King of the Dancehall

by Nick Cannon

  “First king of the dancehall was Bogle. Then come John Hype. Ding Dong. Then di dancehall went mainstream.”

  “You could teach a class on this shit.” I laughed at Toasta. He got a twinkle in his eyes whenever he talked about it.

  “It is a part of history!” he yelled. “Dancehall is an art form. It is love and war. Pleasure and pain. There’s a danger to it. An intensity. Passion.”

  I laughed again. “Okay. If you say so. Sounds like all the clubs in Brooklyn that I go to all the time.”

  “It’s nothing like that.” He shook his head, seeming frustrated by my ignorance. “In the clubs in the States, the men stand around and let di women do all di work. The dancehall is a different story. Everybody gets in on the fun. It’s a conversation set to music.” He steered the car with ease while I watched the road. It still tripped me out that people drove on the right side here.

  “Dancehall originated in the late seventies here in Kingston,” he continued. “But, actual dancehalls go all the way back to the forties. They were like makeshift nightclubs for the inner city people of Kingston that couldn’t participate in the uptown parties. A dancehall could literally pop up in the middle of your street. See, dancehall is the music of the people, the struggle, the grind.”

  “Damn. You make this shit sound wild!”

  Toasta sucked his teeth. “You gotta experience it for yourself,” he said.

  We arrived at last in Port Royal, the beautiful harbor known around the world for its significance in high-grossing Disney movies and in history. Toasta beamed with pride.

  “Port Royal was the home of the legendary pirates. So that means it was the site of many legendary parties.” Toasta gestured toward the landscape as we coasted slowly through town. I looked around at all of the low-hanging palm trees, their branches gracefully brushing the earth beneath them. The port was nestled at the mouth of the Kingston Harbour, and was once the largest city in the Caribbean.

  “Imagine this place crawling with pirates, women, wine, and treasures. All of dat might sound like folklore. But, it was di real ting. They used to refer to it as the ‘Sodom of the New World.’ Even the parrots and monkeys dat the pirates carried with dem would be drunk.” He laughed. “But, di port got ravaged by an earthquake, then a tsunami, and several hurricanes destroyed di place. Many say it was the wrath of God for so many years of fuckery!”

  I imagined all of that as we drove through the town. I could almost picture the scene full of half-dressed women slithering around the port, doing naughty things with the cutthroat pirates. Back in the seventeenth century this place was popping. Women, drugs, alcohol, libations, and potions. As we approached the dancehall, it was clear that not much had changed.

  “’Dese days we no longer have di pirates. But, there’s still plenty of badman dem. Still di same spirit. Ya’ have to see for ya’self.”

  We parked the car and walked up to the entrance of the dancehall where we went through an intense physical search before we got in. Security practically strip searched one dude in particular. He took off his shoes, lifted his shirt, and they checked his mouth with a flashlight. Then, two security guards checked the dude’s dreadlocks and found a knife.

  I stood back, shocked, as the guards put the kid in a headlock and roughly tossed him off the property.

  “Uh-oh,” Toasta said. “Got him.”

  I looked around and saw several armed guards posted up on the roof wearing sunglasses and stoic expressions and toting machine guns. I felt a little apprehensive as we entered the dancehall known as The Jungle. To me, it looked like it was part brothel, part bar. The place felt eerie, erotic, dark, and mysterious. Much like the old pirate days that Toasta had described, the club had a sexual energy that was undeniable. Women stood against the wall wearing nearly nothing, their faces twisted into expressions of pure lust. Tongues flickered, ass cheeks bounced, sweat dripped. The air smelled sweet. Like pussy and baby powder. I walked through, mesmerized by what I was seeing. The place was a feast for the eyes. An actual treasure chest sat in one of the corners, full of props made to look like jewels spilling to the floor. The music was pumping, pulsating through the speakers. Dancers were gyrating across every inch of the room. I stood with my eyes wide, taking it all in.

  A tall, dark-skinned man danced in the center of the floor wearing Versace sunglasses and draped in gaudy gold jewelry.

  “That’s Raddy Rich,” Toasta said, gesturing in the dude’s direction. “He’s a rock star in the dancehall scene.”

  Raddy Rich had women all around him. He seemed unfazed by all the attention.

  I nodded. “That’s the dude who was talking on the radio earlier.”

  Toasta nodded, recalling our conversation in the car.

  I could hardly believe what I was witnessing. Everyone in the dancehall was rocking, singing the lyrics, and moving on the dance floor. Outrageous hairdos, colorful bold fashion, and bodies grinding on one another. It felt like a great big orgy set to music. There was a lustful and erotic energy in the place that was impossible to ignore. I kept looking around for some niggas with patches over their eyes like the pirates my cousin had described from back in the day. It felt like I had stepped back in time to see that the real pirates of the Caribbean were definitely not rated PG.

  Toasta caught me staring at a couple practically screwing against the wall. I had the sense that I should look away and give them some privacy. But, I was amazed by what I was witnessing.

  “They’re daggering,” Toasta explained, yelling over the music. “It’s a dance where the women wrap their legs around the men, while suspended in midair.”

  To me, it looked like dry fucking. The women humped the floor, their bodies bouncing to the beat. Headstands, back bends, splits. Ass everywhere! I could hardly allow myself to blink out of fear that I might miss something even more outrageous. Toasta called out the names of all the dance moves. Shampoo. Bogle. Sesame Street. Whine and Dip. Bubble. Every dance was more sexual than the last. It was like twerking and gymnastics combined, and I was loving it.

  “This is The Jungle, baby!” Toasta was hype.

  So was I. The beat was almost deafening. Loud, distorted bass in my ears. It felt like I was in some type of dream. There were bodies everywhere. All shapes and sizes. Big girls took over the dance floor with no shame, bouncing, sweaty, sexy bodies moving to the rhythm. I was mesmerized. My gaze fell on a gorgeous, green-eyed, light-skinned beauty wearing a hot pink spandex cat suit in the center of the dance floor. She danced in perfect synchronicity with her crew of all female dancers, all dressed in neon cat suits of assorted colors and big gold earrings that glowed in the darkness.

  The sexy one in the pink winded low as the crowd worshiped her. I understood it. All that ass needed to come with a seat belt! Her face was equally lovely. The people cheered and yelled, throwing their hands in the air, snapping their fingers into the shape of a gun.

  “That’s Lady Kaydeen,” Toasta said. “She’s got the best female dance crew on the island.”

  The crowd kept sending shots up, and the excitement was high as Kaydeen and her crew finished their performance in the center of the dance floor.

  An all-male dance crew took over next. For the first time, I realized that the dance “floor” was actually the street in the converted parking lot we were in. But, the rugged atmosphere only added to the allure of the place. I looked up and spotted armed men holding machine guns in the rafters above.

  Toasta noticed me looking. “Security,” he said.

  I returned my attention to the dance floor and saw a crew full of Asian women. They moved like sisters! This entire scene was blowing my mind. I was sweating, and I hadn’t even danced yet.

  Toasta must have sensed that I needed some refreshment. He gestured for me to follow him, and we headed for the bar.

  We waded through the crowd and found a spot at the bar on the far side of the club. The bartender looked like he might be a member of security, too. He wore a designer suit,
his dreadlocks neatly cinched in the back, and a gun on his waist. He appeared to be a ladies’ man, judging from the way he chatted up a group of ladies at one end of the bar.

  “That’s Casanova. He own di place.”

  I watched the man, intrigued. Toasta nodded his approval.

  “Casanova is one of the shrewdest Jamaicans in Kingston. He penny pinches like crazy around this place. I should know because I work here all di time. But, he makes money and keeps a safe atmosphere for the people who come here to party. It gets a little crazy out here sometimes. So, Mr. Casanova runs the dancehall with brute force. Behind all the music and the dancing and drinking, it’s like Rikers in here.”

  I looked up at the armed soldiers in the rafters again. Casanova had a lot of finesse, but seemed to run his establishment with street tactics. Toasta summoned him over, and we watched while he reluctantly pulled himself away from the women he had been talking to. He approached with a big smile on his face, puffing on a spliff.

  “Why you not up in the deejay booth?” he asked Toasta. “What, I owe you money?”

  Toasta laughed. “For once, you do not owe me a dime. I’m on my way up there now. Me just wan’ introduce you to mi cousin Tarzan.”

  I shook Casanova’s hand while Toasta explained that I had just come to stay with him from Brooklyn. He asked Casanova to keep an eye out for me, and to watch my back while he went to work.

  I was slightly offended. “I don’t need nobody to back me up. I’m from Brooklyn. I know how to handle myself.”

  Toasta and Casanova laughed a little.

  “See?” Toasta said. “He’s a wild one. Keep an eye on him.” He gave Casanova a pound and walked off toward the deejay booth.

  I sucked my teeth, and ordered a Hennessy straight. I stood by the bar watching the festivities.

  Toasta was now commanding the party. His energy was through the roof as he chanted into the microphone and hyped the crowd. He was up there grooving his ass off and it made me smile.

  “Ja! Ja! Bruk it dung! Big up yourselves!”

  The energy from the crowd was unlike anything I had witnessed before. It felt surreal—sexy, dangerous, and electrifying. The excitement was contagious.

  A crew of dancers dressed alike in all white were on the dance floor. Their T-shirts said DADA POSSE. The crowd was going crazy. Just when the roar of the crowd seemed at its height, it swelled even louder. I saw a girl with an hourglass body in a pair of skimpy Daisy Duke shorts. “Batty riders” was what the dudes standing near me were calling them. She dropped down in the middle of the floor and did a full split, bouncing at the end to the rhythm of the beat.

  I tried to get a better view by standing up closer to the edge of the crowd. Now I could see that the girl getting all of the attention was Maya—the bishop’s daughter!

  My mouth hung open in shock. Maya’s dreadlocks were swinging with the tempo of the crowd. Her dance crew joined her and they killed a choreographed routine together.

  I was mesmerized by the way she moved her body. It was like her hips had a mind of their own. It was hypnotic. I couldn’t believe this was Peta Gaye’s little sister who I had just met earlier.

  Our eyes locked, and she danced over to me with her hand extended. My heart sank. I shook my head.

  “Nah. I’m good. I don’t dance.”

  She frowned. “Oh. What you too gangsta?”

  “Nah. It’s not really my thing, you know?”

  “Okay. You must nah be bad enough.”

  Now I was the one frowning. “Bad enough?”

  “Only badmans rule the dance floor. Real qwenga.”

  “I don’t even know what a ‘qwenga’ is.”

  “Hot steppa. Gangsta. Rude boy.” She nodded toward some dudes standing nearby. “You see dem mans dere?”

  The crew of tough-looking guys took the dance floor and started a routine.

  “They run their yard. See, in Kingston, rude boys know how to move.”

  “Well, in Brooklyn it’s not like that. Real niggas don’t dance.”

  “Oh, I see. Mi think you might be scared, no?”

  I didn’t like the sound of that. “I ain’t scared of nothing. Especially something this silly.”

  She laughed. “Silly, huh?” She turned around and pressed her ass against my body. She began to wind her hips and grind all over me.

  I didn’t know how to handle all that. What she was doing was typically reserved for the privacy of a bedroom.

  “Come on, badman! Move dem hips.”

  I nervously tried to gain control of the situation. But, there was no use. Maya was working me over.

  “What’s wrong? I thought you weren’t afraid of nothing.”

  “Afraid definitely isn’t the emotion I’m feeling right now.” I was rock hard, and the fact that I hadn’t had any pussy in five years didn’t help the situation. I wanted Maya in the worst way.

  She turned it up another level and bent over even further and winded her hips against me. I wasn’t ready. I held on to her waist for dear life. I bit my bottom lip in ecstasy and closed my eyes, gone. Thankfully, before I could embarrass myself and bust all over Maya right there on the dance floor, my cousin came over and snapped me out of it.

  “Come on, boy! Ya nah ready for all o’ dat!” Toasta laughed, and looked at Maya, apologetically. “I hate to interrupt your little tutorial. But, me and my cousin here have business to tend to.”

  I was relieved, but embarrassed at the same time. I hadn’t expected to feel the way Maya had me feeling on that dance floor.

  She looked up into my eyes, smiling. “It’s okay. Maybe later I can show you some more. Since you’re not afraid.”

  I stuttered, trying to come up with a good response. Toasta pulled me away, and I was aware that I had blown it.

  “Man, let’s go,” Toasta said. “You need to thank me for coming to your rescue. She had you out there looking like a mule in heat, man!”

  “Whatever! I was handling that thang. That’s light work for me.”

  He looked down at the bulge in my pants and laughed. “Light work, ya say? Okay. That’s what I always suspected.”

  Now I couldn’t hide my embarrassment, and Toasta laughed loudly.

  “I told you, brethren. Ain’t nothin’ like the dancehall!”

  DON DADA

  Toasta brought me upstairs to the upper level of the club. This was what they considered to be the VIP section. A bunch of tough-looking men with no smiles on their faces lined the edge of the balcony. They all wore black DADA POSSE jackets, creating a barricade around one particular table. The men openly carried semiautomatic handguns, staring back at me coldly as I made eye contact with them. It was clear they weren’t fucking around. But, being from Brooklyn, I wasn’t scared of shit. At least I told myself that I wasn’t. I walked in extra hard, and returned the same venom with my own stare.

  We approached the table they were blocking, and I could see the man the goons were protecting. He was a white man with a bald head and a menacing glare. He was covered in tattoos and gold jewelry. He looked like he was from the streets. But, I was thrown by the fact that he was white. I had encountered white people in Jamaica before. But, all of them were proper and polished. This one was gutter. It was written all over him.

  “Who’s the thugged-out white boy?” I asked.

  Toasta answered in a hushed voice. “That’s Donovan ‘Dada’ Davidson. He’s the plug.”

  I chuckled a little. “He’s the plug? Seriously?”

  Toasta wasn’t laughing. “Dada is one of Kingston’s biggest dons. Everyone wants to be down with the Dada Posse. He’s a gangsta by choice. And that’s the worst kind, because he’ll do whatever it takes to prove how ruthless he is. In reality, he grew up with an overly privileged life. His father is the European billionaire Pierce Davidson.”

  “Who’s that?” I wasn’t impressed yet.

  “One of the most powerful and richest men in all of Jamaica. The Davidson family goes all the way ba
ck to the precolonization days. Old money. Super paper! Pierce Davidson owns five radio stations, three hotels, and several restaurants and gas stations. A real backra, if you let his employees tell it.”

  I shook my head. My mother used the term backra often to describe the white folks she worked for over the years. It meant a slave master; someone who worked you till your “back raw.”

  “Legend has it that old Pierce Davidson got his money and power by killing off all his old business rivals one by one. They say he buried one man while he was still alive.” Toasta shrugged. “I don’t know if that’s true. But, I’ll tell you what I do know. No money moves in Jamaica without the Davidsons touching it first.”

  I listened to Toasta’s words, but kept my eyes fixed on Dada. I already didn’t like this guy. He sounded like a spoiled punk used to getting his way. I nodded, more determined than ever not to kiss this nigga’s ass. I was willing to bet that young Dada had inherited every bad bone in his father’s body.

  Toasta gestured toward a man standing in the corner. He wore sunglasses that did little to hide the scar that ran the length of his face. His scowl only added to his deadly demeanor.

  “That’s Kutan. The Enforcer. He does all of Dada’s dirty work. The nigga kill for fun.”

  I listened, my eyes scanning the room, taking in the scene.

  Dada was in a conversation with Raddy Rich, the same performer who had wowed the crowd a little while ago. Dada stared at Raddy Rich sinisterly. He smoked a fat joint, and blew the smoke through his teeth completely covered in sparkling gold fronts.

  Me and Toasta watched from the side as Dada pulled out a fat brick of dollar bills and slid it across the table toward Raddy Rich.

  “You’re officially part of the Dada Posse now.” Dada was smiling. But, somehow he still managed to look sinister.

  Raddy Rich wasn’t smiling at all. “All respect. But, I don’t know about—”

  “No man refuses Don Dada! Mi let you wear your gold, and your fancy clothes. No charge. No one harass you, right?”

  Raddy Rich shook his head.

  Dada said, “Protection has a cost. Now, taxes due. You will win this competition for the posse. Take the money. Make your life easy. We can do this nice, and gentlemanly. Or not so, brethren. Your choice. Dance for the Posse or never dance again. Pretty easy decision, right?”