No Eediat in Half Way Tree

I was jerked awake when the bus lurched to a stop.  The engine sputtered violently and then died.

“’Aff Weh Tree! Final stop passinjahs”

The conductor made his announcement with such finality that it seemed like the reading of an obituary.

I grabbed my bag from under the seat and began pushing my way towards the front of the bus.  Some persons on the bus were in still in various stages of waking up, some yawning and stretching and “t’ank you jeesas’ing”, while others bolted off the bus and disappeared into the sea of people that seemed never ending. 

The city was a far cry from my Portland and a culture shock.  It wasn’t the crowds, the towering buildings or the uptown retail Mecca that had me daunted.  It was the pace at which everyone was moving.  I felt as though I was caught in the midst of a hurricane as persons everywhere rushed by, using their elbows and bags to move people out of the way.

Reaching the bus door, I paused for a second to catch my breath, afraid to move from the bus step.

 I was petrified. Taking a deep breath, I…

“OOF!”

I was shoved off the bus step by the surly Rasta man in whose lap I had earlier deposited the contents of my unsettled stomach.  Sprawled out on the sidewalk, with my bags spread out around me, I felt the all too familiar feeling of embarrassment creeping up on me.  Smirking, the Rasta man stepped right over me.

“Fuckin’ eediat country gyal,” he muttered, walking away.

All the anger I had in me erupted and I forgot who I was, where I was and what I was doing.  All that I remembered was Mama Inez’s last words to me when she followed me to the bus stop at four o’clock that morning.

“Jaye you a nuh eediat.  Nuh mek nobody tek u fi eediat and nobody nuh fi call yuh so neida!  Do yuh best mi chile and memba, God nuh give yuh more than yuh can bear.”

How dare this likkle ol’ mangy dread come call me eediat?

Him neva hear wha Mama Inez say?

Grabbing my bags, I shoved my way through the crowd, ignoring the curious stares of the onlookers as I hurried to catch up with the Rasta man who was almost at the intersection about to cross the road.  The stoplight was on red and he bounced on the spot with impatience.

I had a crocus bag containing some ground provisions that I was taking for my aunt and I shifted it from my left hand to my right.

As my ears burned with anger and I muted the voice of reason that cried frantically in my head.

I swung the bag wildly, hitting the Rasta man in his head and sending him stumbling into the guard rail on the sidewalk.

“A wha di bloodclaa….?” He cried, struggling to regain his balance.

“Go call yuh muma eediat, pussyhole.”

Grabbing a yam that had fallen from the bag, I threw it in his face while he stood there in shock.

“And go wash the cyabbiyaaz outta yuh dutty locks, stinkin’ dread!”

With that, I grabbed my bags and strode away, praying he wouldn’t follow.


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Goodbye is a Beginning, Not the End.

The old bus tilted from one side to the next, uprooting the contents of my stomach and threatening to make them reappear. I closed my eyes, trying to block out the blur of the beautiful countryside that I was leaving behind.  The ocean seemed so sad to see me go, and lapped against the rocks in a slow depressing rhythm.  The palm trees waved tearily, their farewells whispered from their fronds flapping in the breeze.  

My countryside was telling me goodbye.  

There was no turning back for me now.  I had to leave my beloved Portland forever.  I decided to take one last look at the only home I ever knew—the home that was fast disappearing behind me.  Bile rose in my throat.  I felt as though a rock was sitting in my larynx, daring me to shed the tears that were welling in my eyes.  But I could not cry.  I wouldn’t allow myself.

Opening my eyes, all I saw was a blur as the countryside rushed by the bus windows, a blend of trees, ocean, clouds and people going about their business. I couldn’t even move when the nausea hit me…

“Bumborassclaat! Look how dis gyal come vomit inna mi lap to pussyclaat!”. 

The bus lurched to a stop and the rastaman sitting beside me flew out of his seat and ran from the bus, using every single profanity he could think of.  His vocabulary, though not extensive, consisted of some of the most creative epithets which chipped away at the remnants of my confidence.

I couldn’t move. 

My eyes burned in embarrassment and I could feel goose bumps spreading up my arms and neck when almost thirty pairs of eyes focused on me. 

“Baby girl, yuh nuh drink nuh tea dis morning?” asked an elderly looking lady, whose head was tied in a blue paisley scarf. 

She wore a look of concern that was so familiar.  I looked into her eyes and saw Mama Inez, my granny, whom I probably would never see again—because she would never leave Portland and I could never go back.

Another wave of nausea hit me and I bolted from the bus.

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