With the police gone, there is no one left for the people to turn on, and, anyway, they are tired of killing. That’s when a young girl picks up the first stone. She runs across the street and flings it to the clock tower, smashing the face. More people follow, and soon stones and bottles are hurling from everywhere. A man throws a broken cell phone and the old woman next to him takes out her too-tight dentures, flings them, then bursts into roaring prayer. Babylon! Traffic is piled up around the square; cars honk, women trace, dogs bark, youths cuss, men speak in tongues, the sky fills with unknown birds, a baby turns in womb, the vendors throw their worthless coins, and everywhere there is the riddim of an indignation more ancient and more to-come and more present than fiah.
THE YOUTH
Black Star Line Remix
But look here – an army of youth coming from the four directions and into the square. They come in hundreds, pour out from the seams of the island and down into Kingston. From Porus through May Pen; from Morant Bay through Bull Bay; from Annotto Bay down Junction; from Buff Bay through New Castle; from Trench Town and Rema and Waterhouse and Jones Town; with drum and guitar; bass and amp, bongo and trombone, dj and war maracas, they move decided as creatures in migration, answering a remembrance from the future. Their voices in fullticipation, they hum a bass so deep the island shudders; memem mem mem rememb ring/ word, resting, for 300 years at the tip of the tongue –
Ash.
Ash.
Ashe.
Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe!
Jah-Jah youth remem mem member them/I&I
They call gully water passage/ routes without precinct/ blood-ways/ Jah-ways/ higherground crossings/ wake-up teachment/ risen dread mighty/ sound balmnation/ bones I-rising/ the new word written on the inside of a shoe.
zion-mind train/zion-mind train/zion-mind train/people get ready/zion-mind train/zion-mind train –
Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe.
zion-mind train/zion-mind train/zion-mind train/people get ready/zion-mind train/zion-mind train –
Listen now. Listen. They are calling your name.
OUR MAD LADY OF HALF WAY TREE
Our Lady outside the clock stands still; looks up at the sky; counts the syllables in the air; cuts it with her knife. The ancestors have awakened, she says. Somebody has called them. The long-dead are stirring. Quick, she says. Sprinkle little rum. Hallelujah. Is it too late? Is it too late? Dread of Zion, fall on me! Redemption song. Redemption song. Jah ways are mysterious ways.
FROM BLOODFIAH, RECORD OF DREAMSLOST
Track 49.0: Glimmer
The ring in Red Ear’s book is the ring the angel stole from Bob. And the ring the angel stole from Bob is the ring Prince Asfa Wossen gave to the prophet. The ring Prince Asfa Wossen gave to the prophet is the ring His Imperial Majesty wore on his right hand and the ring His Majesty wore on his right hand has seventy-seven copies, and copies of those copies from Ethiopia to London. Some people say His Majesty’s ring contains bits of gold from the ring of Solomon. And some people say the ring of Solomon is the same one given to the Queen of Sheba –the ring Bayna-Lehkem presented to his father, to prove he was a true son.
The truth is, the secrets of Ethiopia are past finding out, inscrutable as a red velvet curtain at Axum or the laughter locked in Lucy’s bones. According to the law of conservation of mass, matter can neither be created nor destroyed; however, it can be rearranged in space. Is this so? Maybe King Solomon’s, like Les Vingt et Un, is hidden in a dream. Perhaps, it waits there. One night, someone’s foot will slip in sleep and they will find it. They will put it on their finger and a page in Red Ear’s book will be illuminated.
Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/As Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/AsheAshe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/
HELLSHIRE
A madman runs naked down Hagley Park Road. No one pays him much attention; the people are used to the insane. We all have a mad part of ourselves, no true? A part that wants to run naked, like this man with the brass Africas at his ears that go ting&ting. His legs are long and powerful. Maybe he is the bronze statue of the slave at Emancipation Park cut lose and looking for his woman. Maybe he is God’s rebel bird. He runs and runs, calling a woman’s name and reciting a strange poesie. At Hellshire Beach the salt waves whip him and he rolls in the sand and the sand covers his nakedness. People call him the Fall-down of Hellshire. He is what mountains look like when they move –
Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe
/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/
DUB-SIDE CHANTING
On the Far Side of I&I
The highly concentrated oxygen on the mountain-top comes from the exhalation of the nutmeg trees. It is nutmeg season and the fruits are bursting open, the dark seeds covered with red thread. H.I.M. and the Prophet walk amid the trees, collecting fruit. The seeds absorb leftover badmindedness, replace Babylon mind with Zion mind.
“I&I gave the ring to a dawta reading a book,” Bob says.
H.I.M. sets his sack down before replying; looks his son in the eyes.
“It will be safe there. Books have a way of preserving things.”
And this time, the Prophet knows that the work is not for him alone; others will come after. He breathes in, then out. He will dwell in this nyahmbic place, a dub-side warrior/ holding communion with H.I.M. and the ancestors/ visiting the visions of the youth and the dreams of the old ones/ urging the people on – Wake up! Wake up! Until one day when the earth tilts just-so/ he will be called back again. But for now, they fill their sacks, and the nutmeg trees exhale –
Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/ Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/ Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/ Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/ Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/ Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/ Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/ Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/ Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/ Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/ Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/ Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/ Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/ Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/ Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/ Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/ Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/ Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/ Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/ Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/ Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/ Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/ Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/ Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/ Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/ Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/ Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/ Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/ Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/ Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/ Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/ Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/ Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/ Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/ Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/ Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/ Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/ Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/Ashe/
HERE-SO; HALF WAY TREE LEENAH
Of Lionness Uprising; or, The Ship of Zion
The two lions in my dream have changed. Their manes are gone, and the tilt of their head is different. I&I stand between them and they roar, for this is the last time I will stand in this place. The roar shakes the last of my little eggs; I feel blood between my legs. Then it dawns on me – I know why their manes are gone. They are female. A woman from Burkina Faso told me why she shaved her head. To keep her focused, she said. Her hair picked up too much energy, she said. I&I know about this. I feel the ancestors tugging at my locs; I feel storms when they are way out at sea. I wrap my locs to contain this power, to hold such knowing and not be distracted. The lions in my dream are queens in control of their knowing. I she-magine them, Rasta sistahs, their head wrapped with Zion cloth. They know what they know and that knowing grounds them, sustains them.
The lions shift their gaze to the horizon. Someone is coming; I look back and it is Anjahla, running, her thin arms protruding the way they do; her face wet with tears. She stops, breathless, at the bottom of the step, for the lions will not let her any further. She holds up a lozenges tin – with Vaughn’s loc curled inside. I recognize the loc even from here. And on the side of the tin, my true name – Zion. I am that far-I place.
But look at my Anjahla. When she was a baby her tears smelled like rose water. Now they smell like strong kananga. Lionness arrive. Behind her are the voices of one thousand youth, a mighty chanting that troubles the ground. The ancestors are awake and the youth have been summoned. Is it too late? Is it too late for this bass-yard nation?
All of this as the rain begins to fall and my red blood seeps in cracks in the concrete, and my one-daughter, Anjahla, calls me – Mama! And, I&I hear her. I hear my Anjahla.
NYAHBINGHI
SISTAFARI CHANTING [SIS. DAWN, WILLA & MAUVA]
Track 33.0: How to Trace the Palm of an Island
Map every river, every hill and every woodland, marking the neva-catch-mi foot-trails of maroons.
Trace over that with the routes of doctor birds and swallowtails, libating old bones and burial grounds with rum.
With your ear to the ground, wait for the echo of wild hogs in labour, 100-year whooping cough, barking dogs, the Middle “C” of a Steinway (ordered special from London), a lamentation of waves/ slap against shore, the click of a muzzle over a young boy’s mouth.
Follow the curve of this song, and listen/ for where it dubs over with seeds in a calabash, tongues of fire, black birds in an orange poinciana. Mark where the birds leave feathers, and whether the feathers point up hill or down.
Map the ground – coast to coast – for red clay or dark; note the remembrance of blood, broken water, thrown-away seed.
Layer over that the cuss-cuss of children coming home from school, the pathways of gunshots, the lethal yellowing of trees.
Know what it means if the rain over Emancipation Park is light or hard.
Know what it means if a shaft of red light shines through the glass star on the prophet’s tomb.
Know what it means if roots at Half Way Tree grow overground.
And know what it means if the bassline dips: the fowls lay rebel eggs, and the people rhaatid eat them. For/
such fiah awakens ancestors/
translates Jahrimetic/
ignites equations/
grows back lizard tails seven times seven/
Know-oh what it means if the island flings herself to the sea – for the sea is our mother and a mother covers her child’s nakedness with raiment,
and chanting zion tings.
(And the ancestor says, “Speak/ this. Speak it down in the book.”)
Ashe.
*Ashe: (Ah-shey) “the power to make things happen”/ “the power to create change”/ “and so it is.” (Yoruba/W. Africa)
APPENDIX I: BACKSTAGE PASS
In my father’s house are many mansions – John, 14:2
What the maidservant saw
Translation of Meharene’s note to Haile Selassie I
(1 of 3 found by a Dergue soldier in the floorboards of the
Jubilee Palace. Original written in Amharic on unlined paper.)
For the beads Côte d’Ivoire, thank you.
Your new pajamas are under our blue pillow.
– Meharene
*
Translation of lines 34 - 35 of Rimbaud’s Vingt et Un (as found in an archive of Selassie’s dream.)
Nutmeg trees are male and female. Didn’t they tell you?
Rouge/ rouge, rouge, the sky when they bleed.
– Arthur Rimbaud
*
Excerpt from Interview with Haile Selassie I
Sunday, June 24, 1973 by Oriana Fallaci/ Chicago Tribune
Fallaci: Your Majesty, I would like you to tell me something about yourself. Tell me were you ever a disobedient youth? But maybe I ought to ask you first whether you have ever had time to be youn
g, Your Majesty?
Selassie: We don’t understand that question. What kind of question is that? It is obvious that We have been young. We weren’t born old! We have been a child, a boy, a youth, an adult, and finally an old man. Like everyone else. Our Lord the Creator made us like eveyone else.
*
From the Lion’s Mouth
My Life and Ethiopia’s Progress (1976)
A house built on granite and strong foundations, not even the onslaught of pouring rain, gushing torrents and strong winds will be able to pull down. Some people have written the story of my life representing as truth what in fact derives from ignorance, error or envy; but they cannot shake the truth from its place, even if they attempt to make others believe it.
Remember this…
His Imperial Majesty, the Lion of Judah, greets his next-of-kin Much Respect
APPENDIX II: STUDIO PASS
Half Way Tree; circa 1899. Revolution begins in a woman’s basket. Note, too, the child and her mother (left), waiting for the doors of York Pharmacy to open.
Half Way Tree church and courthouse, circa 1890. Cotton Tree to the far left. See? There are two women sitting underneath. A man walks down the road; wonders at the far far-away vibration of bass – coming from over one hundred years in the future.
Look good. Here the women are – under the spot where a boy’s feet danced.
And the man. Here he is – walking towards the strange music –
and here, walking towards you, bass riddim calling roots underground.
The Marvellous Equations of the Dread Page 18