by Nick Cannon
“I don’t think that car is what Beenie Man was talking about when he wrote that line.”
Toasta laughed and gave me a strong hug.
“Wha’ g’wan, General?” Toasta looked larger than life. Six-two full of energy. His eyes sparkled as he looked at me after so many years.
“Man, it’s good to see you, cousin.”
“Yeah! Yo, how’s Aunt Loretta?” he asked.
I thought again of my mother who I had left behind in New York. “Could be better. You know what I’m saying? But, we’re about to help her with that, right?”
“No doubt.” He rubbed his hands together, dramatically. “We’ll have this ting oiled up in no time. I already started having the conversations. We can probably even move a little work around here in Kingston, too.” Toasta seemed excited by the prospect. “You can make a decent business of it, ya knawmean?” He gestured toward his raggedy ride. “Let’s get out of this heat. We ’bout to take over, little bro!”
I laughed as we walked toward the car. “I thought you said you already took over a long time ago. What happened to all the stories you told me when I was locked up? When I got down here we were gonna be riding around in brand-new cars, flashy jewelry, champagne. Big chains, dollars, and Ducatis. Where is all of that, Toast?”
He put my bags in the trunk. “Patience, brethren. Patience!”
We climbed inside the car. He looked at me, smiling.
“I like to blend in with di common folk. Appear to be frugal for my people. Jesus was meek, ya know?”
I bust out laughing. “Jesus wouldn’t even put his bumper sticker on this piece of shit!”
“Watch your mouth!” He sucked his teeth extra hard, and then we both cracked up laughing at the same time. Meanwhile, his Beamer put-putted down the Kingston highway. The voice of the deejay boomed from the car radio.
“Wha’ g’wan, Kingston? We have Raddy Rich in the studio! He’s the man everyone is predicting to be the winner of the In the Dance Clash Battle. This is Jamaica’s big televised dancehall competition for ten million dollars! Big money, man! Say hello to the people, Raddy Rich.”
“Wha’ g’wan, Jamaica?”
I couldn’t believe my ears. “Ten million dollars? That shit can’t be right.”
Toasta laughed. “Ten million Jamaican dollars. That’s a bit less than a hundred grand in the U.S.”
I nodded. Still, that was one hell of a grand prize.
Toasta interrupted the broadcast, popping in one of his own mixtapes instead. He turned up the radio and blasted the music through the car’s cheap speakers. He shouted over the music with a huge grin on his face.
“I made this tape last week. Pure fire!” He danced in his seat while driving, which cracked me up.
“I might not be the baller I described in all my letters,” Toasta said. “But, I got this dancehall scene sewn up. Ya g’wan see. I told you when I came back down here that I wasn’t playing no games. I meant what I said. I’m serious about this music ting, ya heard?”
I heard him loud and clear. Once Toasta graduated from high school, he left my mama’s house in Brooklyn and came back to Jamaica. He had made up his mind that he was going to be the next Shabba Ranks. He came home and started rocking parties. That was almost ten years ago, and he’s been grinding in these Kingston streets ever since. It appeared that nothing major had popped off yet. A wife and a house full of kids later, he made a living selling mixtapes and spinning records at the local dancehalls to make ends meet.
I nodded. “I hear you, cousin.”
Toasta pulled up at the curb and parked the car. I frowned, still recognizing this house even though I hadn’t been here in many years.
“What are we doing at Aunt Cheryl’s house?”
Toasta shook his head. “This is where we’re staying. Peta Gaye kicked me out last night.”
I stepped back in shock. Toasta and Peta Gaye had been together for years. “Why? What happened?”
He shrugged and shifted his weight from one leg to the other. “She said she don’t have room for you, me, her, her sister, and all our kids.” He sucked his teeth. “So, we’re staying here.”
I felt bad. “What? Seriously?”
He nodded.
I shook my head. “Yo … I’m sorry, Toast.” Then I remembered all the things he was saying in those letters he had written me while I was locked up. “Yeah. We taking over. Balling out of control! Living with your mama. Big up!”
Toasta rolled his eyes and walked toward the house while I laughed behind his back.
“Big tings!”
Aunt Cheryl’s house was a small one in the Jamaican province of Hellshire. What it lacked in size, it delivered in charm. We were greeted by Aunt Cheryl the moment we crossed the threshold.
I smiled wide at the sight of her. Aunt Cheryl was straight from yard with the thickest Jamaican accent I ever heard. Just like Mama, she seldom smiled, but had a heart of gold. Aunt Cheryl would give her family and friends the shirt off her back. She was my mother’s younger sister by four years. Family legend was that Aunt Cheryl hadn’t smiled since Christmas of 1979. That was the year when her husband hit the local lottery. Uncle Remis had been his wife’s punching bag for years, enduring her verbal and physical attacks for the duration of their marriage. He had often encouraged his wife to lighten up, have fun, and smile. She never managed to do any of that until the money came. Uncle Remis later ran off with a young Chinese lady who smiled all the time.
Aunt Cheryl hugged me and grumbled under her breath in Jamaican patois. I understood enough to gather that she wanted me to follow her. So, I left my bags by the front door and followed her into the kitchen. The small space was filled with a smell so divine that my stomach started growling instantly. She was preparing a large pot of rice and peas.
“Coo yah,” she said.
I smiled. My mama used the same term all the time. It meant, “Look here!”
“Rice and peas. Ya wan’ eat? Empty bag can’t stan’ up! Nuff tings for man to nah know ’bout life and be mawga skinny, ya know. Rice and peas. Di bikkle is pon de table! Eat!”
I tried to keep up with what she was saying, but my mind was reeling.
She placed two big steaming bowls of rice and peas on the table in front of us. I didn’t hesitate to dig into the bikkle, which meant food. Aunt Cheryl made the best rice and peas of all. Typically, it was reserved for Sunday dinners. But, Aunt Cheryl would make some at the drop of a hat. No cookbook or recipe needed. Perfection every time, with just the right amount of coconut and thyme.
“Thank you, Mother. Bless.”
“Thank you, Aunt Cheryl.”
“Tarzan,” she said. She stood staring down at me, both hands on her wide hips. “Ya stay ’ere, ya fetch up a job. Mi do mi sista dis favor. But ya nah freeload pon mi like an idle jubie. Ya understand?”
I nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
I understood perfectly. In my mother’s and Aunt Cheryl’s eyes, there was nothing worse than an idle jubie. A lazy kid.
“I’m here to work hard, Aunt Cheryl. I’ll be on my best behavior.”
“Mi nah bawn back a cow!”
That meant she’s not stupid. So don’t try to play her. But, I wasn’t. I started to protest, but she walked back to the stove, mumbling and cursing to herself.
“She’s so happy to see you,” Toasta said.
“I can tell.”
He laughed. “Yo, finish up. Drop your things off in the back room. We got a few runs to make before we hit the dancehall tonight.”
“We sleeping on your old bunk beds?” I was joking.
“Damn right,” he said. “Thought you’d be used to that style. Wanted to make you feel at home like in your old prison cell.”
“Oh, word? Now you want to crack prison jokes? Okay.”
“And I got the top bunk, so don’t even start that shit. You not going to be pissing on me in the middle of the night like back in the day.”
“No matter where I sleep,
I’m still going to piss on you!”
“Cho! No one g’wan piss pon no one in dis house!” Aunt Cheryl shouted from the stove.
“Yes, Aunt Cheryl!” I called back.
Toasta pointed and laughed in silence at me being scolded like a kid. I flipped him the bird with both hands.
We finished eating and I was shocked to find out that Toasta wasn’t playing. The old bunk beds were still in his old bedroom, just like back in the days when we were kids. The difference was that now Toasta was nearly three hundred pounds. It was hard to imagine sleeping in such close quarters and in such intense heat with his big ass.
Still, I was grateful for a place to stay. I remembered the trouble that had sent me fleeing from Brooklyn in the first place. If this was where I had to stay for the time being, I would make the most of it. I put my shit down, and me and Toasta headed out into the streets of Kingston.
WORK WILL WORK
We walked a short distance down a few long dirt roads lined on either side with colorful brick walls. This wasn’t Trench Town. But, we were definitely in the hood. Several shanty homes dotted the road, and the sound of children playing and laughing filled the air. It got louder as we neared his house at the end of a dirt road.
“Daddy!”
The children charged at Toast full speed. I smiled and stepped back as they rushed him, giggling and jumping all over him. Toasta was laughing, too. Finally, he got them all to calm down enough for us to proceed toward the house.
Peta Gaye sat on the porch of the zinc house. Reggae music played from a small boom box placed on top of a brick wall. Peta Gaye’s skin glistened with sweat as she fanned herself in the shade. She smiled as she watched her two older children do a fresh choreographed routine they had come up with. The younger children joined in and all the adults hyped them up, encouraging them. Everyone gathered around was impressed by the talent these young children possessed.
“Big up! Ya see dat nah? Mi kids di best dancers in di J-A! They mash up di place!”
Toasta’s kids beamed with pride hearing their daddy’s praise.
“Daddy, we missed you. Where have you been?” “Don’t make Mommy mad anymore.”
Toasta squirmed, hearing his children’s words. “I’m just a couple of houses down at Grandma’s house.”
His daughter frowned. “Grandma mean. We nah like over there.”
I nodded in agreement.
Toasta changed the subject.
“Peta Gaye, wha’ g’wan? How’s mi empress?”
She didn’t answer. She just rolled her eyes and continued nursing her newborn with a shawl covering her torso for modesty.
A woman emerged from the house, and I swear it felt like time stood still. I had never laid eyes on a more regal woman in my lifetime. She looked younger than Peta Gaye, but had the same smooth, chocolate brown skin. She wore her dreadlocks tied up in a colorful head wrap. It had the appearance of a beautiful crown towering on top of her head. She wore a long dress that fully covered her body, and a long rosary around her neck. Her body was toned and thick, her natural beauty shining through even in such conservative clothing.
We locked eyes. She didn’t look away. I couldn’t look away.
Toasta broke the silence. “Tarzan, this is Maya, Peta Gaye’s younger sister.”
I snapped out of my trance and cleared my throat. I extended my hand to her.
“Nice to meet you,” she said, sweetly. Her voice sounded like music. She looked at me, staring at my Timbs and my Yankees fitted baseball cap. I realized I wasn’t dressed like the other men on the island. I hoped that was a good thing.
“The pleasure is all mine.” I was smiling so hard that she looked away, embarrassed.
“Easy, boy! She’s the bishop’s daughter.” Toasta’s eyes were wide as he warned me.
“The bishop?” I looked at her.
“Mi father runs the church here in town.”
I nodded. “Respect.”
“Ya name Tarzan ya say?”
I nodded again. She giggled.
“What’s so funny? You laughing at my name?”
“Nah, man. It’s just mi never met anyone named Tarzan before.”
“Well, I’ve never met anyone so beautiful before.”
She smiled, shyly.
Toasta laughed louder than he had to. “This guy needs some practice with women.” He interrupted our conversation with his jokes. He turned to his oldest son. “Son, don’t ever use any tired game like you just heard. Ya hear me?”
The boy nodded.
“You’ll be single for the rest of your life if you listen to Tarzan.”
I knew my cousin was making fun of me. But, at that moment I didn’t even hear what he was saying. My soul was awakened! I was in the presence of an angel, and I knew it. I was meeting her for the first time, but already it was clear that Maya was nothing like my ex Tameka. In fact, she was the exact opposite of my usual type. And I loved it. I hadn’t known her for more than thirty seconds and she already had me. Until then, I thought that “love at first sight” was bullshit. But there was no other way to describe this feeling.
Toasta kissed Peta Gaye on the forehead. She just rolled her eyes and pretended not to notice.
“Let’s go, Lover Man. We have an appointment we can’t miss.” Toasta tugged me toward the road.
I was still awestruck with Maya. She waved at me with her dainty fingers.
“Hopefully, we’ll see each other around.” Her voice was so melodious.
“I’ll make sure of that,” I said. It took a great deal of effort for me to walk away.
I followed Toasta back to his car.
“You taking me to the connect?” I asked. “This guy lives down here in Hellshire? That’s what’s up! ’Cause this five grand is starting to burn a hole in my pocket.”
“Patience, young general! We’ll work on getting you to the connect later on. First, you got to get a legitimate job.”
I looked at him, confused. “What are you talking about?”
“Uncle Screechie’s!”
I sucked my teeth. “You must be playing. I ain’t never had a real job.”
Toasta laughed. “Well, today is a new day, brethren. If you want to keep the Jamaican police off of you then you need to appear like you’re being an upstanding citizen of the island. Ya know? Blend in with the people. Plus you heard what mi mother say. No idle jubie!”
We pulled up at Uncle Screechie’s—an outdoor seafood restaurant right on the Jamaican shore. It wasn’t much. But what it lacked in luxury, it made up for in its culture. A mixture of sand and old colorful bricks lined the perimeter. The bricks were worn, which only added to the charm of the place. Uncle Screechie had a medley of Bob Marley’s music playing. The tide came in as me and Toast approached. I inhaled deeply. The scent of the ocean and the food filled my nostrils. I could hear reggae music playing softly from somewhere in the back. I looked around and smiled. I was relaxed and happy to be there. It felt like I truly belonged in Jamaica. It felt like home for the first time.
“Uncle Screechie!” Toasta called out. “We have a visitor!”
Uncle Screechie emerged from the back of the restaurant wearing a wifebeater, a pair of khaki shorts, and sandals. He was in his fifties, tall and slender with a thick patois.
“General! Tap a di tap! Wha’ g’wan? Peace and blessings!”
I smiled, and gave him a strong hug and handshake. I’d loved this man since I was a young boy. He was so smooth, and had effortless swagger. I loved to hear him speak, even though it was tough to understand him sometimes. His eyes told a story of his journey through life as a rude boy who got out of the game and went legit. Retired, on the beach, running his own restaurant in a very calm and easy existence. He was living the dream.
“Uncle Screechie! How you been?” I was smiling so hard that my cheeks hurt.
Uncle Screechie filled me in on everything going on at the restaurant, while Toasta helped himself to a plate from the kitchen. I wa
s trying to focus on what Uncle Screechie was saying, even though I could barely understand him.
“One, one coco full basket, ya know? Time longer than rope. Ya up in the States and wanna be a likkle badman. Ya nah wan’ romp wit dat life. Ya nah rude boy. You a good heart.”
I nodded.
“Mi hear you need a job. Allester tell me ya g’wan keep out of trouble.”
“Yes, sir. You got some work for me?” I rubbed my hands together. This was exactly what I needed. Something to keep the local authorities from suspecting anything while I got my hustle cracking in these streets.
“Listen ’ere, General. Di aim of di wise is to work for pleasure, and work through di pain. Work will work. Neva forget dat. Ya understand, General?”
I nodded again.
“Work will work.” I repeated it back to him.
Uncle Screechie smiled. “Work is growth. You get out wha’ you put in, nephew. You grow when you focus on being di best human being. Every mikkle makes a mukkle.”
I didn’t know what the hell that meant, but I agreed with him anyway.
My uncle seemed pleased with me. He was glad that I seemed so enthusiastic about the idea of working.
He shoved a broom into my hand. “Start with the sweeping up the sand off di bank.”
I was caught off guard. I stared at it like it was a foreign object I had never held before. “Right now?”
My uncle chuckled. He walked off toward the kitchen, and called out to me over his shoulder. “Work will work. It will keep ya mind off of di fuckery, General.”
I looked over and saw Toasta laughing hysterically while eating his lobster tail and festival corn bread fritters that smelled delicious.
“Work will work! Hurry. Get to sweeping, man! We still got business to handle. Tonight you g’wan see your big cousin put in di real work. Bless up!”
THE DANCEHALL
Toasta schooled me on the history of dancehall on our way to the club that night.
“Dancehall is not just a style of music, Tarzan. Dancehall is a culture. It is a spirit. It has a rhythm, a soul.”
I nodded. “Okay.”