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.


Thanks for reading BadGyal Inkstains. More inkstains coming soon...Upset because the ink stain so short?  Don't be...The story soon boil up and bubble!