by Nick Cannon
Maya smiled. “A likkle bit. But we g’wan fix that.”
I nodded. “Yeah. I’m decent. But, y’all can help me get good.”
Killa Bean shook his head. “Dancehall is never good.” He seemed offended. Speaking in his thick accent, he addressed his boys and they shared a laugh at my expense. “We always bad.”
“That’s right. Blood, sweat, and tears. Every day. We work fast and hard,” Maya said.
“Dis nah for play. We pull from di heart. Moves represent our yard, our soil. Dis real ting!” Killa Bean used his machete to punctuate his words. He took this shit seriously, it was clear.
I looked at Maya. She wore a tank top and a pair of tiny shorts, accentuating every curve to perfection. I would have followed her to the ends of the earth.
“Well, then let’s go,” I said. “I’m ready.”
For the first time since meeting me, Killa Bean smiled at me. “Come on, man. Let mi school ya.”
His crew gathered around and they began to show me a few moves. We started with the basics. They taught me the core moves and footwork to a routine they were putting together. I picked them up quickly. I had always been light on my feet. Back in Brooklyn, I had used that skill to maneuver down fire escapes with stolen goods. Now I was using it to dance, picking up the steps with ease. Killa watched, grunting his approval. The dancehall tracks echoed off the walls of the warehouse as we danced. Maya stood on the sidelines, pleased that the All Star Blazers had accepted me into the fold. She watched me dance, and there were a few times when I thought I caught her staring a little longer than usual. By the time the sun began to set, I was drenched in sweat, and had mastered several moves I never thought I could do.
I leaned against a wall, exhausted. Killa Bean came over and shook my hand. We locked eyes and he gave me a nod.
“Good work, Tarzan.”
I thanked him. “You and your crew,” I said, hesitantly. “Do y’all need work? I got some luggage I might need some help moving.”
Killa Bean looked at me. “Hell yeah we need work. What kind of luggage ya have?”
I glanced over my shoulder to be sure that Maya wasn’t listening. She was on the other end of the warehouse practicing a handstand move with one of Killa’s crew members. I turned back to Killa and laid it out. I told him what I had and mapped out my plan. When I finished, he was smiling wider now, from ear to ear.
“Tarzan, mi boy. Welcome to di crew!”
Now, I had a team. That was just what I needed.
* * *
Killa became my main man on the streets. He knew Kingston the way a mouse knows the framework of the house he lives in. With his help, we doubled our money—first selling hand to hand throughout Kingston, then becoming the middlemen for crews on the city’s outskirts. Farmer had some of the best marijuana in Jamaica, and now we had the manpower to move it.
Over the next several weeks, my whole life changed. I spent less and less time at Uncle Screechie’s. My days were spent hustling marijuana with Killa and his crew, and rehearsing dance routines with Killa and his crew. We formed a bond that was unbreakable. Killa and his boys became my Jamaican brethren, as close to me as my niggas back in Brooklyn. For the first time in my life, I felt like I was truly a part of something. This was something way bigger than me. This was a culture. A world that had accepted me, and that I had embraced as a new family. We put work into our dancing and in the streets. We were making stacks of money, and Killa and the crew appreciated me for coming to the island and turning their lives around. Little did they know, they had done the same for me. Dancehall was my life.
We were all driving now. Toasta got himself a brand-new Beamer, while I opted for a beautiful motorcycle I nicknamed “Dutty.” Killa and the crew got cars and bikes of their own. But, more importantly, we were all able to handle our responsibilities as men. I sent money home to my mother and Toasta helped Aunt Cheryl fix up her place. He moved back in with Peta Gaye and I got a humble little place nearby. Things were better than ever.
Farmer kept the weed coming, and Kareem made his first voyage to Kingston to pick up a suitcase. He stayed for a couple of days, taking a little time to soak up the dancehall scene and the new life I was living in the tropics. He was apprehensive at first, just like I had been. But, when he saw it for himself, and witnessed the brand-new life I had created for myself, he was impressed. We reminisced on the old days in Brooklyn, and talked about our plans to get a whole lot of money together in the months to come. When it was time for him to leave, he took a cruise from the docks of Jamaica back to the shores of Miami with a suitcase full of weed. At both ends of the trip, Farmer’s connects met Kareem at the port and made sure that he got through all right. In Miami, one of his boys picked him up and together they drove for three days back to New York. Kareem was now on the streets of Brooklyn with some sticky green straight from the shores of Kingston. He was making money, we were making money, and life was good.
Maya and I were getting closer, too. In between my rehearsals with Killa and the crew and my grind on the streets of Kingston, I managed to carve out time for her. I would stop by the church when I knew she was rehearsing and watch her. She seemed to enjoy having my attention as much as I liked giving it to her. Often we danced together in the solitude of the empty church, and it felt like we were alone in the world. Those were some of the happiest moments of my life.
She had started to change her mind about my cousin. When we first met, she thought Toasta was a bum. But, over time she came to realize that he wasn’t such a bad guy. He was just a man obsessed with achieving his dreams. As the money started rolling in, and Toasta began to provide for his family more consistently, Peta Gaye was smiling again. Toasta even gave money to Aunt Cheryl to help her fix her leaking roof. For once, it seemed that everyone was happy. It was almost too good to be true in my mind. Things never went very well for long. Not in my life.
Sure enough, Maya invited me to really sit down and meet her father, the bishop. She suggested that maybe he had been in a bad mood the first time. She was convinced that if he got to know me, he would like me just as much as she did. Needless to say, that didn’t go as well as expected.
Bishop was a proud man. He had a calm voice, smooth dark skin, a bald head, and an air of importance. He was born in Ghana, and had moved to Jamaica to work for the embassy. He had met Maya’s mother soon after his arrival in Jamaica, and they fell in love. When she died, he raised their daughters to have respect and Christian values. It hadn’t been easy. Both girls were lovely, easy prey for the wolves lurking about. Understandably, Bishop was a protective father, viciously defending his daughters’ honor.
Toasta was not the type of man he would have chosen for his eldest daughter, Peta Gaye. But, she had married him anyway. The headaches that ensued were what he used to warn Maya against making the same mistakes. Bishop wanted Maya to marry a righteous man. And it was clear from the second he laid eyes on me—still wearing my blue Yankees fitted cap and my Timberland boots—that I wasn’t what he had in mind.
He shook my hand hard. “Tarzan.” He looked me in the eyes. “Maya has told me a lot about you.”
I smiled. “She speaks very highly of you, sir. Everyone does. I’m honored to meet with you.”
He exhaled deeply, his focus solely on me. He seemed to be taking me all in, sizing me up. I stood there, undaunted. I had nothing to hide. What you see is what you get with me. He looked at me with his eyes narrowed.
“Are you a Christian, Tarzan?”
I shrugged. “Not really,” I answered, honestly. “From my experience, if there is a god, He don’t seem to be paying attention to what’s going on out here.”
Maya cringed. Her father’s frown deepened.
“So you are a godless man?” His voice was critical.
“I ain’t say all that. I’m just saying … look … I’m keeping it real. I’m not the most religious nig—the most religious dude out here. It’s like Santa Claus. Some people believe in him. Some
people don’t. I just don’t believe in all that religion stuff. You feel me?”
Maya looked like she might cry. I knew I had fucked up.
“Mr.… what did you say your last name was, young man?”
“Brixton.”
He nodded. “Mr. Brixton, I’m glad that Maya brought you here to meet me.” He grinned. But even though the gesture seemed friendly, I could sense his annoyance. “Before you arrived here today, Maya had so many positive tings to say about you. I see now that she has been viewing you through rose-colored glasses.”
“Daddy—”
“No, Maya. See, dis why I tell ya to stay away from that dancehall.” He spoke the word with so much venom that even I frowned in contempt. “It’s no place for a bishop’s daughter. Dis boy is a sinner and a no-good Yankee man. Ya wan’ end up like ya sister with five kids and nah pot fi piss in?” Bishop looked at me with disdain, and shook his head. “Maya, stay away from dancehall trash.”
He walked back inside of his house, and I stood there—both deeply offended and full of regret.
“Maya, I didn’t mean to—”
“Tarzan, go home. I need to smooth things over with mi father. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
She walked away and went inside the house. I stood there for a minute, wondering if I should try to explain myself a little better. But I was afraid I would only make it worse. I got on my motorcycle and headed back to my place.
On the way there, I thought about my conversation with the bishop. I had been honest. My mother had raised me to believe in God and heaven and hell and all that stuff. But, I wasn’t really sure those things existed. I watched my mother work like a slave, saw her be kind to her neighbors and her friends. And now she was alone suffering from kidney failure. None of those friends were around. And I found it hard to imagine that a God who loved her would allow her to suffer like that. I thought about her prayers. All those prayers she was constantly saying. I hadn’t seen one of those prayers answered in all these years.
My mother’s troubles weren’t my only reason for questioning the existence of an almighty being. Growing up on the streets of New York, I had witnessed some unthinkable things. I had seen young boys slain in the street. Watched their mothers wail at the funerals of those boys. I had seen women selling their bodies, drug addicts selling their souls, and children left alone to raise themselves. In prison, the horrors I observed had only been worse. I listened to grown men cry in their beds at night while the demons of mass incarceration closed in around them. With all that I had seen and had experienced for myself, it was tough to imagine that there was anyone out there listening to our desperate prayers.
I got to my small villa, parked my bike, and went inside. Nestled in the hills, the place was small but it was home. I got comfortable and set my gun down on the bedside table. I took a bunch of money out of my pocket and set it aside. Later, I would tuck it into my safe along with all the rest of the cash I had managed to save. The stacks in that safe were getting higher. I was happy. Everything was going according to plan. Except with Maya. I was afraid that I had messed things up with her for good.
I called home to speak to my mother. Weeks had passed since the last time I heard her voice. I knew that she alone could make me feel better and take my mind off my relationship problems.
She answered the phone, and I could hear the excitement in her voice instantly.
“Tarzan? Is that you?”
I laughed. “Yeah, Ma. It’s me. How you doing?”
“Boy, I haven’t heard from you in weeks! I would be doing fine if you would call more often.”
“I’m sorry, Ma. I’ve been busy working down at Uncle Screechie’s place.”
She sucked her teeth. “Tarzan, don’t even try it. I spoke to Screechie two days ago, and he said he hardly sees you these days. You’re not working with him as much as you used to. You stop in there once or twice a week, and show your face for a few minutes.”
I sighed. Damn Uncle Screechie!
“I don’t know how you keep sending all this money up here. I don’t like it, Tarzan.”
I was rethinking my decision to call home. “Mama … I thought you said you needed the money. They got you on all that medicine. You hate it. At least that’s what you told me. You like your holistic remedies. Your herbs and potions. You can’t get all of that with insurance, can you?”
She hesitated. “No. But, I—”
“And, your rent was backed up. You’re caught up now, right?”
“Yes, it’s paid.”
“And you have a little money set aside to send Trent to community college this fall?”
“Yes, son. I have everything I need, everything that Trenton needs. We have more than we need, as a matter of fact. But, I’m worried about you, Tarzan.”
She was trying to give me a hard time. But, I could hear the relief in her voice. For the first time in a long time, she didn’t have to duck the phone calls from creditors. She didn’t have to come home from long dialysis appointments to find eviction notices posted on her door anymore. My brother was on track to get the education he deserved. She had to be sleeping better at night. That’s what I was doing all of this for. Or at least, that’s what I told myself.
“Don’t worry about me, Mama. I’m out here working with Uncle Screechie. I’m going to the dancehall club with Toasta and I’m having fun. I even met a girl.”
“What?” I could hear the joy across the miles. “Ya nah ready for di island gals.”
I laughed, and so did she. And, just like that, the mood was lightened.
“Is Trent there?” I asked.
She said that he was, and called him to the phone.
“What’s up, Tarzan?” Trenton sounded older and more mature than the last time I spoke to him weeks ago.
“Hey. Did Kareem give you my message?”
“Yeah. I’ll take care of it.”
I had sent Kareem back to the States with some extra money, specifically for my brother. My instructions were for Trent to go shopping, get some sneakers, some gear. Flex, for the first time in his life.
“You spend so much time taking care of Mama. You know what I’m saying? You make sure she gets to her appointments. You work long hours and give her your whole paycheck sometimes in order to make ends meet. I know the sacrifices you have to make all the time. Most of it is my fault. By getting in trouble all the time, I leave you to hold it down. And you always do. So, I know your birthday is coming up. Make sure you go out and treat yourself good. Get yourself something nice.”
“Yo, Tarzan. I appreciate that, brother. For real. Thank you.”
It felt good to do that for him. For too long the roles had been reversed. Trent had been the man of the house while I was out breaking the law. Even now, I had left him back in Brooklyn alone to shoulder the weight of our mother’s health problems. Kareem told me that things had died down with Charles. Apparently, Tameka had kicked him to the curb for the next baller. Now I was the furthest thing from his mind. Still, I knew my place was not in Brooklyn at the moment. I needed to be here. Jamaica had become a part of me in ways I had never expected.
I talked with my family for a little while longer, assured them that I was taking care of myself. Then I took a nice, long shower and fell asleep across my bed with Marley singing softly through my little radio about redemption.
THE JUNGLE
Maya was pissed off, to say the least. Days went by without a word from her. I wasn’t crazy enough to go back to the bishop’s house again. Instead, I went looking for her at Toasta and Peta Gaye’s house, only to be told that Maya didn’t want to talk to me. She was shutting me out and there was nothing I could do about it.
I stayed busy, hanging out with Toasta, Killa Bean, and the crew. We created new moves and mastered our dance routines with relentless practicing. Killa was an ambitious choreographer. He liked to incorporate unexpected objects like beer bottles and lighters with aerosol cans to make torches. Our rehearsals were gruelin
g and I had to really challenge myself to keep up. Truth be told, I was determined to do more than keep up. I wanted to exceed all expectations.
It took me a minute to realize that my motives had shifted over the course of the weeks I had spent in Kingston so far. My interest in dancehall had started out as an attempt to get in Maya’s pants. If dancehall was the way to her heart, then dammit, that’s the way I was going. But, then I got into the heart and soul of it and, to my surprise, started discovering layers of myself. I was glad the weed was selling and the money was rolling in. But, I was happiest in those moments when I danced with the All Star Blazers. I came alive out there. And, I watched my brothers do the same.
Killa Bean, especially, became an open book when he danced. All of his pain, his terror and power, his belief that he was invincible—it all spilled out when he danced. I learned that he had led a tough life in the heart of Kingston’s historic unrest. War was something he had seen up close, and had lived to tell the story. He told that story with his feet, his arms, chest, and the sway of his neck as he moved. He taught me to do the same. I felt like I was learning from the best.
The “In the Dance” clash competition was coming up soon, and the grand prize was ten million Jamaican dollars. That was almost eighty grand in American currency. We were making good money in the streets. But, the All Star Blazers had every intention of winning that dance battle, and putting that prize money to good use. My plan was to take my share of the money and invest every penny into my cousin’s music career. Toasta had gained an impressive following in the dancehall world. His mixtapes were selling more than ever, and he was requested to deejay at venues throughout Kingston. I believed that with the right push and the right people behind him, Toasta could go all the way.
But, it all depended on me and the All Star Blazers winning the dance clash. We had been practicing hard. It had taken discipline that I never knew I had to master some of the moves Killa Bean had come up with. Now, the dance had become a part of me. I understood that the steps were extensions of my swag. The way I popped my chest, moved my waist, shuffled my feet, tipped my hat, grabbed my belt—each movement was a demonstration of who I was. It all told my story. I was in love with the energy of it. My moves were bold, my facial expressions provocative. I intended to leave an impression tonight, as I took the floor with the All Star Blazers for the first time.