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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This is the first page of Inkstains by One Jamaican Bad Gyal.
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BadGyal*Jaye*
