The
Green Line bus came down the hill with such a speed, missing the
retaining walls of my grandmother’s home by just a foot and braked
suddenly at my gate. The accompanied jolt threw the baggage , boxes and
some jute bags of pumpkins onto the recently
asphalted rural road . I disembarked from the bus and looked to my
right to see the little thief picking up another person’s
property. “ Pumpkin thief” , I shouted jokingly and Prince looked up
with the typical ominous grin , frontal teeth glistening with gold ,
red and green, typical colours that are part
of a Rastafarian attire. The sly look on Prince’s face hid
his devious character that preyed on the village butchers, baker,
shopkeepers, small farmers and even my grandfather the parish
cabbage farmer.
It
was the first term of fourth form at the elitist grammar school named
Wolmer’s where my weekends were very precious. This
year was a serious one with subjects like Chemistry and Biology more
demanding of my studying time , knowing that I was just slightly above
average . I was relieved and perhaps ecstatic when my
dad called me and demanded I visit the country of my grandparents to
procure an ant hill , obviously for some obeah activity , (the
Jamaican voodoo ) or perhaps he wanted to chase the ghost of his
deceased mom whose appearance seems to be causing mishaps in his
working life at Kingston Wharves. The request affected me but I
promised not be insubordinate despite his demeanour. Going to the
country was certainly a privilege for me as I wanted to see my
grandparents who I have not visited for over a year. I muttered
under my breath because next Monday would be commencement of Tri
Weekly Tests at Wolmer’s. Given the strange errand I was glad
that it would give me the chance to have a laugh and a chat with
Grandma B. I need to catch up on life in Higgins Land. After all, I
was from a proud village , a mile away from the home of Bob Marley
Jamaica’s major export and brand.
Just
three years
ago my life changed as passing my the government financed Twelve
Plus Examination resulted in my migration from rural Jamaica to
Kingston. When a year passed it was not easy to get information
on life in Higgins Land because a year in the big city was different
from the life and conditions in one of the most salubrious high
mountain coffee growing villages in Central Jamaica.
That
morning I had packed my knapsack , carried a British Airways bag
with groceries and went down town to catch the earliest bus that passed
by Higgins Land. The Green Line bus was the only option in
those days and at ten o’clock I took my seat for what was
then four hours ride. Happy that the boring four hours ride came
to and , I was also upset that Butty was ill , hence the reckless
driving by Ken Crawford , the replacement bus driver. Green Line
had a safety record but just one accident could easily have destroyed
its reputation.
The
speeding and sudden jolt caused bags, luggage and people’s produce from
Kingston to topple over into the high guinea grass to
the right side of the road , directly opposite my home . Eyeing the
items with the eyes of a mongoose was Prince , Miss Poodie’s miscreant
son , a semi- literate youth not yet sixteen years old
but whose history of robbery, stealing, burglary and rape in the
village and beyond was one soon to fill a local novel and crime
literature. He was a deportee from Brooklyn , New York.
“Hi
Morris,” I turned around to hear his coarse voice , his
ugly aged and contorted face peeping in my direction as I climbed the
limestone steps to grandma’s home. “Good evening Prince
,” I returned the compliments. His reputation had preceded him
but I was unprepared for what I would hear as I climbed the steps .
Aunt Sissie, my grand Aunt came part way to meet me and grabbed my
British Airways travelling bag . “I hope you brought me my
Rothman’s of Pall Mall cigarettes , she said with a sly
intonation of the local patois. “No, Aunt Sissie I brought
you nothing, please desist from smoking , as you will soon die from
lung cancer,” I scolded her. “Well, B is waiting on you
as she saw you coming out of the bus,” she chuckled. She was
referring to Beatrice my grandmother , her eldest sister.
I
dashed into the house to hug my B ( the nick name everyone called
my grandmother Beatrice.) “You are back ,” remarked
grandma, “We thought you would have come last year for
Christmas holidays .” “No,” I replied , “My stingy dad did not want to
give me the bus fare to visit you for the
Christmas and summer holidays.” “Well, you are here now
but we are experiencing a tough time in the village.” Why
grandma, what happened , I enquired?” “Come and greet
your grandfather and he will tell you all that happens nowadays , she
said ” A cold St. Ann breeze lashed my face coming through the
sash windows from the avocado filled gully and hit the ceiling of
the quaint limestone and red dirt house . “Ah,” shouted grandpa, “You
saw that Prince “boy” yet.
“Yes, I saw that Prince boy grabbing people’s pumpkins
a while ago , and no one scolded him,” I retorted. “A
while ago he was by Mr . Crawford’s grocery shop and when the
bus nearly crashed into our retaining walls , he nearly broke his
neck running into the bushes to retrieve passengers pumpkins and even
their baggage.” How could a man reaped what he had not planted
I philosophized. “He is a damn thief, and so were his mother
and father,” my grandpa echoed. “Grandpa, be a little
respectful to his parents ,” I responded, “they are not
all that bad people.”
I
could feel the anger in grandfather’s voice and his face
reflected frustration and bitterness. I told them that my father in
his own sinister and superstitious way was frightened by a ghost
inside our new house in Kingston and wanted me to search for an ant
hill. It was clear he wanted it to use in some superstitious activity
to chase a ghost, probable the ghost of his tragically killed
mother, Miss Clemmie. Grandpa told me I can go searching in the
pimento grove over Grass Piece Hill , the old farmyard of his
parents but asked me to spend a few minutes with him so he can narrate
to me what antics Prince was up to.
As
I wait to hear
grandpa damned Prince as the village prince of hell , I reflected
on two summers ago when we had our bush cooking. It was that time I
knew that a hoodlum or scamp could be of any age. At ten years
old , Prince whose family we shared good neigbourly values proved to be
a thief extraordinaire. Bib, Michael, Vee and I decided to “run
a boat” , a term for bush cooking in our local parlance.
Summer was coming to an end and Bib was to migrate to the USA to
join her mother and siblings in New York City , the home of many
Jamaican immigrants. With my big mouth , I announced we would run a
boat with ackee, codfish , boiled dumplings , green bananas and wash
it down with carrot juice. We invited Patrick , Prince and his
troublemaker brother Garcia and set up kitchen on a lovely cool
spot near some rod wood and pimento trees at Grasspiece Hill. It
was there Prince revealed his true self. The delicious cooked
meal included a dozen dumplings over six inches in diameter fondly
called cart wheels which were earlier kneaded by great grandmother
Naomi Christie. While we left Prince for a few minutes to get ice
and Guiness stouts for the carrot juice , he helped himself without
my permission to four cartwheels. He could not wait for the meal
to be cooked properly and must have gobbled them up in his usual
greedy self. I was mystified to see an under fourteen year old
child to eat four cartwheel dumplings half cooked along with half
boiled codfish and some bananas. When we returned he swore to God ,
it was the devil who disappeared with the food!! But we knew from
that day that he would be a master thief.
When
I return from procuring the anthill, Grandpa demanded I have my
dinner. As I sat around the dining table he recited an episode of
loss and suffering , praedial larcency, and burglary in the once
tranquil district. “Morris, Prince has become Satan to us.”
“Why, what happened,” I asked? “How can a youth twelve years old become
a Satan? “
“You
don’t understand, “ he shouted. Prince is the Prince of hell! “Our
community in all my life have never been subjected
to robbery and anti social activities. Do you realize Prince is a
leader of gangs, he is so influential , he has two accomplice in
their thirties, advised grandpa. Grandpa relate how Miss G Codner ,
scion of the old Irish plantation class and later philantrophist had
closed her shop finally. Miss G had felt the brunt of Prince’s
“thiefing “ tentacles. Prince earlier that year had cut
a hole in the galvanized zinc roof of the grocery and variety
store and lowered his confederate Baltie and Tony who had a
feast day ravaging the landmark store of bags of flour, sugar and
crates of Canada Dry sodas and Red Stripe beers. They even stole
lengths of terylene and wool suiting, yards of crimplene and
polyester . Prince intensified his criminal activities affecting
all aspects of life in Higgins Land. He created a culture of fear
for a youth not yet fourteen.
I
wonder how could someone just a few years younger than myself became a
seasoned thief. How could someone who grew up and attended
the good old Missionary led Baptist Church became a young thug
creating havoc and financial loss. Grandpa’s eyes were swollen
with tear as I realized that we had been touched by crime. Post
Independence Jamaica appears to have no control over crime and
criminality. Grandma interjected by disrupting my meal , “Perhaps
we should have not had obtained Independence. We need the queen. A
criminal like Prince is not too young to be hanged !!” “Grandma, watch
you language,” I screamed. “Which
Britain? which queen? Do you know that the British had murdered
six hundred of your forefathers when we sought justice in Morant Bay
led by our National hero Paul Bogle?” “Why should we go
back to Britain for ruling us? . For what !!! Justice against a
common thief.” “Ok, Mr. High School, I am not saying
anything more. I hope the Jamaican corrupt police can arrest that
Prince . He is either elusive to the authorities or they are on his
payroll.” It was sad Prince for his age was touching even
our lives, although negatively.
Grandpa
, an ex sailor on HMS Belize worked his butt so hard in the early
part of pre World War 2 shoveling coal in the engine boiler
rooms. He had returned to farming in Higgins Land , Jamaica by
introducing the cultivation of cabbage therefore contributing to
national development. Times had changed and what he told me turn my
inside upside down. Six months before I visited Higgins Land ,
Prince and his criminal cohorts had stole his entire acre of planted
mature Jersey cabbages. As if that was not enough he went by
grandfather ‘s cabbage farm and completely cut down all three acres of
Japanese KK variety cabbages. The financial loss
nearly destroyed my family. Grandpa had “trust” (credit )
cabbage seeds and hoes from Mr. Lyn Cook, the Chinese Wholesaler
merchant who was firm with his terms of credit. The loss within a
dry year meant grandpa had to sell his two best Nubian goats to
defray his liability to Mr. Lyn Cook.
Prince
exploits continued as just a month ago a regional delivery truck from
Midland Native Distributors experienced mechanical problems.
Instead of helping the driver , Prince and his associates Balty and
Garcia helped themselves to dozens of crates of Guinness stouts,
McEwan stouts and Scweppes Bitter Lemons. They left untouched the
C&
D carbonated beverages stealing only what they considered foreign
brands. Jamaicans would say , “his chest was high.” as
he only stole what in his mind were premium brands. The stolen goods
would later find themselves into bars and pubs of dishonest
operators, fences who acted as middle men for Prince and his
cronies.
Grandpa
told me a heart tearing story of my beloved Primary School , St.
John the Baptist All Age School being burglarized and vandalized.
My school had served to educate rural children from the time it was
established with help from the ex slaves and the London Missionary
Society. St. John the Baptist All Age School was an icon in Nine
Miles as that village had the best undulating land for construction
compared to the hillier Higgins Land. The young thief vandalized
my old primary schools. Furniture, books and equipment were taken
and yet the police failed to make an arrest. Something had to be done
grandpa, I said . Prince will destroy you all. I was hearing
tales of burglary and crops of corn and potatoes being stolen
depriving the people of their bread and butter. I pray God dealt
with him harshly , I said to myself , biting hard on my tongue over
my anger at this village thief. Why can’t he met his match , I
asked myself? Where is the law? Why is it so inefficient, so
inactive and so incompetent? “In town (Kingston) they catch
the thieves. They even cut their locks when they say they are
dreadlocks and Rastafarians,” I told grandma. “Kingston
police don’t joke,” I remarked.
I
could only ponder on how things have changed. The opportunity to
procure an anthill had caused me to be home for the weekend and I
thought it would be joyful moments with my family. I never knew I
would be tortured with stories of a youth turning delinquent. “What
next,” I asked grandma B. “Well, Prince has no respect
for the law , neither does he have respect for authorities. I bet he
will strike the church.” “No, he will never go there ,”
counter grandfather. “B, are you crazy, he will never be so
bold. He will never enter on Pappa Jesus property,” exclaimed grandpa
in a shrill voice. “OK , bet me,” said
grandma.
That
night I went to my be bed, the first for over two years in Higgins
Land. Tomorrow I would attend church , meet those of my friends who
had not passed their examinations and were killing time, hoping they
would have a last chance with the Grade 9 Achievement Test. Tomorrow
Sunday would be a day to catch up on friendship talk and gossip. That
night I really had a peaceful sleep . I woke up early the next Sunday
morning , went around the back of the home to feed my pens of
friendly rabbits running from one side of the pen to another. I hope
Prince does not think of stealing my rabbits , I wonder. After
feeding my rabbits I went inside washed my hands and joined my
grandparents for a good old country breakfast of steamed cabbage ,
fried cucumbers , codfish, bread and cocoa beverage. It was just
after I finished I heard Aunt Sissie shouting, “Prince is
dead! Prince is dead!”
Grandma
rush to the door her hands masked with flour as she was preparing to
bake a cake to take back to Kingston. “What was that Sis,”
she asked. “Prince dead! How,? asked grandma. They said he died
by drowning. “How, we don’t have rivers and he would not
be stupid to drown himself into water tanks most homes on this
plateau limestone region of Jamaica has?” I asked myself. We
lived on the red dirt plateau of a pristine area of Jamaica but
tanks were for storage of water , not for devious deeds. Then Aunt
Sissie related what occurred. Prince and Baltie had gone early in
the morning to rob the church. Not satisfied with taking the
sacramental vessels- the stainless steel vessels holding wines
glasses for communion, he attempted to walk across the covered
pool to steal the antique clock. He had no knowledge that the
boards covering the baptismal pool were not in good conditions. The
boards needed to be urgently replaced as “ duck ants “,
the terrible Jamaican termite had been devouring them for weeks.
Unknowing to him , the floors were rotten from the bites of the
termites. The board broke and he fell into the deepest part of the
pool. Rev. John Knight , the white Missionary Pastor was away feeding
his Red poll cows and returning saw the church door opened . He
entered into the church and saw Prince body floating face down with
froth in his mouth. Not even seventeen years of age , Prince a
rogue had paid dearly for his life of crime . Grandpa and grandma
shook their heads and in unison uttered , “The seed you sow ,
the tree you will reap.” Do not follow others they warned me .
“You live in town , do not let city life leads you to
destruction because if you follow Juanica , you sleep in ashes. I
knew well no one named Juanica . It must have been a name borrowed
from Cuba where early immigrants went to build the canal or work on
the plantations . I had no intention to sleep in ashes , so I would
not follow Juanica. Prince though was dead , yes he was with us but
sadly his life was that of a thief and a hoodlum.
