Kingston in Jamaica has become a war zone after the hunt for a drug baron leaves 60 dead, The Times reports. My early childhood was spent in Kingston, after my clergyman father took a job over there teaching in the Anglican seminary. My memories are still vivid. One of my sisters was born there. I remember red ants in the garden, vivid lightning, showers in the hot rain on the veranda, bright colours, being chased across oceans by hurricanes. And I remember wandering the streets, still safe then, in the last days before independence, but with an intoxicating scent of danger just beginning. I remember hanging around street corners to meet local boys to share sherbet and fresh-picked mangos and being shown little dolls stuck with pins by their sisters. Jamaican boys, four decades ago, wore their jeans around their hips. They were worldly, sophisticated and poor. What a shame they did not stick to sherbet and mangos. I wonder if any of my old friends are among the dead.
Yuh mean yuh goh dah 'Merica
An spen six whole mont' deh,
An come
back not a piece betta
Dan how yuh did goh wey?
Louise Bennett
http://www.my-island-jamaica.com/jamaican_poems.html
May 2010