by Nick Cannon
That smile was back on Dada’s face again, even more evil than before.
Raddy Rich stared down at his hands for a while. I could see the decision weighing on him before he accepted that there was really no choice at all.
“Yes, sir. Dada Posse.”
“For life!” Dada raised his bottle of champagne in a toast. He waved Raddy Rich away like he was dismissed, then motioned me and Toasta over. We walked through the barricade of goons. Toasta was a big man. But I noticed that even he walked cautiously through the maze of men. A couple of them stared us down extra hard. But, Dada spoke up.
“Nah, man. Dem cool. The Selectah! All Star Toasta! Mi brethren. Wha’ g’wan?”
Four gorgeous girls surrounded Dada and his crew. Their clothes were skimpy, and their bodies were tight.
“Respect, Mr. Dada. And blessings.” Toasta greeted Dada with the utmost respect.
Dada just sat there and kept smoking his joint. His whole demeanor was very ominous and calm. He was so laid-back that I had to resist the urge to slap the shit out of him. Dudes like this wouldn’t last a day in Brooklyn. Born with a silver spoon in his mouth, but out here fronting like a gangsta. I sized him up, but kept my poker face on. After all, I wanted to do business with this fake ass nigga. For now.
“What can I do for ya?” He blew the smoke in Toasta’s face as he asked it.
“Well, Mr. Dada—”
“Call me Don.” He smirked a little.
Toasta nodded. “Don—”
“Don Dada.” His smile widened.
Toasta was looking less amused. “Don Dada. This is my cousin Tarzan, from Brooklyn.”
I extended my hand to shake Dada’s. But, he didn’t budge.
“So?” Dada puffed on his joint, and left me hanging.
I withdrew my hand. My pride was wounded, but I somehow willed myself not to bust this cracker’s jaw wide open.
Toasta cleared his throat. “So … Tarzan is looking to get hooked up with some Grade A ganja. About five thousand American.”
Dada looked at me. He wore shades, despite the fact that it was the middle of the night in a packed ass dancehall. He looked at me like I was interviewing for a job as the help. He looked down at my Timbs and smirked.
“Tarzan,” he said, finally. “Monkey man.”
His boys laughed, and the tension rose. Toasta tensed up and looked at me.
Dada sucked his teeth. “Mi nah interested.”
I spoke for the first time since we sat down. “Look, man. I got the cash right here.” I reached to pull out my cash and slap the wad on the table, and the goons reacted instantly. They moved in like the secret service, swarming the table with their hands on their weapons. I held my own hands up in surrender.
Dada sat there calmly.
“Mi say mi nah interested.”
He pulled out the prettiest gun I had ever seen—gold with a pearl handle.
My heart thundered in my chest. I knew that my life was hanging in the balance at that moment.
Toasta held his hands up in surrender. “No disrespect, Don Dada. I apologize for insulting you.”
Dada turned and kissed the chocolate thottie sitting next to him. He waved us away without another word. Toasta walked off, and nudged me toward the door. I didn’t budge. I stood my ground, my pride wounded. I wanted to kill this arrogant clown. I knew I was outnumbered, and that the possibility of me surviving a battle with Dada was slim to none. But, I didn’t care. I felt rage coursing through my veins.
Then, I felt a soft hand encircle mine and I turned to see Maya standing there.
“Come downstairs with me,” she said. Her voice was so sweet, and so welcome at that moment. She led me back down to the dance floor. I saw her roll her eyes in Dada’s direction as we left.
A slow, melodic reggae song was playing now. Maya wrapped my arms around her waist, lightly, and swayed to the rhythm.
“So, ya trying to get killed your first day here?”
“Nah. Not at all. What you mean?”
“Young Don Dada. That’s what I mean.”
I shook my head. “No. We were just discussing some potential business opportunities.”
“Trust. Dada is not someone you wan’ do business with.”
“Why? Because he has tattoos and gold teeth? You shouldn’t judge a book by its cover, Maya. He’s probably a scared little boy underneath all that costume.”
Maya shook her head. “It’s not a joke, Tarzan. That man kill for fun. I know him. Stay away from him. Ya don’t wan’ that kind of attention.”
I smiled, flattered by her obvious concern for my safety. “Well what kind of attention do I want?”
She smiled. “This kind of attention.” She grinded and winded all over me. I tried to handle it a little better this time.
“Just relax, and follow me,” she said.
I got the hang of it. I reminded myself that this wasn’t Brooklyn, and that none of my boys were watching and laughing. I let myself go, and let loose in the moment with Maya. Soon our dancing was natural. It felt sexy and sensual.
Maya breathed heavily on the inside of my neck. We were both sweaty, our bodies pressed closely as the music swelled all around us. I leaned in for a kiss.
Maya stopped me, her fingers on my lips.
“No,” she said. “Just dancing.”
I was a little embarrassed, but I manned up. I kept dancing with her, willing to take whatever I could to keep her in my arms. She relaxed. It was clear to me that she was running the show. It was a nice change of pace. Maya had my full attention.
So much that I didn’t notice Dada watching us from the balcony. Thankfully, Toasta had my back from the deejay booth. So did Casanova at the bar. They both watched as Dada shook his head, his eyes focused on me and Maya dancing together. He smoked his joint, and motioned to a group of men standing near me on the dance floor.
“Dada Posse!” he yelled.
Raddy Rich, now wearing the DADA POSSE jacket, rushed the floor with the rest of the dance crew. They stepped up, pushing me and Maya back to make room for their routine. The crowd gathered around, cheering them on, as Maya and I got shoved apart.
I looked up then and saw Dada. His face was twisted into that evil grin I hated. I knew this guy was gonna be a fucking problem.
RUDE AWAKENING
Toast and I drove Maya home after we left the dancehall. Maya and I held hands as I walked her to the door of her father’s house. I was already smitten by the pretty young thing, and I wanted to hold on to her hand for as long as I could.
Her father, the bishop, was waiting up for Maya when we got there. He came to the door, and I could immediately see where Maya had inherited her regal qualities from. The bishop stood with his shoulders squared, spine straight, and neck extended. It gave the appearance that he was literally looking down his nose at me. I didn’t have much experience with fathers. None of the girls in my past had had the luxury of their father’s presence. Neither had I, for that matter. So, I wasn’t really sure how to approach this dude.
He scowled at me as we approached. It looked like he was in no mood for introductions. Nervously, Maya told him my name anyway.
“Tarzan is Toasta’s cousin.”
Bishop grunted. He shook my hand a lot harder than he had to, mumbled something in an accent thicker than I had ever heard, then shuffled back inside the house with a scowl on his face. Maya didn’t hang around for long before she followed her father inside, leaving me standing there in the dark.
I went back to Aunt Cheryl’s and crashed. I woke up the next morning after a few hours’ sleep. I was exhausted after the night I had. I had a crazy hangover. I sat on the edge of the bed in my boxers only. The heat felt like a heavy blanket that I couldn’t escape. Toasta was snoring like a wild animal on the top bunk. I remembered him struggling to get his big ass up there last night. I laughed, and sat up. At that moment, Aunt Cheryl busted in the room.
“Allester! Tarzan!”
She was
yelling like she was calling us across the yard. Instead, she was standing like a foot away, screaming in Toasta’s ear.
“Get yourselves up now and eat!”
Toasta popped up, startled by the shrill sound of his mama’s voice.
“Mommy, okay! I’m not fourteen years old anymore.”
“Shut up! You act like it. Don’t draw mi tongue! I want you both out of ’ere and off to work in twenty minutes!”
“All right!” Toasta sucked his teeth so hard that I was worried Aunt Cheryl might slap the shit out of him.
“Raise your talk at me again and nah see if ya never walk again!” She stormed out of the room, cursing under her breath. I could smell the food she was cooking, and it was enough to sober me up. I left Toasta and followed my aunt into the kitchen.
By the time Toasta dragged his ass to the bathroom and washed up, got dressed, and sat down to eat, I was ready to go.
We got to Uncle Screechie’s restaurant and he worked me like a slave. Somehow, Toasta’s lazy ass managed to avoid work most of the time. But, I was putting in work! It was exhausting. Uncle Screechie was a slave driver on the low.
I brought some garbage out back and got distracted by the water in the distance. I had a joint in my pocket, so I pulled it out and lit it. I let the sensation of the weed relax me, and I breathed in the tropical air. I wandered down close to the shoreline, and saw Plastic Man. He was a wanderer, always dressed in a dingy, oversized T-shirt, tattered shorts, and an old smelly suit jacket. He was carrying an old boom box in his shopping cart, pumping a dancehall track and dancing for the tourists and patrons along the shore. He was surprisingly flexible, and he impressed his audience with his moves and his theatrical flair. I watched as the tourists danced to his rhythm. The women winded their waists seductively, their hair blowing in the wind. It looked erotic from where I stood. I was reminded again of the pirates Toasta had told me about. Even the breeze that blew around me had a sensual feel to it.
Still smoking my joint, I stood off in the distance throwing rocks at the water, trying to see if I could land one. I had a lot on my mind. Mainly, how the hell I was going to get my hustle on without the assistance of Dada’s bitch ass.
I heard Toasta approach me from behind.
“Man, if Uncle Screechie catches you out here bullshitting, he’s gonna be on you.”
“I’m not worried about Uncle Screechie.” I looked at Toasta seriously. “What I’m worried about is your connect.” I shook my head, thinking about Dada and how rude he had been at The Jungle. “I guess that relationship ain’t what you thought it was.”
Toast sighed. “It was just a bad night for young Dada. Small tings.” Toasta lit a joint of his own.
“So now what?”
“I got a better plan.” Toasta had a mischievous grin on his face.
“You always got a better plan. What is it?”
“I got a farmer up in the mountains. Boss man. He is the source. Straight, raw, and uncut. That good shit from the ground.” He took another puff.
I looked at him, skeptically. “So you want me to start my operation with a farmer, Toast?”
He nodded. “That’s the best way, man. I should have went that route in the first place. You get the greatest quality without having to deal with all the street politics. No dons. No territories. No percentages. Just all profit.”
“All right, fam. If you lay it out, I’ll play it out. I’m following your lead.”
He nodded again. “He’s way up in the mountains, though. Take a long time to get there.”
I shrugged. “I got nothing but time.”
“Bet. We’ll go as soon as you get off work.” He said it with a smirk.
I frowned. “Yo, I don’t really work here.” This whole thing was supposed to be a front. Not a real job.
“That’s not what Uncle Screechie thinks.”
At that moment, Uncle Screechie appeared out of nowhere, holding two big bags of trash.
“Tarzan! Work! Di trash is calling. It nah take out itself!”
I sucked my teeth, while Toasta stood there laughing. I started walking back toward Uncle Screechie, and Toasta followed. I took the trash out, cursing as the fish guts spilled out of the bag and all over me. I tried to ignore my cousin snickering on the sidelines. I tried to remind myself that tonight we were going to meet the plug.
I finished putting the trash out, and did my best to cover the stench of the fish on my clothes. Finally, it was three o’clock, and I was off from work. We headed toward Toasta’s car. I had something on my mind.
“Toast, let me ask you something.”
“Nope. I got a job. I don’t do trash. You’re on your own.”
“Nah. I was gonna ask you … do you think Maya was digging me last night, or just dancing?”
He laughed. “Uh-huh. Someone got bit by the Maya bug. Be careful, man. That bite can spread and you will be scratching that itch until it bleeds!”
I frowned. “What? I don’t even know what the hell you’re talking about. Just give me her number and shut up.”
We got in the car, and Toasta rolled all of the windows all the way down. He squeezed his nose closed. He started the car, grumbling, with his head practically out the driver’s side window.
“Bumba clot! You stink, nigga!” He gasped for air.
“Kiss my ass, Toast! You the one that set me up with this wack ass job with Uncle Screechie! I shouldn’t even be doing this shit!” I did stink, there was no question. And now we had to sit there smelling it while we drove way up in the mountains to see the farmer. I wanted out of these clothes.
“I didn’t know he was gonna have you knee deep in fish shit!”
We rode in silence for a while. Toasta continued to complain, but I ignored him after a few minutes.
“You never answered my question about Maya,” I said. “You think she feeling me or nah?”
He shook his head. “Maya is in love with dancehall. That’s her only lover. She lives and breathes the dance. When she’s not helping her father and Peta Gaye, she’s practicing her moves. When she’s not at home with her family, she’s in the dancehall tearing up the floor. That’s her passion. You want to get next to her, you better learn how to move!”
I laughed. “You know real niggas don’t dance, Toast.”
“I thought that way when I first came back here from Brooklyn. But, here the dancehall is where di rude boys rule. Not on the street corners. To be king of the dancehall is to be di top dog!”
I thought about it. I could dance. Still, I couldn’t imagine myself bumping and grinding out there like some R&B dude or stripper or some shit. One thing was certain, though. I hadn’t stopped thinking about Maya since I watched her hypnotic hips sway across the threshold of her father’s house last night.
“You stink for real, dog.” Toasta said it with all sincerity.
“How much further up this damn mountain do we have to go? We’ve been in this car for over an hour.”
“Trust me.” He shook his head, grimacing. “I’m ready to get out of here with your funky ass, too. We’re about to pull up.”
THE FARMER
I looked around at the mountainside, and I was speechless. The whole scene was beautiful. Lush green fields as far as the eye could see. The breathtaking view of Kingston miles below. It felt so peaceful and serene. I climbed out of the car, and lost myself for a second taking in the view. It was amazing.
“Here come Farmer.” Toasta nodded toward an elderly man approaching from the distance. He had deep black skin that gleamed in the sunshine. He wore a tank top, some baggy pants, and a straw hat. He had a long beard, and he approached us chewing on some type of stick. His eyes were low and glassy. It was clear he was a Rasta that was at one with nature.
“Wha’ g’wan, Farmer?” Toasta called out, smiling. He looked at me and whispered, “You stay here. You might mess up the vibe with your stinky ass.” He walked to meet Farmer.
I smelled my shirt, and winced. I did smell
terrible.
Toasta went off a short distance and spoke with the dark and mellow stranger. After a few minutes he motioned me over.
“Farmer, this is my cousin Tarzan.”
The farmer smiled. “Ah. The king of the jungle. Blessings, brotha.”
We shook hands.
“Excuse the smell,” I apologized.
“He’s been working seafood at Uncle Screechie’s,” Toasta explained.
Farmer chuckled. “All mi smell is the goodness of Jah’s greatest gift. Ganja.”
I agreed. “It does smell pretty good out here. I didn’t catch your name, sir.”
He smirked. “They call me the farmer.”
I waited.
“That’s all ya need to know,” he said.
I nodded. That made sense in his line of business. Toasta had explained to me that, contrary to popular belief, here in Jamaica marijuana wasn’t really legal. So, when you operate one of the largest ganja farms on the island, it’s best to be inconspicuous.
“As I was telling you, you can trust Tarzan the same way you trust me, brethren. You have mi word. This is family.”
Farmer nodded. “Toasta tell mi you lookin’ for luggage for vacation.”
I was confused for a second. I glanced at my cousin and he nodded.
“Yeah,” I said.
“How much you want?”
“I got five grand to start.”
“Five grand U.S.?” His voice went up an octave. I understood it. Five grand in U.S. dollars was more than half a million Jamaican dollars. I was looking for a whole hell of a lot of weed.
I nodded.
“That’s a lot of luggage for one man.”
“It’s gonna be a long vacation.”
He smiled and his pearly whites sparkled in the sunshine. Finally, he nodded. “Give me a day to round up the particulars. Soon come.”
“Okay.”
“Mi need the money now, though.”
I frowned. Farmer had me fucked up. I wasn’t one of these naive young Jamaican boys running around trusting some mountain man I never met before. I looked at Toasta like this nigga was crazy. “Toasta, that shit goes against everything I learned in the streets.”