History needed me to keep the wheel turning.
Yes-I.
I come now to organize. To buoy the people up.
Up, up!
To higher groundation.
Praises.
Another woman steps forward. Her head is tied with a piece of flour bag. One furious plait twines against her face. Me don’t have no name, she says. Everybody forget it and now not even me can remember it. It happen like that to plenty of we. We sew and plant and cook and sweep and wash and scrub and reap and stir and cry and pray and bend over and scream and break we back and then hold it straight again to send the children to school with piece of pencil so they can learn to write the book of we story and never forget it. I heard the babies crying from my grave – my grans and my gran’s grans; and how could I not return?
Mercy.
A little girl wipes tears from her eyes. It was election time and gunshot fly into my face, straight up my nose, she says. Me step in front to save my brother. He was only three and Mama said to mine him while she go look one tin a mackerel. Me catch the shot just like Nanny, only it killed me. Me name Hortense, but them call me Tensie. From over this side, I hear my brother, big-man he is now, clicking a gun, and the sound of the click make my bones-them tremble. Don’t! Don’t! I call-out, but he can’t hear me. I want to stop him. Help me stop him.
Stop the voilence! The people must stop it! Is long time we a warn them!
A man steps forward. It is Garvey. He wears a green velvet vest under a black jacket. He has a hat of plumes. We must hold together now, he says. If the living have no hindsight, then we must be that hindsight. If the living have no foresight, then we must be that foresight. If the living have no wind, then we must be that wind. If the living have no fire, then we must be that fire. Up, up. Let us be the terror and the tenderness, the storm and the lullaby. Let us whirl together as one mighty force –
Enough of the preaching to rah, a woman calls. She wears short-shorts and long white boots. Is Patsy me name. Even in the grave my feet keep dancehall. Me is a dancehall rebel woman. Is a rebel dance me a dance, for if you look the moves good, you see is Africa them come from, but the people don’t know that. And me neva know it neither. Is Madda Nanny tell me. Is them kinda thing we need to tell the people. We don’t need no more preaching.
Back to Africa. The people need Africa.
Garvey takes off his hat and holds it against his belly. Sister, you are right. This time we will need a ship of a different kind. The people must return to Africa on fleets of the mind. This is where Zion lives.
Yes-I. Yes-I.
We need a plan, Nanny says. Something great, same as we imagin-we-nation, yet simple as a goat’s milk. That’s how the Maroons defeated the enemy. Who woulda believe that we could defeat the British with a few roots and river stones and so-so weeds?
A woman dressed in white beats a drum between her knees. Three times three. Tears run down her face; her lips tremble. Three times three. Her hands call sound up/rising and/skin deliv/erance –
But how shall we start?
The drums stop. The woman falls to the ground, her body shaking. Someone sprinkles her with white rum. She lets out a sigh and everyone is quiet.
With the children, Bob says. He steps forward into the circle; still wet from the storm. My name is Robert Nesta Marley. I-man used to play music, but before that me was a boy had a pain in me heart. My heart so heavy it beat with a one-drop/ one-drop. Is music and Rastafari save me, but everyone don’t so lucky. The youth-them – me hear them bawl at night outside in the road. And when them eye-water dry-up, them beat them one another. Is them we must start with –
With one mighty force, calls Garvey.
The little youths shall lead us! One by one we must build an army.
Selah.
Somewhere a lizard begins to sing. The young girl, Hortense, rises up and Bob gives her the drum. Her small hands beat the skin, chanting down Babylon. The spirits sing Nyahbinghi, and Nanny dances in the circle. She grasps the hem of her skirt as her feet inch the ground, working the perimeter. There is a scent of white rum and a swirl of mango leaf and bird feather.
And this is what the drum speaks: Zion train coming/ Zion train coming/ People get ready/ Zion train coming –
Zion is a place inside, calls Garvey.
And this is what the drum speaks: Set the children free/ Set the children free /Set the children free.
Patsy zips up her boots and dances with Nanny in the circle. Who can’t sing, clap; who can’t clap, testify; who can’t testify, dance! she calls. Her knees dip and part; dip and part. A draught travels her spine and rises to her head. It pushes at the space between her scalp and funeral wig. She closes her eyes and whispers, Rah.
For this is what the drum speaks: Zion train coming/ Zion train coming/ Children get ready/ Zion train coming –
And the woman with the furious plait begins to cry, for she sees her great grans far-far on the other side. They have her Guinea cheekbones and ashy skin. Zion is/ a place inside! she calls, hoping they will hear. And her bare feet dance the words into the dust of the dirt yard. Zion/ is, Zion is, her heels treading faster.
Zion is/ Zion is/ Zion is, go the drums. And spirit feet massage the ground – (for this is the real reason there are almost two hundred little earthquakes on the island per year, and why you should pay attention when the photo on the living-room wall shifts sideways, your feet unsteady in the hallway. For this is how the long-dead rock our fever babies or shake the youth from don’t-care.)
But hear this:
Somewhere a schoolgirl sitting at a window/ watches the rain/ feels the nyahbinghi drum/ beneath her feet/ she scratches her foot-bottom and/ turns the page of her note book/ draws a map of a salt-and-sugar island/ a boy sheltering in a chicken coop/ feels it too/ he plucks a make-believe guitar to the sound of rain and/ strums a new future/ the people will eat weevils if they have to/ for what don’t kill, will fatten/ this is the song the boy sings/ and this is the map the girl draws/ for the salt and the sugar must live together/ don’t salt stop you levitate?/ but sugar can make rotten meat sweet?/ Take courage/ take courage/ bleats the goat’s heart/ and a woman in a zinc house removes the gun from her brassiere/dries the tears from her eyes/ nurses/ a promised child.
And then/ a great wind lifts Bob higher –
RASTAMAN
I-rical Quickening [in C major]
the rain it a fall it a fall. the wind it a blow it a blow. is a anti-clock wind this; wise-up yu-self/ revolution deh-ya. quick-quick. quicken/
ing/wind blow
a baby from the mother’s arms. me catch it in me satchel and/ hold it close. Kiss it before/ wind steal it again –
for/ this wind blow/ Jah-Jah children like clothes/ off the line. is long time me a warn you – hold them close/
the rain it a fall it a fall. the wind it a blow it a blow. is a anti-clock wind/ this; wise-up yu-self/ revolution deh-ya. quick-quick. enquick/en
ing; wh/en hard time come, pickney frock fit yu –
Anti-clock Time
The wind picks him up and blows him all the way back to Half Way Tree. He had thought that the spirit yard was the way – the passage of return to the right hand of His Majesty; the rest in peace of the home-sweet-home lamp; the lullaby of grated nutmeg sprinkled on milk. But the wind delivers him smack outside the clocktower door, and he is strangely glad of it – for there is work to do now and after tonight, there are only two days left.
It is quiet and dark in the clock. Bob lights a candle and sits down with his back against the wall. He reaches for the spliff, for each night it renews itself in his locs. He lights it like a sacrament. Breathes in and holds. Holds. Then exodus.
The smoke makes a white hibiscus above his head. He closes his eyes, remembers a video he made with children at a mock birthday party in London, maybe 1977. There were party hats and streamers and plenty cake. The children blindfolded him with ribbon and spun him round and around. They played cards together and juggled a yellow ball and he told them jokes. One boy with bright eyes pulled his locs and Bob let out a fart and everyone almost died. Is this love, is this love, is this love, is this love that I’m feeling? If he could have felt that high every moment of his life.
He opens his eyes and the hibiscus twines in front of him. Soon the clock tower is blooming with white flowers; hibiscus pollen falls on his face. One flower unfurls like a soft cloth and falls to the ground. Bob picks it up – a scarf – the smell like woodsmoke.
The Marvellous Equations of the Dread Page 13