The Abeng and My Conscious Pen

We Tribe: Granny Turn Ninety

2011-12-12T13:16:00.007-05:00

by John Holyfield

You don’t choose your family. They are God’s gift to you, as you are to them. ~Desmond Tutu

On November twenty-first, di whole tribe come together for my Granny ninetieth Earthday. We travelled from crevices and corners, over hills and through valleys, from all over the globe, literally. I grinned 'round di hall from tables of Elders to young mothers with suckling, realizing that four generations worth of ourstory was gathered together. This was really an' truly a family reunion.
The Tables of Elders was like a council and Granny sat as regal as Yaa Asantewaa.
As her eldest grandpickney, I was the first one of my generation to make a speech. Spent a whole night writing it, just tru I write better than I talk. But when the time came, I just stood there gazing at Granny and my Tribe. Then words just tumbled straight out mi heart and soul. Yeah man, had a chat with the whole tribe of family and friends 'bout what my Granny means to me.
My heart wrap up in a smile whole night.
Granny is real, not just this rickety-frame, cotton wool-hearted, caricature grandmother. She is complex. One of the things I love about her is she is vibrantly mischievous-her wit is a file, her tongue, a cutlass. She gets a twinkle in her eye just as she bout fi swing di blade. She and her sister, my Great Aunt, have this ongoing war of wits that, truss mi, will mek yuh laff till yuh belly buss.
Having family, relatives and friends in the same building one time, I could feel the genuine love. As a whole, my tribe is very supportive of one another, individually and collectively. We don't have much backbiting and envy among wiself and, so, we love come together and celebrate. Suh wi stay. And dance? We love that. We will keep a birthday party for the pickney dem, then turn it right 'round into a birthnight dance hours later- fi di big people dem.
When my aunt spoke about my uncle, cousin and grandfather who have all ascended to the ancestors, I felt their presence. I mean that literally. Their Life Force burns on, hasn't been extinguished by the passing of flesh nor the winds of time. Is honor saluting love when we reminisce about ascended family, f'real.
The whole event was a moment I will forever cherish, Jah know. Four generations ah mi tribe danced together to Reggae, Soca and oldies. I couldn't help wondering, in this age of upward mobility, in this "land of prosperity", how many more generations would keep up our tradition of gathering the Tribe for celebration. Will our children's children honor the tradition?

Muhammad Ali's Twentieth -Century Revolt

2011-10-12T02:35:00.005-04:00

Muhammad Ali (Image via RottenTomatoes.com)

"You want to send me to jail? Fine, you go right ahead. I've been in jail for 400 years. I could be there for 4 or 5 more, but I ain't going no 10,000 miles to help murder and kill other poor people. If I want to die, I'll die right here, right now, fightin' you, if I want to die. You my enemy, not no Chinese, no Vietcong, no Japanese. You my opposer when I want freedom. You my opposer when I want justice. You my opposer when I want equality. Want me to go somewhere and fight for you? You won't even stand up for me right here in America, for my rights and my religious beliefs. You won't even stand up for my right here at home."
~Muhammad Ali

You have to respect Muhammad Ali's stance. If you know the story, there is no way not to admire the way he licked out against injustice. At the time, he was the undisputed, heavy-weight champion of the world. He was as recognizable as any president or prime minister. He was loved by millions who considered him out spoken and confident. He was maybe hated by millions also, because that said confidence was seen by some as brash and boastful. In any case , Ali was seen by many Black people as a conscientious Brother with a mad swag and charisma, one who would was never 'fraid to chat how We feel. The situation was laden with irony: the source of Ali's fame and livelihood was the said system he was lashing out against.

There are many facets and layers to this story. The Vietnamese War caused rift between Americans, Black or White. It was part of the whole Cold War posturing between the U.S. and U.S.S.R, and many of us in the so-called Third World were affected by the "super powers" insistence that countries line up with one or the other. Many of us in the Caribbean and Africa felt the ramifications of political friction- Capitalist vs Socialist propaganda and manipulation, CIA vs KGB coercion.

At the time, Black people in America were going through the fight for civil rights. Many of the Brothers and Sisters in the military were in conflict over their feelings of loyalty for the Black Struggle and commitment to patriotic duty. Refusing induction into the military to fight what he felt was an unjust war was a bold statement- a Twentieth-century act of Revolt.

When I look at old media takes, film and interviews, Ali was adamant, yet dignified in his statements against the war. When he mentioned his solidarity with poor people world wide, his voice is pounding with conviction. His refusal to go fight in Vietnam wound him up in court, facing prison time, being stripped of his boxing title and losing millions of dollars. Even though he was eventually offered a "soft" position in the military where he wouldn't face any fighting, Ali still refused to be drafted, based on his religious beliefs.

Jah know, Muhammad Ali's stance against the system is the reason I consider him the Greatest (fighter of all time).

He got up, stood up for his rights. And ours.

Conscious Itation (Meditation)

2011-10-03T13:36:00.146-04:00

For I, Kaya, meditation is the path I take when I engage in communion with the Divinity within me-

i & I.

As a youth my Mother introduced me to meditation as a way of calming me because I use to have an acute case of asthma and a wicked case of vexation of the spirit and those two, when mixed, can drive a single mother clear up over a mad house wall. So she traipse me over to this Hindu man who showed two ah we lessons in dhyāna. I have been meditating ever since then, on and off.

People have been meditating in various forms for thousands of years. Many cultures have their own forms of meditation, while others overlap, sharing similar elements and traits. But regardless of minute differences, most people and cultures meditate as a part of attaining higher spirituality, or as Rasta seh, a Iyah Ites (higher heights).

There are certain common features in all meditation, regardless of culture: a quiet/peaceful setting, concentration/focus/attention, a comfortable position, relaxed breathing.

There are also various ways people meditate. Some are:

using imagery or visualization of mentally relaxing places;
silently repeating a spiritually/mentally calming word, phrase or thought (mantra) to help keep out distractions;
using an increased sense of awareness to concentrate/experience the present through broadened senses such as smells, sounds;
transcendental, which is using mantra to eliminate all thoughts from the mind.
and yoga, which involves performing postures and controlling breathing exercises to achieve healthier body and a calmer mind.

Meditation helps alleviate many stress-related illnesses like asthma, high blood pressure, heart disease, migraines and fatigue.

When I meditate, I remain still and embrace the stillness of mind. Most times I chant a mantra, but sometimes when in nature, I immerse myself in the sounds, smells, and feel of my surroundings.

I love meditating by the sea, fountains, streams and rivers because the sound of water dancing over rocks calms my soul. And if birds flock by, they bring chirps and flapping, flittering feathers to the orchestra.

When I have no phones ringing, computers blinking, cars beeping, and nothing demanding my attention, I can feel myself drifting within my mind. I often find that my thoughts continue rolling involuntarily, and so I refocus on my mantra, sounds and sensations around and/or within me. When I get to that space within where there is very little thought outside of natural phenomenon- my heartbeat, the breeze,etc., my mind is peaceful and relaxed. I've decreased my negative thoughts and energy while increasing self-awareness and positivity.

I read somewhere once that when we calm ourselves in meditation, our neurotransmitters rest from sending on thoughts/electric charges to our minds. Its like a deep form of rest.

Itation rejuvenates mind, body and soul.

Namaste...RastafarI

Black Fists Rising: Rebel Salute at The 1968 Olympic Games

2011-09-30T20:23:00.007-04:00

This powerful image first snagged up my attention as a youth when I flipped through a magazine and BRRAAP!- it shat, and has imprinted my imagination for decades. Though I couldn't overstand all the symbolism and implications when I was younger, I felt the power of rebellion exploding from the expression caught in time. Without knowing the fullness, the Black fists raised in salute pounded an impression in my psyche that I will always identify with, truss mi. And as I grew, I deciphered the symbolism embedded in the image, like narrative scribed in hieroglyphics. When I began seriously writing, it was only then that I fully comprehended the strength packed, loaded and framed in this moment.
For those like me who never even born when this incident tek place, it was at the 1968 Olympics in Mexico City during the 200 meter track medal ceremony. In the middle is the winner of the event, Gold Medalist Tommy Smith (USA) and on the right is Bronze Medalist John Carlos (USA). The man on the left is Silver Medalist Peter Norman (Australia).
This action screamed REVOLT for many reasons. The first thing is that political statements are a big NO-NO at the Olympics. Next thing, we talking bout the 60's, the era of the Civil Rights Movement, world wide Black discontent, protests and riots, from L.A. to Detroit to Sharpeville, South Africa. Remember it was the in the Sixties when His Imperial Majesty Haile Selassie declared that "Until the philosophy which holds one race superior and another inferior is finally and permanently discredited..." AND, don't forget, the Bredren were wearing the good ole USA akkkross their chests and representing the land of their birth; yet, they still identified with and declared solidarity with The Struggle of The People.
The Brothers stepped on the podium with their black-socked feet , symbolizing the poverty of Black people in America. Tommie, from Texas, draped a black scarf around his neck that stood for Black pride. John Carlos, a Cuban American from Harlem, wore beads that represented "those individuals that were lynched, or killed and that no-one said a prayer for, that were hung and tarred. It was for those thrown off the side of the boats in the middle passage."
When the Brothers raised their fists in Black Power Salute it was an act of total defiance and a statement of protest against a system that oppressed Black people. (Tommie later declared in his autobiography Silent Gesture that it was a human rights salute)
I must note that Peter Norman, the Australian, stood in protest with Brothers and all three of them wore the badge of the Olympic Project for Human Rights (OPHR). Norman had been outspoken against Australia's White Australia Policy so he empathized with Tommie and John, even suggesting that they each wear one of Tommie's glove after John had forgotten to bring his own pair to the track.
Well yuh done know, the backlash from the statement was tremendous. The Brothers were suspended from the USA Olympic Track Team. Upon returning home, they received death threats from good ole Americans.
Tommie Smith said, "If I win, I am American, not a Black American. But if I did something bad, then they would say I am a Negro. We are black and we are proud of being black. Black America will understand what we did tonight."
And overstand we did, Bredren. I think Black people the world over felt you. I give thanks.
How many of us would've had the dignity and courage to express ourselves on the world stage in such a way that would possibly affect our very livelihood?

Linden: Age of Innocence

2011-09-27T17:25:00.003-04:00

Linden: Age of Innocence

Gentle breeze hoists clouds, lifts away a storm

Parakeets chat harmonize innocence

Boats glide lazy on a black river stream

Sun-molten, tar road winds thru innocence

Trains haulin' bauxite ricket up a storm

Three times each day a horn bellows a stream

Now time's rolled by like that black river stream

did glide. Life's a bowed coconut tree in storm

which snap-whips all semblance of innocence.

Still I Rise: Giving Thanks

2011-09-26T12:21:00.000-04:00

Blessed Love. Today I begin my New Year and so I man rise giving thanks to the Almighty for granting one more earthly revolution around the sun. In striving for Balance, I realize that this Journey called Life is not a hundred- meter dash but much like a marathon in which endurance is paramount- so I approach the race less like Usain Bolt and more like Haile Gebrselassie - with great stride and diligent pace.

One lesson I've learned is how to cherish moments, even as time rushes by like a tormented stream. I make concentrated efforts to breathe-in, internalize experiences and feel the moments. I am grateful for everyone who shares, or has shared, my journey in some point along the way.

I Arise every time I stumble. I rise, brush off, reveling in this journey, knowing both great joys and pains, embracing the warming sun and facing pelting rains. Mek each experience stimulate growth and development because stagnation is death.

Jah Bless each and every one, collectively.
There are over six billion people on Jah Earth...There is only ONE LOVE!

Build more bridges; less walls and fences. This is my New Year.

"When the truth awakens in you, you can't do anything but accept the truth." ~ Bob Marley

Melkam Addis Amet (Happy New Year): Enkutatash or Ras Awde Amet

2011-09-11T12:07:00.002-04:00

Melkam Addis Amet (Happy New Year)

Today, September 11 is Mäskäräm 1, the first day in the first month of a new year in Ethiopia. In Amharic, the official language of Ethiopia, the word for New Year is Enkutatash* while in Ge'ez** the term is Ri'se Awde Amet.***

Queen Makeda

Enkutatash is traditionally an important day to Ethiopians. When Makeda returned from her visit to King Solomon, her chiefs gave her enku, jewels. Enkutatash has since been celebrated in the spring, which follows a three-month rain season. It is a time to celebrate new life, rebirth, a beginning, new hopes and dreams.

Ethiopia and Egypt

The date traditionally is important in the ancient African Valley as it marks the the highest point of annual inundation of the River Nile and is recognized by Coptic traditions of the region as the end of Noah's flood. The Blue Nile flows from Lake Tana in the Highlands of Ethiopia while the White Nile flows through Sudan. They converge into one great river and its inundations represent annual resurrection and rebirth. Realize that an intimate connection between Egypt and Ethiopia has existed from ancient times. Recall that even from the Twenty-first Dynasty the two countries were sometimes under the same ruler and so, naturally, culture, arts, religion and philosophy were effectively interwoven.

In Egypt, the first month of the Season of 'Akhet'(Inundation) is called Thout. Today September 11 is Thout 1 on the Coptic calendar. The Ethiopian Calendar and The Egyptian Coptic Calendar are closely related and the names of months being the major difference. Both are derived from the ancient Egyptian Calendar

*Enkutatash እንቁጣጣሽ is literally "gift of jewels"

**Ge'ez is an ancient Ethiopian language from which Ahmaric is derived. Ge'ez is the official language of the Ethiopian Orthodox Church
***Ras Awde Amet literally Head Anniversary. This term is preferred by the EOC/Ethiopian Coptic

Word, Sound, Power: TriUne (Tribute to Rastafari in Transition)

2011-09-09T10:18:00.007-04:00

(Never Gone! Never Forgotten!)

Word, Sound, Power: TriUne (Tribute to the Rastafari in Transition )

copyright K. Omodele 2011

Man, Know Thyself

Physically, Mentally, Spiritually

Eye and Eye

i. i n I

Prophet, Priest, King

Word, Sound, Power

Kete, Fundeh, Bass

Second, Minute, Hour

Ites (Red), Gold, Green

Knowledge, Wise-mind, Overstanding

One! One! One!

Aim, God, Destiny

Air, Water, Fire

(EARTH)

Breath, Chalice, Fire

(SACRAMENT)

Man, Wombman, Child

(FAMILY ESSENCE)

Light, Love, Life

(LIVE)

Man, Know Thyself

Africa, Carry beyond (Caribbean), Americas

Prophet, Priest, King

Word, Sound, Power

Sun, Moon, World

Second, Minute, Hour

Head, Body, Soul
Justice, Livity, Truth
Father, Mother, Child

the Elders, The Movement , the Youth
the Abeng, the Shaker/shak shak, the Akete

Word, Sound, Power

Wake Up! LIVE-aspora

cyaan dis di Tri-Unity

Conceptualize...

Beyond...

the Box.

Pressure Creates Diamonds

2011-09-01T17:41:00.008-04:00

Pressure Bursts Pipes

One evening on the football pitch, a man is standing, lining up a penalty kick to win the match. Seconds balance on a ledge as he bores a glare into the ball and a next man bawls out from the sideline, "Preshah Buss Pipe," the sound echoing around off trees, walls, and in the minds of man and man.

Nuff times in life, nights seem never ending. At some point in time, the verb and noun "struggle" morphed into a proper noun, "The Struggle", the emphasis worn on the backs of "Strugglahs/Strugglers." Often, the burden bends and eventually breaks some of them backs. But the same hardships or preshah that buss pipe, that said pressure creates diamonds.

Pressure Creates Diamonds

Carbon is a mineral and diamonds are allotropes of carbon, which only means it is the same carbon existing in another form. Oh by the way, Carbon is abundant in and about and all throughout the Universe. It's found in all living things, all in me and you. The interesting thing 'bout diamonds is that they are formed over millions of years, by high-intense pressure and molten temperatures deep down in the earth. These extreme measures change the structure of carbon, hardening it and adding the illustrious qualities that make diamonds. This new carbon structure's (diamond) superlative hardness, strength and density allows for little impurity. Purity and transparency, combined with its structural rigidness makes a diamond reflect light with luster. This is why a diamond sparkles and shines.

So now, see how a lump of coal (contains carbon) is formed into a tough, beautiful gem? The same preshah that buss pipe is that said pressure wha' create diamonds. For us, the difference is in how we react; our response indicates whether we folding, leaking down di drain when things tough; or, if we coming sparkling like diamonds, fresh out di rough and harder than any natural material. This is how Bredren and Sistren SHINE, despite and in spite of adversity...Strive to come in as a gem. Yuh done know... BLING, naturally.

Image by Getty Images via @daylifeOh, and the penalty kick...
"PRESHAH MEK DIAMOND, " the brother answer back right after lacing the ball in the right V*. Shine on mi bredren. Shine on!

*V the corner of the goal where the crossbar and the post meet.

Granny and We Tribe

2011-08-27T14:39:00.009-04:00

One thing I love 'bout my family is that we close-knit. For instance, I have dozens of cousins and we don't distinguish with labels like first-, second-, or third-; every single one ah dem is just plain ole cousin. That's how I like it. A next thing: there's nothing half 'bout brothers and sisters, neither.

And is nuff ah we, plenty ah we. All over in England, Canada, the U.S.- in more than ten states; all over the West Indies-one ah we even lived in Costa Rica, a few in Africa.

My Uncle Stuartie used to call the family, "the Tribe." See, in a tribe, the whole village raises a child and throughout my life my Granny and aunts helped grow me, even some of my teenage years. When I was born and my mother continued her schooling, my Granny, Jah Bless her, tek mih in an' mind me. I mean, I went to live with her and she took care of me. So, for my few toddler years, 'til I was 'bout four, I was raised by the tribe, the village. And Granny, is the Matriarch.

In November Granny will be Ninety. In her time, she has read current news articles declaring: How To Survive The Great Depression, A Hundred Years Since Emancipation, Germans Blitz London, Fidel and La Revolucion, The Collapsing of British Colonialism, National Independence, Federation Folds, and CARICOM Lives. She's outlived dozens of Prime Ministers and Presidents. She limps with a walker now, but I see photos that could've made magazine covers- one with my late Grandfather back in the days and, truss mi, Barack and Michelle couldn't stand next to dem.

She chastises me:

"Why you talking so? Speak English, proper English."

But Granny, the damn English don't even speak proper English.

Everyday I remind myself that its she one who labored over the stove for me, regardless if I was behaving:

"hard ears"; "boderation"; "schupid; like yuh doan have no sense, or wah?"; "mannish"; or like I don't "have no manners."

Wait, side note. My Great-auntie just fight mi off a piece a buns and ask, "Is you one have mouth?"

So, the Elders in my tribe are pushing up in years and now its time I mind them. I been visiting with them here in ATL, and my recent days I been cleaning ceiling fans, helping turn mattresses, boiling ginger, opening guava jelly bottle/jar, grinding up pepper with a grinder (not a blender, an ancient grinder). Sometimes, right when I'm concentrating on writing, one of them screeches out my name, pushing my annoyance button, 'til my vexness turn up. Through clenched teeth I reply boyishly, "Yes, Granny." (or Auntie) Truss mih, is all love because when its all said and done, they are my biggest supporters, they have loved me without conditions nor obligations, and for the longest time.

And I am thankful. I am grateful I have people who cherish and share a bond from all over the globe. This is my Tribe. And I love it to Life.

Bless up Uncle Stuartie.

Never gone! Never Forgotten

When Things Fall Apart

2011-08-27T11:11:00.005-04:00

When Things Fall Apart

©K.Omodele

Each day I see the effects of the absence of men/fathers/husbands from families in our communities. It is apparent in my neighborhood with the little boys who scurry the street at close to midnight. It is evident when my own blood sister's eyes squint tight with frustration 'cause her little man got into trouble at school. Another sistren's young daughter talks about her Dad constantly, but hasn't seen him in 'bout a year. Seems like everywhere I turn, absentee fathers leave their marks-things fall apart.

When we gone, things fall apart in some way or another. The family fabric is altered when we're not there and some Sisters struggle on their own, many resorting to hustling or food stamps to supplement meager single incomes. They struggle alone in five-season old dresses and patch up-patch up jeans. Drag our seed around with them in mini vans, subway cars, or putt-puttering twelve-year -old Mirages, dropping the children off at day cares (they can barely afford) or family members. Then, they rush off to cash registers or mop closets or clerk desks or, community colleges if they're lucky.

From Lagos to Linden, London to LA, when fathers disappear children become some department's statistics. Often, girls grow into fractured women and boys into inmates. I KNOW. I'm sure you know, too, what happens to our families when things fall apart.

Bredren, Love our sistahs/Big up di Sistren! Mentor a child!
Or get the hell out the way.

I-ngels Cried (to Chassidy and Cam)
©K.Omodele 11-13-07

In an urban landscape which crumpled my soul
Where ulterior motives are brushstrokes by
shardy images of the elusive and
scarred face dream, I barely noticed when two I-ngels sighed.

In the solace of an early summer lake
in May, when bird chat was an Ella-scat, and while
soothing powder blue caressed over luscious green
and jerk-seasoned smoke, I clearly saw two I-ngels smile.

On the day the sun refused to shine, when freedom
rushed away like a ship on a West African tide
Seperated by brick and glass panes of misery,
my heart tumbled like a stone when two I-ngels cried.
©K.Omodele 11-13-07

Reasoning: UK Riots

2011-08-21T16:49:00.008-04:00

"Whites have become blacks..." ~David Starkey

Workman Reasonings: Uk Riots
copyright 2011 K.Omodele

With lungs heaving, a dozen and a half bredren and work-associates drag themselves off a football pitch, peeling away sweat-plastered tee shirts and wringing them dry. They settle around, palavering in the short grass beside the field. Every man catch a seat, relaxing; but Sunday morning already done and now Monday morning looming like a hurricane right over the horizon.

A bamboo-stalk youth yanks his football boots' lace, removes boots and shin guards. Plopping down under a tree, he braces his spine 'gainst the trunk and opens a window in his smart phone. Lights up a Newport , bellows out smoke through his cannon-gun nostrils and says:

"Yow, Bajan.Your London ah bun dung, to blood-bath."
"Look how long now they rioting, bout two or three days now. Yuh late, Rudeboy!" Bajie replies, swiping a along his military cut shape-up and sops up his mustache with a handkerchief . Then, he folds it neatly, drapes it over a shoulder.

Dreadie pushes his size-twelves into flip flops. Retrieves a towel and Daily News from his back-pack before shoving in his Adidas. He parts rope-sized, Congo locks and dabs down by the scalp with the towel. Then, he turbans them, finds a stick ah Ishence*, lights it and parts open the newspaper pages.
"BaBY-LON, your Kingdom is BURN-IN'," he wails with no twitch hinting his face and not a trace of regret lacing his voice. Then, he continues like a verdict, "And this time di revolution not only televised, it Internet computerized, tuh rass."

Spence reclines, his tradesman-toned arms extend behind him, propping him up like stands. "Oonu** nuh hear bout wha Sparkey seh?"

"Who?" half a dozen of them croak out in unison like a set ah ole bull frog.

"Di MP." Spence words grumble from age, not lack of confidence. He strokes a raisin-skin hand through his cotton-colored, pickie-pickie beard. His temples are glazed with perspiration.

"Oh.Yuh mean David Starkey, dat racist so and so." Trevor answers.

"Yeah. Starski."

Dreadie eyes lock in on a page. "Hear, nuh. Pon some Tel-lie-vision program over deh, Starkey seh-" each word is shoveled like he's digging a grave. "'The. whites. have. become. black. A particular sort of violent destructive, nihilistic gangster culture has become the fashion and black and white boys and girls operate in this language together. This language which is wholly false, which is this Jamaican patois that has been intruded in England and that is why so many of us have this sense of literally, a foreign country.'"
Dreadie glowers around at the congregation. Then, waving the paper with one arm like a flag, he rumbles:
"This man mek a connection between Black culture and gangsterism. But when you really hear di shout, yuh will find out seh youth gangs and groups been in Europe since Medieval times. You know how long gangs deh in England robbing, raping and extorting? You had juveniles wha' use to wear colored ribbons like they flag and bare violence them ole criminal deh use to commit. Even the word gang come from a Ole English word 'gan' - meaning 'to go.'"

Bajan chuckles then straighten his face. "Like you ent hear de man say is wunna** come over there wid the gangster mentality and turn White kids Black with patwa and-"

"Baj. Banna*** stop chat yuh colonialist scuntery." Trevor interjects. "You really think is since Caribbean people start move up in England that the gangsterism thing start over deh? You know how long football hooligans riling up that country?"

"And other country, tuh." Spence adds. "GT Trevor, dem will even lef from over England and tek that clear gone over to Spain during UEFA."
Rudeboy fires, slamming his football boots on the ground. "Yuh see how dem ah fight 'gainst Jamaican and patois, doh? 'Bout false language?"
Spence wags a gun finger in the air. "English false. Is false German and French and it join up wid Scandanavian and Roman."

Dreadie notes. "Even di name London is Roman." Stands up, rolls his shoulders back into a stretch and goes on reasoning. "Is the same old 'blame the immigrant' cry. This man Starkey seh how he draw the
Rivers of Blood Speech from a man name Enoch Powell . You know who that be? You know wha' dat? Powell was a politician back in the sixties over deh who mek this big speech 'gainst Black people, immigrants from the Caribbean, crying how we soon tek over England. That speech did stir up all kinda anti-immigrant hostilities that nuff British people had inside them anyway. So now, Starkey draw from that speech and apply it to this rioting now."
Trevor chips inna center. "But Dread, look how long immigrant gangs been over deh, long before we. I read somewhere that back in the 1800's you had Irish and Italian immigrants in Liverpool who use to form dey own immigrant gang.You know how we end up over deh in England? Listen man, after World War II mash up Britain, they did need unskilled labour workers fuh rebuild the country. So, is the Common Wealth they turn to and is so nuff a we end up deh. But of course wheresoever you have immigrant communities with immigrants survivin' on low wages, you gon' find poverty an' low-income housing and then people gon' form gangs and turn to crime. You find that back in the days with the Irish and Italians, you find it with the West Indians that went to build up London, you find it fight here in de U.S., right now-pure an' simple."
Bajie claps his hands. "Yes, Comrade. Mr. Socialist. You was a Burnhamite?"
No one even looks at Bajan.

Spence clears his throat.
"And see now, Sparkey saying how this is a Black culture thing. As if gangsterism is Black culture," Spence notes. "When White people do dem hooliganism and organised crime, why they don't call that White gangster culture?"
Dreadie is up pacing now. "Bredren, that is what I woulda really love to know. Since when gang or criminal activity become Black culture? Like if criminal culture is representative of Black people. You have many people, Black and White and Red, who celebrate criminal cultures." Spliff in hand, he unsheathes his locks from the towel and flashes them from side to side. They've all seen him do this hundreds of times. Yet, now each of them notices the strength in the individual strands as if seeing Dreadie's locks for the first time. He bellows:
"You know is a youth get shot and kill by the police mek the whole thing blow up in di first place? They seh he had a gun, but before this is all said an' done, I bet we hear he never had one. Just like Smiley Culture. Yuh notice that when the people dem over deh did protest peacefully like for Smiley, the media coverage wasn't so wagga-wagga?****Eh? No body never pay dem no form ah great attention. Now they looting, the world hearing them now. SCHEEUUPPSS. Then why they shouldn't get on bad? You know how many people police kill over deh an' nothing come outta it. Is like, we over here shoulda rise up bout Michael Stewart back in the day, Diallo, Abner Louima, Sean Bell and countless others. Mek mi waan holla. Like is only then people listen."
The wind shudders through Prospect Park, bristling the leaves steadily.

*Ishence- ganja, in this case
**oonu, wunna - you all
***banna- man, chap, bredren, notes a male
****wagga-wagga -a whole heap, plenty, in abundance

Top Seventeen Sayings and Quotes by Marcus Mosiah Garvey

2011-08-17T10:45:00.005-04:00

Today, August the seventeenth, is a blessed day in my Journey. On this day a man was born in 1887 who would affect the way I perceive my SELF in relation to my community and my place in the world in general. Black Marcus screamed Self-identity, Self-worth, Self-reliance, Self-improvement, not just in the context of the singular person, but in the greater context of Black Community. In honor of the most Right and Honorable Marcus Mosiah Garvey's earthstrong/earthlight/earthday (birthday), I have composed this list of seventeen immensely memorable phrases, sayings and quotes from the Prophet that have influenced I, Kaya. SALUTE, Black Marcus!

17. Having had the wrong kind of education, the Negro has become his own greatest enemy.

16. The ends you serve that are selfish will take you no further than yourself but the ends you serve that are for all, in common, will take you into eternity.

15. Chance has never yet satisfied the hope of a suffering people.

14. We must canonize our own saints, create our own martyrs, and elevate to positions of fame and honor black men and women who have made their distinct contributions to our racial history. Sojourner Truth is worthy of the place of sainthood alongside of Joan of Arc; Crispus Attucks and George William Gordon are entitled to the halo of martyrdom with no less glory than that of the martyrs of any other race. Toussaint L'Ouverture's brilliancy as a soldier and statesman outshone that of a Cromwell, Napoleon and Washington; hence, he is entitled to the highest place as a hero among men. Africa has produced countless numbers of men and women, in war and in peace, whose lustre and bravery outshine that of any other people. Then why not see good and perfection in ourselves?

13. If you haven't confidence in self, you are twice defeated in the race of life. With confidence, you have won even before you have started.

12. I do not speak carelessly or recklessly but with a definite object of helping the people, especially those of my race, to know, to understand, and to realize themselves.

11. Lift up yourselves, men, take yourselves out of the mire and hitch your hopes to the very stars themselves. Let no man pull you down, let no man destroy your ambition, because man is but your companion, your equal; man is your brother; he is not your Lord, he is not your sovereign master.

10. The Mystic Touch Many years ago we fell asleep by the sedative of the superman, but the mystic magic of nature wand says awake and rise again. Too long has thou slumbered, too long has time passed you by, your work on earth is delinquent and you cannot reign on high. If it's true that you've awaken, good for you,

9. We must give up the silly idea of folding our hands and waiting on God to do everything for us.If God had intended for that, then he would not have given us a mind. Whatever you want in life, you must make up your mind to do it for yourself

8. Liberate the minds of men and ultimately you will liberate the bodies of men.

7. We Are Arbiters of Our Own Destiny. God and Nature first made us what we are, and then out of our own creative genius we make ourselves what we want to be. Follow always that great law.

6. Our UNION MUST KNOW NO CLIME, BOUNDARY, or NATIONALITY… PRACTICE ONE FAITH, that of Confidence in themselves, with One God! One Aim! One Destiny! Let no religious scruples, no political machination divide us.

5. If the white man has the idea of a white God, let him worship his God as he desires. If the yellow man's God is of his race let him worship his God as he sees fit. We, as Negroes, have found a new ideal. Whilst our God has no color, yet it is human to see everything through one's own spectacles, and since the white people have seen their God through white spectacles, we have only now started out (late though it be) to see our God through our own spectacles.The God of Isaac and the God of Jacob let Him exist for the race that believes in the God of Isaac and the God of Jacob. We Negroes believe in the God of Ethiopia…

4. I know no national boundary where the Negro is concerned. The whole world is my province until Africa is free.

3. Look to Africa for the crowning of a Black king; for the day of deliverance is near.

2. A people without the knowledge of their past history, origin and culture is like a tree without roots.

1. A reading man and woman is a ready man and woman, but a writing man and woman is exact.

Seeking Makeda III: (Journey in Touch)

2011-08-08T09:30:00.003-04:00

Seeking Makeda III: (Journey into Touch)

There never was a time when Queen Makeda was naught.

Anticipating caresses...

by soul-stimulating fingertips

gentle nudges from Aksumite hips

lines traced on skin; breath short, light nips

and feather-brush strokes by silken lips.

Remembering the Empress'...

whispers call, goose bumps 'pon skin,

stirring response, the conga rid-dim

heart-warmed breath like whiffs of medzItational* bliss

soaks the eardrum, arousing soul-sensational lifts

*meditational

Saluting Emancipation Day

2011-08-01T11:24:00.008-04:00

Bless up this Emancipation Day/August Monday!
Someone special just mentioned to me that We need some new teachers, or to evolve into the elders we are lacking/silencing. The statement is drenched in relevance- we are doing a terrible job in educating generations about our own culturally poignant history. We celebrate all manner of so-called holidays (many that are nonsensical and perpetuate lies), branding ourselves with other cultures' values and mores, while displaying little regard for our own culture and what we have overcome as a people. Jah Know!
It is I and I's (our collective) responsibility to tell ourstory, since we know history is his story and our half has hardly been told. For instance, this Tarzan-like partiality is plain when in history much praise is lauded towards the contributions of various british anti-slavery societies and organisations while relatively little importance given to the thousands of freedom fighters/slave revolts in the Caribbean region. Is full time now our story be told by us on a wider scale.

babylon release the chains...
On August 1, 1834, The Slavery Abolition Act of 1833 not-so effectively abolished slavery in the british vampire (ok, since yuh/oonu/wunna/awyuh tek offence, british Empire then). Each slave younger than six years old was "officially" declared free. But practically, this emancipation was quasi-freedom and slaves weren't actually freed until August 1, 1838.

but dem a use dem brains...
I say "not-so effectively" because if you overstand how this emancipation played out, you'd know that it wasn't like britain just let go of cheap labor without covering its arse. The jolly-good boys dem brought in a system of apprenticeship in which slaves older than six years actually worked for four to six* more years to ensure planters would have labor and that plantation economies wouldn't belly up after emancipation. This "apprenticeship" was designed to keep slaves working eighteen hours a day on plantations in return for food, clothing and shelter while labeling them as "free".
And a next thing, millions of pounds** were given to slaveholders as compensation for losing their "property", while no money was given to slaves themselves. This systematically ensured that most ex-slaves would remain on a lower economic tier, dependent on their ex-masters for wages and livelihood.
East Indians and Chinese soon began being imported to the Caribbean as indentured servants to fill the void left after Blacks left the plantations. In many cases, these Asians would be housed in old slave quarters.

more ourstory
"I would rather die in yonder gallows, than live for a minute more in slavery."~Sam 'Daddy' Sharpe
Mek ah tell yuh, despite and in spite of the tendency of history to downplay the revolting slaves, we need to educate the masses that our freedom wasn't simply handed to a grovelling, begging people. I and I must uphold the memory of our martyrs of the African Holocaust. Throughout the region, thousands of slaves and maroons rebelled, revolted, fought and died for freedom leading up to Emancipation- Jamaica by far having the most documented rebellions. There were literally hundreds of rebellions in the West Indies. Some that have captured my imagination: The Haitian Revolution, Jamaican Maroon Wars, 1763 Revolt in Berbice (Guyana), Dominican Maroon Wars, Suriname's Maroon Wars, Tacky's Rebellion, 1733 Slave Insurrection (St. John, V.I.), Black Carib Revolts, to name a few.
In the british West Indies, though, there are three significant, large-scale rebellions that affected Emancipation that must be noted: Bussa's Rebellion (in 1816, Barbados), The Demarara Rebellion ( of 1823, Guyana), and Sam Sharpe's Christmas Uprising*** (1831, Jamaica). For sheer size and effectiveness in communicating to britain that slavery must go at any cost, they are most influential. 10,000 slaves revolted in the Demarara Rebellion and up to 20,000 in the Christmas Uprising, burning down cane fields and property, causing the equivalent of hundreds of millions of pounds in today's british currency. These three were pivotal in speeding up britain's inevitable decision.

I am appealing to writers and authors, songwriters and storytellers and wordsmiths: it is our duty to tell our story and educate the youth from our own perspectives. We cannot expect history to reflect ourstory and view point. If upcoming generations don't learn and appreci-love our collective stories and culture, we have only ourselves to blame. Especially in this age of information.

* predials, which were "field slaves", were to be apprenticed until 1940; nonpredials no later than Aug. 1, 1938
** the total compensation paid out was £20 million which was 40% of the british government's total annual expenditure
***AKA the Baptist War, Sam Sharpe's Rebellion, and The Great Jamaican Slave Revolt

These countries observe August 1 Emancipation Day

Saint Lucia
Barbados: Emancipation Day in Barbados is part of the annual "Season of Emancipation" which runs from April 14 to August 23. The Season, includes the anniversary of the Slave Rebellion led by the Right Excellent Bussa, National hero, in 1816 , National Heroes Day on April 28, the Crop Over Festival,the Day of National Significance on July 26(in commemoration of the social unrest of 1937)and International Day for the Remembrance of the Slave Trade and its Abolition on August 23. Emancipation Day celebrations usually feature a Walk from Independence Square in Bridgetown to the Heritage Village at the Crop Over Bridgetown Market on the Spring Garden Highway. At the Heritage Village, apart from a concert, there is also a wreath-laying ceremony as a tribute to the ancestors. Traditionally, the Prime Minister, the Minister responsible for Culture and representatives of the Commission for Pan African Affairs are among those laying wreaths.
Bermuda: Celebration usually occurs on August 2, despite August 1 being the national holiday. On the island the holiday is better known as the first day of "Cupmatch", an annual two-day cricket competition between the St. George's and Somerset cricket clubs.
Guyana
Jamaica
Saint Vincent and the Grenadines
Trinidad and Tobago
Turks and Caicos Islands

These countries observe Emancipation Day the first Monday as August Monday

Anguilla: In addition to commemorating emancipation, it is the first day of "August Week", the Anguillian Carnival celebrations. J'ouvert is celebrated on this morning, as Carnival commences.
The Bahamas: Celebrations are mainly concentrated in Fox Hill Village, Nassau, a former slave village whose inhabitants, according to folklore, heard about their freedom a week after everyone else on the island. There is a also a celebration beginning on August 1 and lasting several days held in the charming settlement of Hatchet Bay on the Bahamian island of Eleuthera known as the Bay Fest.
British Virgin Islands: The first Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday of August are celebrated as "August Festival".
Saint Kitts and Nevis: The first Monday and Tuesday are celebrated as "Emancipation Day" and also Carnival in Nevis.

Silent Violence

2011-07-15T17:33:00.002-04:00

Silent Violence

by Kaya Omodele 11-15-07

Lonely bird in a cage croons longingly
Day by day his tune sours, dims to a wail
Until one night his heart bleeds of silence

Caged and draped in only a muffled wail
Shivering, wings fractured, hauntingly silent
Languishes… Laments…Sighs longingly

One final breath, discomforting silence
Peaceful now? Finally, no more wailing?
No pain? Sorrows dry? No further longing?

Forget singing; I know why a caged bird
wails. Silence is Violence.
Copyright K. Omodele 2007

Spoken Word Griots: African Oral Tradition in Caribbean Music (Second Part)

2011-07-11T11:10:00.006-04:00

In Africa, oral tradition was the primary means of teaching a people's history and culture. Griots were adept storytellers, teachers and historians. African music was almost always pragmatic and functional-it did something. From keeping timing to farmers wielding their tools to announcing a birth. So the oral tradition integration of the spoken word and music was steeped in practicality.

African oral tradition survived the slave ship and thrived in spite and despite the institution of slavery. As a matter of fact, slave holders' codes that prohibited slave literacy worked in the favor of oral tradition as Africans continued to rely on storytelling and spoken word as a way of teaching family/community history, morals and brought-up-cy (values). Throughout the Caribbean, African oral tradition was kept alive in stories like Br'er Anansi*, in Africanized/African-themed proverbs, and folk tales and songs. Cultural knowledge and values were passed through word of mouth from generation to generation, reinforcing family, community and clan. This is most evident in speech and customs still found in maroon communities throughout the Caribbean today.

That African oral tradition exists in Caribbean music is undeniable, especially when recalling components and characteristics that define African music: functionality, audience participation, its ability to relate and preserve culture through storytelling. Elements of oral tradition that are readily identified include the call and response melodies in Caribbean folk songs like "Day-O", which is a Jamaican mento song originally sang by dock workers loading bananas on ships. A few examples of Caribbean music that display oral tradition: Calypso, mento, pocomania and zouk.

* the word Anansi in Akan means spider

Exonerate The Right and Honorable Marcus Mosiah Garvey

2011-07-02T20:45:00.009-04:00

“Emancipate yourself from mental slavery, none but ourselves can free our mind.” - Marcus Garvey

The statement above reverberates the mantra of self liberation with such absolute instruction that Bob Marley quoted it in Redemption Song. It is a command to seek knowledge of self; to learn collective self dignity; to find purpose and design destiny at a time when the African-diaspora was still referred to as Negro, which is the Spanish word for black. It is the instruction of a prophet, no doubt, a trumpet sound, the sound of an abeng. It is a message that is as relevant today as it was in the 1920's.

It is a poignant decree whether read in university or penitentiary. Whether Rasta or Muslim or Hebrew- Israelite or Christian or even if your call goes out to Shango. Whatever the culture, region or class, Marcus' statement knew "no national boundary where the Negro is concerned."

Now just in case you ain't nevah hear, Marcus Garvey was convicted of trumped up charges in an attempt to derail the strides he was making in the world-wide liberation of Black masses. (Yes I said trumped up because that's what the hell they were. And if you want learn more bout the trial, if yuh nevah read it before, go check di bredren Geoffrey Philp who has summarized the whole travesty) The point is that in this day and time, we cannot allow this injustice to carry on longer.

“Until lions have their historians, tales of the hunt shall always glorify the hunter”-African Proverb
We need to rewrite history when we know it has intentionally muddled ourstory, wrongfully belittled our leaders. So join in petitioning Barack Obama to clear the name of Marcus Mosiah Garvey.

Just a few of Marcus' contributions in the struggle for liberation:

Image via Wikipedia

UNIA- founder of the Universal Negro Improvement Association which at one time boasted up to 5 million members in hundreds of chapters world wide (Cuba had couple dozen)
The Flag- the Red, Black, Green
The Black Star Line- fleet of ships
Media like Negro World which at the time was the largest circulated Black weekly newspaper
set blue print/model for vertical integration and cooperative economics for Black businesses
championed the Pan-Africanism cry

Some of Marcus Garvey's utterances that have influenced us:

"One Aim; One God; One Destiny."
"A people without the knowledge of their past history, origin and culture is like a tree without roots."
"Up, you mighty race, accomplish what you will."
"Africa for the Africans... at home and abroad!"
"Liberate the minds of men and ultimately you will liberate the bodies of men."
"Chance has never yet satisfied the hope of a suffering people."

Some of our leaders who were influenced by Garvey:

Kwame Nkrumah
Sekou Ture
Malcolm X
Kwame Ture/Stokely Carmichael
Nyerere
Patrice Lumumba
Walter Rodney
Noble Drew Ali
Jomo Kenyatta

Now one thing The Abeng and My Conscious Pen wants to make perfectly clear is that while I support the cause of Garvey's name being cleared of any criminal wrongdoing, I do not feel we as The People need to be grovelling or making apologies for him. Garvey was a freedom fighter like Sam Sharpe, Cuffy, Zumbi dos Palmares and held as a political prisoner in the same manner as Mandela, Toussaint L'Ouverture, Geronimo. I don't care how others see Marcus, I and I hold him in greatest regards.

Here is the Petition http://signon.org/sign/clear-marcus-garveys?source=c.fb&r_by=217693

Brother Wally: Walter Rodney's Groundings With My Brothers

2011-06-13T18:54:00.008-04:00

"We must understand that we are still locked in struggle. And

we are reaffirming our commitment to struggle, and we are

saying we are ready to proceed. We are moving forward, we are

not intimidated, we recognize the pressures, but we are far

from bending under those pressures."

-- Walter Rodney, June
6, 1980, Georgetown, Guyana

In Grounding With My Brothers, Walter Rodney called Rastafari bredren, "the leading force of the expression of black consciousness in the Caribbean." In an introduction to the work, Richard Small reflected on how fast in the 1970s the young Guyanese-born scholar had gained popularity in Jamaica and in the entire Caribbean as "the man who knew about Africa ... and who would talk to anybody who wanted to hear him ..."

Although a well-respected professor of African Studies at the University of The West Indies at that time, Dr. Rodney preferred grass roots reasonings with Rasta and poor people in Kingston rather than mixing and mingling with socialites at the university.

"There is no continuity in my life in respect of old acquaintances. We meet;I try to be pleasant; and I move on. For our generation too is adding its quota to the frightening sterility of the society. Living off campus is a great boon, for it reduces my contact with rum-sipping soul selling intellectuals of Mona..."

Having come from a modest background in Georgetown, Guyana, he emphasized the need for Black intellectuals to attach themselves to the plight of the masses.

"I would go further down into West Kingston and I would speak wherever there was a possibility of our getting together. It might be in a sports club, it might be in a schoolroom, it might be in a church, it might be in a gully. (Those of you who come from Jamaica know those gully corners.) They are dark, dismal places with a black population who have had to seek refuge there. You will have to go there if you want to talk to them. I have spoken in what people call ‘dungle’, rubbish dumps, for that is where people live in Jamaica. People live in rubbish dumps."

“The first essential was to operate outside of the petty bourgeois University campus and outside of the 'respectable' middle class suburb where I resided. My background in Guyana was working class, but after the alienation produced by the educational system, it was up to me to retake the initiative to rediscover my brothers and sisters. I sought them out where they lived, worked, worshiped, and had their recreation. In turn they 'checked' me at work or at home, and together we 'probed' here and there, learning to recognize our common humanity. Naturally they wanted to know what I stood for, what I ‘defended’. I never gave anyone money or bought them drinks; that one must leave to the political gangsters’ of the two-party system. At some point I ceased to be Dr Rodney and was addressed as 'Brother Rodney' or better still ‘Brother Wally’ That simple change meant I was no longer a tool of the establishment, but was readmitted into the moral and cultural brotherhood of the Black man.”

"So long as there are people who deny our humanity as blacks, then for so long must we proclaim and assert our humanity as blacks. That is why our historical and cultural heritage is so important, and that is why we must proceed to live our culture because culture is a way of life. We must recover what was taken away from us and we must adapt in order to survive and keep on growing as a section of humanity."

Note~ Groundings/reasonings are communal discussions,lectures or exchanging of ideas, information and opinions

More on Dr. Walter Rodney
Methodmecca.com: Who is Walter
Roots and Culture Media
The Signifyin' Woman (Charmaine Valere)
A June 13th Tribute: Walter Rodney, the Rastafari and ‘dungles’ everywhere

Seeking Makeda II: (Journey InSight)

2011-06-08T13:31:00.095-04:00

Seeking Makeda II: (Journey InSight)

(Empress Makeda...)

Skin glistening like a rippling river's dark sheen

eyes glittering, dancing- two black diamonds gleam

nose gently-molded, rounded from Iteru's* clay

plum-passion lips kissed silt scooped from Ṭiqūr ʿĀbbāy**

Makeda's smile illuminates as moon-bright beams

reflecting Lake Tana*** deep in Nubian Queens

*the KMT (ancient Egypt) name for the Nile River
** Ethiopian name for The Blue Nile (Ge'ez ጥቁር ዓባይ; Ṭiqūr ʿĀbbāy is literally Black Abbay)
***source of the Blue Nile (location Ethiopian Highlands)

copyright 2011 K. Omodele

Found on
http://weheartit.com:8080/tag/dark%20skin

Found on
http://www.warwicksaint.com/photographer/gallery

Spoken Word Griots: African Oral Tradition in Caribbean Music (First Part)

2011-05-27T05:06:00.016-04:00

Spoken Word Griots: African Oral Tradition in Caribbean Music (First Part)

West Africans didn’t rely primarily on writing as a means to document history and preserve culture. Like many African cultures, they emphasized an oral tradition in which Griots /Jelis passed down stories and accounts of events from one generation to the next. These storytellers were relied upon to educate the masses on their tribal history, religion and give the people a sense of identity.

“I acknowledge immense debt to the Griot (tribal poet) of Africa--where today it rightly said that when a Griot dies, it is as if a library has burned to the ground.” - Alex Haley

The integration of storytelling with music is an essential component of the African oral tradition. As music has played a significant role in African societies, the spoken word has been a firm basis for relating wisdom and moral values in rhythm/song. Historically, African music was functional and had to be effective in its purpose – songs are customarily designed for everyday occurrences like farming, harvesting, washing, childbirth and rearing, marriage and death announcement, revering ancestors, exalting martyrs; there are even tradition songs about fertility and virginity.
The music’s functionality united with collective participation- an active audience was vital in giving life to the spoken word. For instance, call and response in African music cannot exist without significant involvement with the audience. The storyteller, music, audience participation were, and still are, dynamic components that make up the African oral tradition.

“Music in the West Indies has always been about the people; communicating how they feel to each other- it’s perfectly true what they say that it is the ghetto’s newspaper. Calypso and mento was about that; ska and rocksteady highlight the Rudeboy era. Reggae was celebrating independence and the optimism of the time, then the Rasta movement and the roots music showed up the general dissatisfaction at what was going on. It’s the same today, the dancehall reggae directly reflects the mood of the people, whether you think that mood is positive or not.” –Jimmy Cliff (Bass Culture, Lloyd Bradley)

African oral tradition survived the slave ship and plantation despite the slave owners’ discouragement of most forms of African culture. The prohibition of slaves from academic schooling contributed in preserving the culture of African-based oral tradition through storytelling, folktales and the African-sentiment phrased in similes and proverbs. Instead of learning from written texts, slaves learned culture and mores through Livity-the activity and practicality of living, which is comprised of oral tradition.

In the Caribbean, we've kept this oral history culture alive to the extent that we have even documented history in music and song through mento, calypso, reggae and dancehall. True artists document our stories, giving social commentary on daily happenings just like griots of old.

Spoken Word Griots (Second Part).

Reasoning: Conspiracy Osama?

2011-05-09T09:39:00.006-04:00

copyright K. Omodele

Monday morning, a cloud-draped second of May and the whole of New York City buzzing. All on the way from Brooklyn to Lower Manhattan, the subway car was a slow-rippling sea of Osama photos and Bin Laden headlines like: “Got Him! Vengeance at Last,” “US Nails the Bastard,” “Rot In Hell!” and people busy glancing around suspiciously each time the train stops and the doors open. By the time Trevor and Rudeboy march in the Malone Construction site, they feel like something, somewhere is ‘bout to pop off. They secure their lunch in a tool-storage chest as a couple of plumbers saunter pass, mumbling.

A lead plumber, Mike LaTronica, pumps his fist in the air.

“Got the son of a bitch!” LaTronica says. And as he’s sliding by, he nods up at lanky-limbed Rudie, who just handkerchiefs up his cane-rows, lifts his brow and blank stares down at the George Carlin-looking Italian.

Trevor chuckles shaking his head and dips into a supply container.

Bajan strolls in, Dickie’s starched up like if this a office work and not a bonafide, true-life construction site. “Wunna* see Obama last night? Is ‘bout time sumpm go right for the man.”

Dreadie and Spence come in almost on his heel back. Spence hands Dreadie a copy of the New York Daily News then trods over to the chest.

“Wha’ kinda cow manure drop outta Bajie mouth now?” Spence asks, stroking his scraggily, cotton-beaded beard.

The rest of them nearly drop dead with laugh.

“See deh, Bajie?” Rudeboy asks, pointing at Spence. “One month ‘pon the work and this man done know you good, good.”

Bajie wags his finger between Spence and Rudie. “I done already expect two Jamaicans to gang up one Bajan.”

Trevor exits the container slipping a dust-mask band over his mini-‘fro. Pulls the mask down unto his neck, and interjects. “Schups! Nonsense! It got nothing to do with JA. Ey Boi Bajie, all in Georgetown you’d be a skunt there too.”

More laughter.

Bajie skins his buck teeth. “HOWEVER, wunna can’t say I wrong. Obama need a good break. And killing Bin Laden? Just watch! The man approval ratings gon soar through the roof - all the republicans patting him on the back now.”

Spence looks around at the whole crew. “Then wait! Oonu* really think Osama bin Laden mastermind this whole bangarang**? Alone? With couple man and one bag a box-cutter?”

Bajie answers. “I telling you. I was right here in the City when them planes brought down them towers. Man, that was real. I was really hauling my ass up Broadway trying to get way from all that blasted-no pun-debris.”

“So, Spence wha’ you seh? You subscribe to the conspiracy theory thing?” Rudeboy asks.

Dreadie leans against a post. Unfolds the Daily News and dives into the front page.

Spence addresses Rudeboy directly. “I don’t know but some ah this sound like bare propaganda to me. None a oonu never stop and wonder how come this terrorist mastermind-who duck out di C.I.A, duck out di F.B.I., di National Security Council and every other US security agency; plus, Scotland Yard and MI6, NATO, Israel with them Mossad, not to mention the Pentagon and US Military with all them branches and Joint Chiefs of Staff-” each name is emphasized with a finger like a deliberate flicking of a ratchet knife, “and who did get training from di C.I.A in the first place and who done squeeze pass National Security one time already with a bumbling crew and them box-cutters, how this real-life, big, bad Al-Qaeda don couldn’t manage fi pull off just one more thing in nearly ten years? So how come American security fail so bad one time and then, all of a sudden, BRAP! it get perfect again, just so? Fool some people sometime. Cyaan fool everybody, everytime- Bob Marley tell yuh dat.”

Bajan asking. “So, it sound like you saying that no one name Osama bin Laden didn’t exist none at all. So what now? They invent that man?”

Trevor add in. “Well Bajie; Dread. I don’t know. I do know they in’t show we no body, ‘bout how they bury him at sea so we may never see one. Just like them aliens in area 51 or whatever. How we even know he exist or they kill him? Or they could be giving him some water treatment right now. Or some jump starting his scrotum with a car battery.”

Rude boy ponders for a moment. “One thing I do notice, though, is the White House and C.I.A. say how is the information they draw out from all them detainees in secret C.I.A. camps that lead dem to bin Laden. To me is like they using this ends to justify the camps and water-boarding and torture.”

Trevor deh ‘pon*** a roll now. “And a next thing too, the U.S. claim of killing bin Laden, in a sovereign nation the U.S. is not at war with, is a crime under international law.”

LaTronica is suddenly there outta nowhere– and just like Columbus- jumping in people thing without an invitation:

“So what? Like Malcolm X said, ‘By any means necessary.’ This asshole blew down the towers. My cousin died that day and we never even had a body to bury. Fuck that terrorist!” Face redding up.

Dreadie folds the paper tight and straight with military precision. “That’s what they called Mandela at one point, a terrorist,” he notes, tucking the paper in his back pack. “Until so-called world opinion change and he went from terrorist to freedom fighter to hero and president.”

LaTronica twists and stretches his neck. “That’s different. Mandela was fighting injustice against his people.”

“Mmmmm.” Dreadie utters, tight lipped. “I guess one man freedom fighter is the next man terrorist. Since you jumping in OUR conversation-,” Dreadie asks, “notice how all the rejoicing in the US streets starting to look exactly like streets in the mid-east back then?”

“You sound anti-American there, Dread. What’re you guys, unpatriotic? You gotta beef with Americans or something?” Mike says, squaring up his husky, roly-poly frame. “So why’d you’se even come here then?”

“Same reason your people came here,” Dread replies. Face straighter than Bajie pants seam.

Rudie eases in beside dread, and together they twin-towering LaTronica. Rudie says:

“But when we sign our papers or when we tek that oath we nuh give up we right to think fi weself. Dread, they tell you anything ‘bout dat?”

The others gather ‘round, even Bajan.

Dread glowers. “HMMMMPH! LaTronica, nobody here really care wha’ you want chat ‘bout. We reasoning amongst bredren. ”

Mike LaTronica doesn’ budge and some of his crew hustle over.

Next thing you know, you have a two sets a people lined off facing each other, talking loud and reckless with jaws clenched tighter than decisions about whether or not to release Osama’s death photos.

The brisk morning is laden down with a mix of tension and testosterone.

*you plural. As in “you all.”

**uproar, disorder, or disturbance

***(deh ‘pon) literally “there upon”; meaning: is on

"I mourn the loss of thousands of precious lives, but I will not rejoice in the death of one, not even an enemy. Returning hate for hate multiplies hate, adding deeper darkness to a night already devoid of stars. Darkness cannot drive out darkness: only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate: only love can do that." - Martin Luther King Jr

Mommy Frock is Bulletproof

2011-05-08T09:00:00.015-04:00

My Mother is a radics, a radical. When I was a little boy she wore tie-dye and batik dresses, African-themed garments and a soul-shouting Afro that was 'bout two or three sizes too big. She was a single mother pushing herself through school riding on a student visa, balancing an off-the-books job, with a little rug-rat clinging to her frock tail (that's me). She didn't have much, but she had a plan and a good head on her shoulders.
One day, right as she picked me up from school, some man was shooting somebody because of something right in front the school. The shots shocked me. But then Mommy tucked me into her hip, somehow, and we tear up that little side road. I'll never forget thinking Mommy frock is bulletproof.
As I got older, I start turn wild. Two days before I took Common Entrance* I got sent home from school. My teacher did split the class into girls 'gainst boys for a kind of trivia game. I kept throwing up my hand to answer before any of the Girls, but would Ms. Harper pick me? Hell no. So I gently stated, "You only tekking** up for them ca you a girl too!" You coulda hear a fly piss pon piece a cotton, 'cause by the way, Ms. Harper was also the Head Mistress of my Primary school. We marched to d'office where I pushed up my chest and declared, "I am not taking no caning!"
I plodded home with the fingers of the Wrath wrapped 'round mi throat, thinking I had a few hours to think before Mommy come home and tear off my rass. But she was there for lunch. Why God?
Two days before common entrance.
She pulled up her nurse's whites, sprinted down into the yard and grab up a rod of correction. Beat me straight back to Ms. Harper- d'office.
It's amazing how I carry her with me.

Seeking Makeda I: (Journey into Sound)

2011-05-07T08:28:00.016-04:00

Seeking Makeda I: (Journey into Sound)

Because Makeda is still a symbol of the epitome of African wombmanhood, there was never a time when the Empress was not…

...Empress Divine…
like destiny enshrined in mind and time
as gems essence glows in Solomon’s mines
sublime, King Solomon’s sun-burned sweet
divinely implanted life's breath, heart beat

breath takes
pulse race
pul-sates,
re-so-nates
rhy-thm
re-peats
ke-te,
fun-deh, bass

vintner’s red glint in long ling-er-ing kiss
on Rosa-moist lips inhaled soul-ful bliss

Caribbean Herbal Teas: Lemon Grass and Ginger Tea

2011-04-27T17:10:00.295-04:00

Lemon-grass and Ginger Tea

Sleepily, I waddled on wobbly knees to the kitchen. Grated piece of ginger, crushed up two lemon grass stems, then scooped them into a pot of water. As the tea boiled, I gazed out the window wondering "since when a little soccer and uphill-jogging turn into a sore-jointed morning after?" as an up-crawling sun inflames the morning-black sky.
After boiling up, I poured the tea into a cup and sweetened with agave- yeah man, watching my sugar levels also. This combination tea has quickly become one of my favorites. First of all, if you didn't know, I love spicy flavors (actually I love HOT!! but you can control your own level- the more ginger, the more spicy) and this tea has a tangy and almost peppery taste. But most importantly, the combination possesses anti-inflammatory, pain-relieving, not to mention all-out healthy qualities, that my body needs and holistic properties that calm anxieties, which my mind and soul crave. We should call herbal/bush teas such as this Redemption Teas: emancipating us from mental and physical distress. I have been drinking this tea for a month now and it has helped alleviate the pain. In March my knees and football -kicking joints were on FIRE!

Tune in, I'll let you know in a next month or so how it goes...

Kaya's Lemon Grass and Ginger Tea

Ingredients

small pot of boiling water
a few (2-3) lemon grass stalks
one ginger root
agave nectar
1. Crush lemon grass stalks with flat side of a knife
2. Grate or slice up ginger root
3. add both to a pot of water under a med. to high fire
4. allow to boil out for no less than five minutes
5. pour into a cup and add agave nectar to your taste

*Lemon grass (aka fever grass or razor grass) is an excellent natural cleanser that helps detoxify the digestive tract, bladder, liver, kidney and pancreas. It also assists in cutting uric acid (which when built up to high-concentrated levels lead to arthritic gout and kidney stones), lowering cholesterol, excess fats and other toxins. It alleviates indigestion and gastroenteritis while stimulating digestion and blood circulation. Lemon grass, which has a citrus flavor, is I-la (wonderful) for treating nasal congestion, cough and flu-symptoms. And, of importance to breastfeeding mothers, it also stimulates lactation.
Ginger is an important root and herb renowned for ailments such as nausea, upset stomach, stomach cramps, and various digestive problems. Its rich volatile oils contain active ingredients gingerol, zingibain, shogaols, and many other components that aid in treatment and protect the immune, circulatory and respiratory systems. Ginger helps lower LDL Cholesterol by reducing absorption in the blood and liver. It inhibits the only enzyme that feeds prostrate cancer cells. It is a strong antioxidant, contains two natural antibiotics, boosts the immune system and eases mucus congestion.

**By the way, gingerol is an anti-flammatory compound that relieves arthritis and joint pain, which is why my Granny, a real herbalist, uses ginger each morning and insists that I use it also...
Science seems to be validating many old time traditional remedies!

Properties of Ginger
Health Benefits of Ginger

.

Rodney Reasoning

2011-04-21T16:18:00.012-04:00

It’s 12:35 p.m. one damp April day in Lower Manhattan. The Malone Construction labor crew’s collective spirit seems subdued by the gray, spring-time air. They slowly crumple up paper bags; dispose empty plastic bags and bottles, while palavering away the rest of their lunch break.

Rudeboy braces his back against a steel column, digging his gums with a toothpick. “Yow. Mi see di Vibez Kartel lecture at UWI* pon Youtube the other night. Maddd!”

Spence, the three-week-new laborer on the site, pulls down his specs and looks up at the six- plus, stick-thin youth.

“When yuh say ‘maddd’, wha’ you mean?” Spence asks, raking work-bent fingers through his steel-wool, smoke-white ‘fro.

Rudie removes a Newport from behind his ear, relights it and sucks the smoke into his magga** chest cavity. “Then, you nuh see how the man handle the UWI crowd? Intelligent and smooth…stylist,” he replies, a river of smoke winding around his words.

Bajie pours the remnants of coffee from his Thermos, and then authorizes himself into the reasoning like some member of parliament. “Finally, you and me can agree on something, Rudeboy. He surprised me. He actually held a decent position, though I wouldn’t exactly call that intelligent.”

“Wha’ you woulda call it, then?” Rudeboy gestures in the air with his cigarette like a music conductor. “How many entertainers you know that coulda hold their own inna that kinda university lecture setting?”

Dreadie, forever a voice of reason, throws in his two shillings. “Rudie, Kartel mek a mockery of the academic platform. A UWI lecture? That suppose to be serious. Wha’ yuh seh, Trevor? You see it?”

Trevor guzzles the last of his water, rumble belches then says, “The man treat the whole thing like a self-serving, press conference. And mek it worse, he tried tie-in Marcus Garvey and Walter Rodney.”

Dread shakes his forefinger. “Yuh catch that? When he said ‘Sir Walter Rodney’?”

Rudeboy bull-rushes in with an interjection. “And wha’ happen to that?”

Dreadie whips out a hand-kerchief and waves it like a matador at Rudeboy. “Is Doctor Walter Rodney. Not Sir.”

Spence adds. “Kartel mussy confuse Walter Rodney with Sir Walter Raleigh.” Chuckling. “How you fi confuse the Brother, di Comrade, professor of African studies with a ole pirate.”

The whole crew cracks up, even Rudeboy.

At precisely 1PM, they grab their helmets and drag themselves into the building.

It’s now around 5:15 and the crew is trudging up Broadway toward the Park Place subway. Each man is seeking the no. 2 train, destination: Flatbush. ‘cepting Bajie of course, who, true to his contradictory form, is the only one catching the E to Queens.

Spence continues the reasoning from earlier. “Y’know, Rodney’s legacy LARGE when it come to the University… graduated there; taught there. As a matter of fact, when Hugh Shearer kick him outta JA, is the UWI students first tek up protest. And is that protest lead to the Rodney Riots in ‘68.”

Rudeboy now looks puzzled. “The government kick him out? Fi wha?”

“Actually, they barred him from coming back into Jamaica,” Bajan says. “Sent him right back to Guyana. Is Trevor them homeboy.”

Spence cut his eyes at Baj. “Kick him out beca’ they label him the single greatest threat to Jamaican security at that time.” Realising he is commanding Rudie’s full, yet confused attention, he continues. “See, Rodney taught African history. Plus he preached bout Black Power and was a Garveyite, which scared the hell outta them. Then he was a Marxist that chastised Capitalism and classism.”

Dreadie injects. “So you know that had them paro .”

“Hold on, now!” Bajie stops them. “Garvey was a capitalist. Rodney was a socialist. How in the hell he gon be a Garveyite?”

“How yuh mean? Is not me say so! Rodney proclaim himself a Garveyite. And in any case Garvey dealt with community and Rodney with Communalism.” Spence answers. “Anyhow, Rudie, they labeled him a subversive element when di man come venture down inna the ghettoes and gullies, talking with poor people and reasoning with Rasta youth. Rudebwoy, yuh need to read Groundings With My Brothers.”

Rudeboy nods. “I seen it.”

“Yuh read it?”Dreadie asks.

“Ehn-enh. But I know them kill him down inna Guyana, right?” Nodding at Trevor.

Trevor clears his throat. “Yeah man. Is like a Malcom X type ah thing. His own matty Black brother kill him. Boom him up.”

They reach the subway entrance .

Dreadie adds. “The President of Guyana himself-Burnham, order the hit!”

Before they descend down underground and part ways with him, Bajie smirks. “I surprised you didn’t claim the C.I.A. Oonu*** damn conspiracy theorists.” He runs down the steps taking two at a time and heads for the Uptown side.

Spence cries out. “Cho! But then who yuh think sanction it? Nuh di C.I.A.? Is them behind all the political fuckery back in them days. All up to now!”

The rest of them swipe their cards, and as they make way down to the Brooklyn side, Dreadie nods in approval.

“Yeah yuh right. But yet still, Burham had it out for him.”

They reach the platform. Up the platform towards the escalator, three youths gang up on a fourth, beating him down. The construction crew looks on as the gang pulverizes the helpless boy, slicing his face with a box-cutter.

“One thing for sure though, Rodney influence Rasta in nuff a them small Eastern Caribbean islands. Notice how them Rasta deh in Grenada militant, bad. They all help overthrow Gairy. Is Rodney that. Everywhere that man went, when he see the establishment oppressing and victimizing the poor, he sound out against it.” Trevor responds.
But everone is now focused on the scene up the platform.
Trevor continues, as he begins making his way toward the ruckus. “That’s why nuff government couldn’t stand him. They ein’t want no talk of revolution. And besides, the Cold War was being fought right down there in the West Indies- Cuba, JA, GT, Grenada. We ein’t stand a chance, bout we aligning weself with either one a them Super Powers.”

Dreadie declares, “Vampires. Babylon them!” and unsheaths a hammer while stepping up the platform.

“True! The whole a them.” Spence says. He grabs a screw driver from his utility belt.

The construction crew picks up pace. Burst into a rush up the platform, drawing tools from their bags and utility belts as their train rumbles toward them in the distance.

The clack-clack of the train riding the track grows louder.
The platform vibrates.

*University of The West Indies
** extremely slim, skinny
***you, you all

Sound The Abeng!

2011-04-07T13:40:00.019-04:00

A youth ask me the other day why I chose the word "ABENG" for this blog.
Wha' it mean? A wha'?
Abeng is ah animal horn* in the Twi language of the Akan people of Ghana. It traveled 'pon slave ships in the heart and minds of a captured people and survived with them through the horrors of Maafa** just as many aspects of culture did.
So is ah instrument, then?
Yeah man. Maroons*** in Jamaica used to sound di Abeng as a signal during the Maroon Wars against the English, who were determined to re-enslave them.
Eh? Wha yuh mean ‘sound di abeng’?
The Maroons set up camps and towns, in the hills in the East and in the Cockpit Country, and had sentries posted to warn of any threat, any approaching attack. The sentries them would literally sound di Abeng, blow it and communicate warning with other Maroon villages.
So, was like ringin alarm? To Rass!
Yeah man! Is a symbol of freedom. Sounding di Abeng is a declaration of liberty, yuh overstand?
SOUND DI ABENG!

*most often cow
**African Holocaust of slavery
***freed and escaped Africans

Copyright 2011 K. Omodele

March 27...(Comfort of Fools)

2011-04-03T15:11:00.019-04:00

A new beginning...

her sashay graced the catwalk

snatched his thought,

suspending his breath

on a climatic ledge

...

gripped his stone-flint heart

and struck a SPARK!

the river-walk in Augusta

arms en-wrapping arm

skin caressing skin

sun-warmed hearts coddling

prom dates whisper in spring

soft kisses dripping promises

of life-long tomorrows

filled with never-ending,

early-morning pillow talk

and private sabbatical reasonings

interpreting Love and contemplating Life...

love of a lifetime

learning through life, time

growing, graying

soul intertwining soul

...

but

tomorrow

never

came
and the promise

comforted only the fools

Jah knows, their yesterdays crept in the way...

Word, Sound Power: The Misunderstanding of Lawrence Stuart

2011-03-26T11:37:00.008-04:00

Never gone! Never forgotten!

Uncle Lawrence (Stuartie),

You wear many crowns: Elder, counselor, philosopher, comrade, griot.

I laugh when people cringe and seh how yuh mouth too big and yuh talk too slack. Griots are traditionally masters of words and you have kept our family stories vivid in our minds- from comical ("Man vs Turkey") to reflective ("Aunt Elise is gold"). Undeniable!
As ah talk bout griot, you tell the wickedest, maddest set a 'tory- mek me laugh 'til water full up me eye.
You are the Keeper of our family's oral tradition. You personify communalism.

When they say you too loud, I say, so the lion roar mek the jungle know he's the King and not some pussy cat. I can still hear you sound out to me whenever I entered the room. "OMODELE!" - your voice a rolling bass like thunder, declaring my presence. Your Sound...is...Unforgettable! And, you exude energy powerful as a radiant sun.

You are one king that really lived; I mean, LIVES. Yuh lived hard! laughed hard! drank hard! loved hard! cared hard, hard!
You embody "it takes a village to raise a child."
People don't know that from I was a youth, you drew me in, encompassing me with your life force, and made me feel like a prince. And how later when I walked through fire, I'd run to you on Nostrand and Crown, and you'd make me feel like it was no longer me but us against the world. That's just you.
Remember yuh seh, "I KNOW you, y'know, where yuh been, where yuh from and where yuh going..."?
Stuartie, when you done talk, I feel sure of my place in the Universal Order. For that, I am forever grateful.

I didn't get to tell you all this before that's why I'm saying it now.
Never Gone. Never Forgotten.
You are Legendary.

One Love, One Life
K. Omodele

Mother To Son: Go Read a Book!

2010-12-20T17:07:00.002-05:00

Drawing property rights to The Abeng.../ YardCore Int'l, Publishing

One sun-parched, Third World July noon, a mother scurries around a metal-creaking kerosene stove, simmering curry chicken and white rice in enamel pots when she notices her eleven-year old son fingering a string, making diamonds.
Mother to Son:
“Boy, yuh bored, nuh?”
He snorts but doesn’t look up.
“If yuh bored, go and read a book! You can travel round the world in a book.”
The boy throws away the string. “OK, Mummie.”

Years later in Foreign, one January evening with the mercury sinking two degrees below zero, she’s stirring up marrow-heating soup with provisions and dumplings. He’s in his mid-teens and she refuses to buy more than one T.V., which she locks and keys in her bedroom.
“You won’t be like the typical American pickney*, nursing on no boob tube. This thing dims out yuh wits. It too visual. It show and tell you what to think, so yuh don’t even use your imagination to picture what nice piece a chicken would look like, smell like. I want yuh wonder and envision what a Andorran sunset look like, why blood deh in George Jackson eye, what Gambia mussy** feel like to Kunta Kinte. I don’t want yuh depend on the T.V. to show you.”
“Mummie, everybody I know in school got a T.V. in their room. We living in Foreign now. Is Foreign.”
“And wha happen to that? Well then read a foreign book, then. You not getting no T.V. in yuh room. Hear me, GO READ A BOOK!”

One morning three years later he’s taking this girl, Missy, home from Days Inn after a night that began in a dancehall with her gazing at his rope chain. He pulls his BMW up outside The Blue Nile across the street from Howard University. He doesn’t live with Mummie anymore and now three T.V.’s sit like Great Propagators around his apartment.

The girl’s eyes furrow. “What you stop here for?”

She half hides a chuckle and hurries behind him into the bookstore.

He nods at the girl behind the counter, “Morning,” and heads straight to the new releases where he snatches up Assata Shakur’s autobiography and marches back to the counter.

As he hands the book to the cashier, he feels Missy stare. He glares back.

She says, “I don’t mean no harm but I ain’t never known no nigga that bought no book.” She glances around the Blue Nile. “Shit, I ain’t never been with no nigga in no bookstore.”

He winces while paying fifteen dollars for the book. “You still ain’t.”

“Ain’t what?”

“Been with no nigga in no bookstore.” He spat. “I ain’t no nigga, dutty gyal***” He can feel Mummie grimacing.

The cashier gives him his change and a grin.

The girl catches her jaw before it hits the ground. “You look like a nigga to me!” she says, snaking her neck.

“And you sound like a dutty gyal to me. Go read a book, any book.”

He two-steps out the door, the girl at his heels.

*child
**must be

***dirty girl

Ca·thar·sis (When I Write...)

2010-12-08T13:59:00.004-05:00

Ca·thar·sis (When I Write...)
a free-style

When I write, I:
seal long–time wounds in my soul
try stitch a heart that’s been torn
mend this conscience I've worn...

When I write, its like:
slitting my wrists when I vent
scribbling blood with my pen
I'm awakening each sense…

When I bleed through my pen, its like:
purging away old stabbing pains
watching them swirl down the drain
then lifting my face to more rain...

I word to di riddim of drums when I write!
I sound di Abeng from plantations when I’m right !
draw power from villages and slums, passage rites!

I AM
Tom Feelings when I write/
Count Ossie when I write/
When blind, more sight/ when dark, more light/
my stain, my plight/my pain, my fight/

I create a unique, lyrical mural -
when I write...
I am right.

An Empress' Eyes

2010-12-06T13:36:00.024-05:00

When he first saw her, he was convinced the secrets of the pyramids were etched in her eyes, the way they twinkled like she knew some mystery, untold. Unblinking, she scanned the room and it was like a lioness assessing her plain- basking in confidence that could move Nubia and Kush.
When he first saw her laugh, really laugh deep, life's divine essence danced with the spring sunlight, those glittering eyes sweet.

After their first brief peck, her eyes squinted to slits, that's it? chastising him- like Head-mis-tress Harper with cane in fist.

Then he noticed, though stern, they still sparkled through rain and he realized that her eyes had conquered much pain. That made him wonder, are Queens only born queens or can a woman be molded into royalty? the way intense pressure forms carbon to gems.
When they first really loved, her eyes were rolling lava, molten and slow. Her cheekbones high like the Nile Valley walls and he delighted as the river shimmered into her soul.

When she's gray, will the eye-corners pinch lines from the passage of time? Will they shine reminiscing these times?
Her regal eyes; her caring eyes; her vibrant, intelligent and intense eyes;

eyes that scream independence; eyes full with thought;

Scrabble eyes bright; dreamy late night;
her eyes, her eyes, her eyes, her eyes!

Abeng Tribute: Gregory Number One

2010-11-06T13:43:00.013-04:00

Cover of Gregory Isaacs

Gregory Number One
Copyright 2010 K. Omodele

6:45 A.M. and sunrise is pecking, struggling to hatch through the Manhattan skyline. Two dozen laborers with Malone Construction hardhats are milling around a group of tool chests, sipping steaming coffee, chatting in cliques, each silently dreading the impending workday. Their muscles ache; breathing is highlighted by streams of condensation.

“Yow!” A bamboo-limbed youth shouts before lighting a cigarette. Drags smoke deeply into his lungs then feverishly sands his calloused hands together. “One minute ah silence for the Cool Ruler, nuh man.” Rudeboy demands heavily.

Dreadie crams his locks into one extra-large hardhat ‘til it sticks cocked-up on his head Velcro tight. Shakes his head and pounces on him. “Yuh don’t hear lung cancer tek him way? Drop the Oldport them Rudie!” Gesturing to box the cigarette out his bredren’s hand.

They take shield from the late-autumn wind behind a mortar-laced, cinder-block wall.

A tree-stump man with ringed, saucer eyes joins them, skinning his teeth. “Yuh hear wha duh man say? Drop the cancer stick!”

Rudeboy pulls his coat collar up and leans a shoulder ‘gainst the wall. “Ay Trevor; yuh favor Guyanese patoo.*”

They all buss out a laugh.

Trevor continues. “Man all the great singers dying off: Dee Brown, Sugar Minott- when di foundation gone, wha’ left?”

“Ah rate Gregory over all them, still,” Rudeboy interjects. Pulls on the cigarette.

Trevor adds. “Me tuh.”

Dreadie whips his forefinger against his middle and thumb. “Gregory was the definition of artist. Art-is-try!”

Bajie marches up to them like some corporal in the B.D.F.**, drinking from a Thermos cup. Grinning out the corner of his eye, he snaps. “According to who?”

“According to I- Dreadie’s Sidewalk Knowledge Collegiate Dictionary, yuh mad rass yuh.” He licks back. “Anyhow, the definition of an artist is someone who creative expression inspire or who leave some kind ah impression on people; a great artist move the masses.”

Bajie sips with his pinkie out as if its tea time somewhere in Christ Church. “And? You want rate Gregory Issacs over Dennis Brown? Wunna mad or what?”

“Or whot? All up in yuh nose.” Trevor mimics, laughing. “Yeah man. Gregory ragamuffin.”

Bajie doesn’t let go. “Dennis Brown voice sweeter than a nightingale.”

Rudeboy bounces off the wall and outs out his cigarette. “Yuh never hear Gregory siddung pon a riddim yet?*** Listen Tune In! ‘I said I like it like dat.’” He sings, head and shoulders dippinging to a rhythm in his memory bank.

“Yeah?” Bajan challenges. “So wha bout Should I? Yuh talking bout a singer riding a riddim? ‘How can I go on feeling this waaay?/Acting like a child so young and gaaaay?/ YOU DON’T KNOW-”

Dreadie and Trevor chime in, grinning. “-WHAT IT MEANS TO BE LOVED.”

“Oh-Oh, Rudeyouth.” Dreadie says, eye brow arching. “Bajie want go tune fi tune.”

“Bajan a idiot. When I need fi pick myself up off di ground, I just play ‘One man against the world/” Rudeboy croons, gyrating his wiry frame, gun fingers cocked and poised.

The others rise gun fingers in the air, saluting. “BOOM! BOOM!BOOM!”

Still half-asleep, other workers gaze curiously over at the West Indians.

Bajie bend up his mouth like he not the least impressed. Raises one hand in the air, bounces and chants:

“Do you know what it means to-“

The rest of them sing along. “-HAVE A RE-VO-LU-TION?”

The whole clique is now wide awake, laughing and touching fists.

The lead plumber, Mike LaTronica, waddles over to them. “Trevor! You working or you gonna sing Calypso there all day, Harry Belafonte?”

Trevor straightens his face. “Nah. I gon stand over here wid you and sing Figaro, Pavorotti.”

More laughter.

Trevor goes off to flux and prep joints with the plumber.

With emptiness plowing in their hearts, the others trudge over to their respective work crews.

* Owl                                                                More Construction Crew Stories on The Abeng...
** Barbados Defense Force                                                Reasoning: Conspiracy Osama
*** Sit down on the rhythm                                                        Cupful Reasoning

Omodele: The Son Also Rises

2010-10-08T23:41:00.002-04:00

Sunrise is a gold-smeared promise, with its hint of anticipation. Day clean; a new slate; a rebirth, like Spring, except The Son is only a day older. He's excited as he embraces each Dawn- a time to briefly contemplate then bury yesterday's mistakes. Can't undo what has been done. (Did Basquait ever erase smudges; did he cover smears?)

Sunrise is a vernal whisper cascading over dying winter silence. It blankets the algid night and its dew-draped freshness inspires, murmuring, "Today is a new day." Pond water steadily slushing over stagnant stones is his mantra, persistence will eventually form, shape and mold the unyielding. "Life is change; stagnation is death."

The Son rises with the sun. He rises like the sun...With the confidence worn by a warrior who has trodded through a hail of brimstone and gunfire, he meditates over his canvass, lifts his chin and continues painting the rest of Life's Journey...

On The Mountaintop

2010-09-23T22:26:00.006-04:00

What life has taught me
I would like to share with
Those who want to learn...

- Bob Marley Intro to the song War (Excerpt from speech by HIM Haile Selassie)

On The Mountaintop

I have a Bredren who thinks I am madder than one a them running [of the] bulls because I love morning time alone on top of Stone Mountain. And I am ecstatic sharing time on a swing with my little niece. He doesn’t really comprehend how much I enjoyed pedal boats with my cousin (and two Sistren). He doesn’t choose to feel the sense of urgency I have in creating moments. And that's cool, he and I have different perspectives when it comes to the passage of time - we look at life through different spectacles.

I have missed out on moments that many people my age have experienced: school proms/ dances/ fetes; getting married; a son’s/daughter’s birth; a first word, first step, first day at school. But on the other hand, there are no ex-wives lurking, no all he money (alimony), and no support payments due of any kind.

There’s much that I’ve missed, so right now I am considering moments like a canvass and creating masterpieces. Them damn pedal boats had me sweating like a Preakness stallion, but guess what? I savored the whole scene the way an accident survivor appreciates life after avoiding that “bright Light.” Some of the things I’ve experienced since I “came home” I never thought of doing…EVER! Like visiting a winery (and I don’t mean a dance hall); and meditating on Stone Mountain top. I danced with my aunt and her friends at de Luna’s (a Spanish, as in Spaniard, lounge). I realize these are not things that the average person would write home about, but my reality three years ago was hard like a flogging...HARD like iron bars...I mean HARD like penitentiary yards. So I man give thanks and praises to the Almighty for seeing me through. And though I cannot promise HIM that I will be the perfect son, an Ingel on earth nor unwavering in spirit, I do promise to notice his beautiful WORKS – the burning sunset; the bright moon suspended against a deep purple back drop glittering with tightly-scattered stars; an ebony Empress and her breath-snatching smile; my pushing-ninety granny with her life-pleated skin and sly, twinkling eyes; and the way I feel, high, on top of Stone Mountain after hauling myself out of the depths within the beast.

Bredren, you’ll never catch the exhilaration painted in a passing moment until you are forced to stare at time frozen stiff.

Atlanta Sunset

Taken from Pedal Boats @ Tidal Basin, Washington, DC

Marcus' House

2010-08-17T11:54:00.019-04:00

(Photo By Jennifer Poyser 2009)

©2010 K. Omodele

Why does Marcus’ house lean
with dilapidated beams
and neglected, time-cracked posts?
Surrounded by rambling goats
hurry come latelys who don’t overstand
the glorious essence Mosiah’s stance
not religion rather Community
uplift… One Aim, One God, One Destiny.

How could we not carry the Trumpet’s Sound
Self reliance, pride: no national bound
until the whole of Africa is free
reciting the words “Self Identity”

E’nig•mat’i•cal

2010-07-15T13:31:00.027-04:00

Time steals youth like waves thief the soil
and mushes it to slushy silt
Visions once strong as oxen gait
fade like leaves on autumn trees wilt.

Time’s a crude fire; smelts love from a heart
fond moments from minds like copper from bronze
extracting core Truth from precious al-loys
some rivers turn streams, some oceans turn ponds

Time is...water carried in a wicker basket absent-mindedly handled as if the vessel would miraculously retain the inevitable...

Woman Who Cried

2010-07-10T15:18:00.026-04:00

Woman Who Cried
Copyright K. Omodele 2007

Can I mend your lacerated heart?
Douse the fire pain
and together face hard-wind rains
that lash slash slash lash.

Woman let me soothe your punctured heart
Saddle my back your burden-load
The climb feels a steep
never-ending, raggy road...
my shoulders can brace your wailing soul

Copyright K. Omodele 2007

***This poem is a tribute to my Auntie Jenny who lost her elder son, Kirk, over fifteen years ago in a gun accident. I have seen, first hand, how such a tragic loss can affect the human spirit and soul. Everyday, she Rises... and I think that is testament to the resilience of the Human Spirit.

Cupful Reasoning

2010-07-01T05:51:00.023-04:00

A worn-out team of laborers, bellies swollen from lashing down lunch ‘pon rapid, loaf under a scaffold shading them from the hammering, midday-Manhattan, summer sun.

“Wha’ in de hell colonization have to do with de damn World Cup, Dreadie?” Bajie asking, tooth-picking his domino teeth, then snorting out a laugh. “Gah bleh, man, ganja got yuh reasoning light headed or what?” Checks his watch.
Dreadie eyes stick tight to his HTC phone screen as the ESPN commentators dissect England’s brand new loss to Germany. Standing over his shoulder catching the commentary, Trevor shoves down a last-couple fry plantains.
Dreadie answers without lifting his eyes from his phone. “Is my theory, Bredrin. First World Cup EVER on African soil- none a de colonizers dem shall win this Cup! The AnceSTARS nah mek dat line up none at all!”
“True, True,” Snickering, Trevor adds. “Talk to he, Ras. Ah bet Bajie sick, sick, sick dat Jolly-Ole England get she face cuff in.”
Bajie twists up his shovel mouth, sucks his teeth then turns. “Rudeboy, tell him nuh. Is pure dotishness this man talking. One thing ain got nuttin to do with de other.”
Rudeboy coils his lanky frame on a putty bucket and flicks out a cigarette. “No sah. Baj, I hope di Dread right. It mek perfect sense to mi,” he answers, smiling, eyes twinkling with mischief.
“Wunna mad, mad. So tell me nuh, who gon win it den? Ghana is de only African nation still lef in it, yuh know.”
Dreadie peels back his tam and flashes his locks. “Mek I tell yuh who nah goh win: England, France, Italy nor Portugal.”
Everyone except Bajie laughs.
Dreadie continues. “Neither Netherlands, Spain nor Germany-”
“Germany? Why not Germany?” Bajie sounds like teacher prepping them for CXC. “Dey certainly were not colonialists. Plus, you see how strong the side is-like machines. German engineering.”
Dreadie finally pries his gaze from his phone screen and penetrates Bajie with it. “Doan matter because, yes, Germany did a portion a colonizing too.”
Trevor buss out a laugh. “Wait, Bajie, yuh ain never hear bout Cameroon and German East Africa- Tanzania an dem place? Personally, Dread, I think South American team gon win it- four a these final eight team come from there.”
Bajie scoffs. “Of course you would say that, Guyanese. So who you have winning? Let me guess nuh- Brazil?”
Dreadie contemplates while placing his crown back on his head, eyes still on screen. “Either dem or Argentina.” He tucks rope thick locks under the tam once more.
Bajie pounces and blasts a shot from left field. “Wait! How you doan consider Ghana, Mr. Africa Unite; Brother One Blood; Comrade Stand-Up-Fuh-We-Reparations-Now?
Dreadie glances up. “I want Ghana win, Bajie, ‘ca I want see Africa do good. But yuh know, even when Brazil win, is African victory.”
“Yeah, fi real,” Rudeboy adds. Checks the time and unfolds his legs and jumps up into a stretch.
“I tell you bou’ smoking that ting dere, Dread,” Bajie utters, shaking a finger at the Ras. “Brazil is not in Africa!”
Trevor Intervenes. “Yuh chupid bad, Bajie. Yuh always sound so like yuh want be a British Subject again.”
Dreadie turns off the screen, pockets the phone and rises. “Baj, but Africa is in Brazil!”
Bajie’s face soaks in bewilderment as each man grabs his hard hat and shoots into the mouth of the building.

More Construction Crew Stories on The Abeng and My Conscious Pen

Abeng Tribute: Gregory Number One Reasoning: Conspiracy Osama

Mother To Son

2010-04-27T14:10:00.031-04:00

trademark The Abeng/Yardcore International, Inc.

A frustrated mother says to her eleven year-old son:
"Son, know this: a farmer don’t just plant, so. Is a long, drawn out process to grow good crop- it don’t just happen -BUDUPS- outta de blue, it tek (takes) work and diligence.

First, you as the farmer must burn down all trees and bush over de land. Then, after that, till the earth-and that mean turn it over wid a big fork or machine and make up some beds of soil. Then yuh have to prepare and fertilize the soil with manure and dung, which in itself is a bitch ‘ca (because) it stink so to high heaven. Is a shitty task, Son, but essential beca good crop don’t grow in unfertile soil. And if not manure then compost, which can be dead fish head and banana peel, orange peel anything so.

So now after that, when you as de farmer done prepare the soil, tek yuh seed and plant dem in a drum, pan or can or something so. When they sprout up, yuh nurture dem into seedlings. After the seedling dem catch, den yuh transplant dem into the soil beds and then the real nurturing and nourishing start- water, preening, all dem type a thing. You can’t just expect them fi grow so- wild weed will come and choke dem. So you must keep weeding out bad growth from round dem as the grow. And after all that, you might get a good crop and not bad breed.

So, Son, yuh see how much preparation and work and care go into planting a good crop? GOOD! Then is the same thing when you want find a woman and plant a seed in her… yuh cyaan (can’t) just fling good seed in any soil so. You must tek time and mek sure her soil well nourishing, meaning that she will nurture yuh seed when it grow. Take yuh time! And, Son, careful: some soil wha look rich might be poison! So, watch and mind how yuh flinging yuh seed!

One more thing…pay attention, Pickney! Whenever you do go plant a seed, be like the
good farmer; meaning, TEK CARE MIND IT WHILE IT GROW!"

copyright 2010 K. Omodele

Tempting Irie: II

2009-12-18T22:01:00.073-05:00

Irie fluffs the sliced up ganja. Fingering the ring on the ratchet, in a single, fluid motion he flicks the blade shut and pockets it. Then he retrieves a challawa from the desk and packs the kutchie with herb. He begins chanting.
“Let Jah arise and let his enemies be scattered; let those that hate him flee before him; as smoke is driven away, so drive dem away; as wax melteth by the fire so let the wicked perish at the presence of Rastafari…Extol H.I.M who reigneth inna Zion by His name OH JAH Rastafari…”
Sukunya quakes like Port Royal just before it crumbled and tumbled into the Caribbean Sea.
He won’t so much as even poop on me, she thinks.

Seducing Ratta had played out much smoother than this. Ratta had yearned for her, longed for her gift. He had done discarded his conscience long, long time-way back when he was a younger youth hustling fi Blacka. Ratta woulda jukked down (stuck up/robbed) Israel and all Twelve Tribes to earn couple stripes. If Blacka ever said, “Mr. Big Mouth fi hold some FAT shot in his FAT rass!;” then, that was no problem.
Ratta was a fiend for notoriety.
So one night, almost a full year ago, Sukunya had offered herself to Ratta at Blacka’s Boxing Day Bashment. Blacka, with Ratta and the whole crew, marched in shining. As they flowed through the crowd like a fighter and his entourage at a prizefight, the crew sang out, “Blacka Knights.” People murmured and nodded and Sukunya pumped through Blacka’s veins…his heart…his brain. She consumed him and he wielded her triumphantly as he waved his eagle-head cane in the air like a scepter in time to The Bruck Out riddim.
As Ratta watched, he brindled with envy. Blacka was king.
Sukunya chuckled and approached Ratta. Few men had ever resisted and she doubted he would be anything special.
“Blacka cyaan (can’t) hold mi, yuh know,” she said matter-of-factly. “He cyaan control me.”
The music wound low and the crowd movement slowed like a trek to perdition. The club scene had fallen catatonic- which was a perfect canvass for Sukunya.
Ratta’s eyes brooded wickedness. He clenched his fists, raising them in front his face. “I want yuh so bad I’da rip out mi own mother heart out her chest. I want this-”he circled his hands around the room and shrugged “- I want all this fi me- RATTA.” He laughed, deep, from within a rotten soul.
“I know. Yuh feel me now, mi Boy? Blacka come like nuttn to you. Imagine, the world is yours.” She winked, and then added. “Drink up. Just accept mi. FEEL me. Taste me. ”
Sukunya giggled uncontrollably as the music and the crowd catapulted back to life.

A few early mornings later, before sunrise, Ratta and his side-kick Tully waylaid Blacka outside his home in Flatlands. Around 5:30 a big, bad, midnight Escalade barreled up the street like a powerful tidal wave. As his driver squeezed back and forth into a tight parking spot, the Boss lit a bighead spliff and took a deep pull.
Ratta and Tully crept silently, low in the valley of shadows between the building and parked cars. As they came up to the Escalade, Ratta raised up two forty-fives and -BLAM.BLAM.BLAM…bust them rapidly through the passenger window while Tullo unloaded six booming shots from a pump shotty around on the driver side. The Escalade’s engine vroomed hard and the SUV lunged forward, plunging into a Lincoln Town car.
The car alarm wailed.
Tullo ran around the SUV, and unloaded one more in the Boss’s head.
In all, twenty-seven shots blared.
The two assassins looked for any movement from the slumped over men.
Satisfied, they sprinted up the block.

Back in the apartment, the clock reads 11:45. Sukunya top lip quivers.
Irie is sealing up his chanting. “…Oh Great and Thunderable I- JAH RASTAFAR I.”
Sukunya shakes. When Irie thumbs a lighter and a single flame spurts up dancing in the dark, she cringes.
He lifts the fire to the kutchie and draws long and deep on the pipe. The flame climbs in, flooding over the herb, igniting it to sizzling orange embers. He holds his breath, letting his meditation ascend to higher heights.
Growing more restless, Sukunya pops up and sashays over to Irie. Leers over his shoulder, anxiously checking the clock.
11:47
She whispers:
“Yeah man, smoke up. I perform best on the unconscious. My ride go take you higher than that Indica, Irie Dread. Trust mi, you see.”
Finally he exhales, a smoke plume flaring from his nostrils.
Sukunya chokes on the congregation of smoke inundating her like judgment ‘pon the land.
“UGH-Ugh-UGGGHH.”
Irie doesn’t even stir. He holds firm.
Sukunya moans. “Taste me once, just once; you never get enough.”
She kisses his neck. OWW. Scalded, she cowers back.
What in di hell-?
Irie beams.
You need me Irie. Relax. Take me and men will tremble when they hear your name. Women will bow-She reaches for him again. But now awaken, he leans away.
No, Harlot. All is vanity
Relax; she repeats and brushes scorching fingertips down his chest. Claw-like fingernails soaked with the blood of martyrs leaves trails on his shirt.
Look at me! Her eyes are drunken, blood-red like her nails. Surely you want what I offer. Behold my fullness. Render your heart, nuh, I’ll bring you ecstasy. Discard your so-called righteousness and I will give you the world.
Slow and jerkily she leans in and presses her lips to his.
Irie twitches and breaks away. The radiator steams loud and vexed.
Sukunya is dripping wet.
Irie sticks out his chest. I AM-Jah blessed. He smiles and bounces to a song in his heart. Di hungry shall be fed/ Jah know di blind shall be led…
But Irie, you don’t know me. Yuh never wonder? I’ve lain with kings. Great men have drunk my wine. Here, thrusting her golden cup at him.
No! He refuses, shaking his head. I DO know you.
She spins around, grabbing a glance of the clock.
11:56.
No. You don’t. You may have seen me around, with Ratta, Blacka…other dons. They’re like grains of sand beneath the Great Pyramids. You I want intimately. Like Napoleon. Like Julius Caesar.
Her eyes dart back to the clock. It clicks to 11:57. Her heart begins to trot. She continues:
Like Nimrod and Nebuchadnezzar, I’ll lift you high like pharaohs. Make you great. People will call your name through the ages. Just kiss me; taste me; SEIZE ME. HURRY Irie!
She’s panting.
But Irie remains rooted, firm, like a tree. Smirking, I know your mystery.
Wha? She snatches the time off the clock.
11:58.
She gasps. Begins pacing back and forth like a penned up beast.
LISTEN, she snarls. She is drenched all over. Gulps down the last of her Brunell and flings away the cup. Paces some more. You want a Bentley? Fine silks? Linens? Islands in the sea? Souls of men?
Irie chuckles. Flashes his mane, remembering, "...leaves shall not wither."
She flails her hands in the air. Her pacing quickens to a frantic gallop around the room. She stops. Points a finger. Is about to say something, but presses her lips together. Shakes the finger at him.
What? Tell me wha yuh want!
11:59
Her lips are parched. She gallops around again, circling him. Fast. Faster.
Tell me. Hurry. Quick nuh Irie.
Irie remains still, grinning with the challawa (chalice pipe) in hand.
She brakes suddenly. She opens her arms. IRRIIEEeee!! Come to me nuh? Tell me wha yuh waaaant?
Irie delights. "FIRE! For Purification. Gimmie FIYAH!"

From downstairs, young voices cry out. “TEN, NINE, EIGHT-”
Sukunya falls to her knees and rips away her soaking garments. She kneels desolate and naked.
Irie stands over her and can hear the weeping and moaning and mourning of those who had slept with her. She looked up at him imploringly.
The voices outside sing:
“FIVE, FOUR-”
Sukunya bursts into flames.
“THREE, TWO, ONE.”
Great volleys of gunfire erupt outside around the whole Flatbush, on and on, a thundering salute to the new millennium.
Now Sukunya is a blazing inferno. She crumbles to ashes as Irie watches standing over her, bemused, burning his chalice pipe as gunshots pound outside like falling brimstone.
And now it is done.
Rastafari stands alone.

Short Story: Tempting Irie

2009-12-02T13:02:00.040-05:00

(Introducing Irie and Sukunya)

Old year’s night and one millennium hurtles toward the next. The depths of a Flatbush studio apartment whisper blackness. In the front, scarce streetlight tumbles through a monolithic window and falls flat a couple feet beyond the sill. 11:37 PM glows neon blue against the darkness. Overworked, a radiator hisses in protest.

Sukunya fidgets on a wicker settee. She grins, but her eyes scurry about the room like a condemned woman, strapped in, dreading the marching time. She squints as she settles on a figure planted behind the desk by the window, which frames Prospect Park’s skeletal landscape.
Outside, down two floors of corroding fire escape, teens gaggle and shriek on the stoop. They stumble drunkenly in and out of the building’s vestibule.

Jay-Z crackles through a Phil Collins sample. “You belong to the city/You belong to the night…” A horn screams, brakes EEK and upstairs a mother shrills from a window. “ MEEKA. Haul yuh rass in this house. NOW!!!”

These sounds limp through the half open window and nudge the stillness in the apartment. Sukunya spills more Brunello di Montalcino into her golden cup.

She sips.

She slurs:
“So Irie, you don’t never think bout me- why men always fighting over me?” She strums her swells- breasts, hips, curve of her butt. Prattling, she arches her back and cocks her legs limberly up on the settee. A purple, silken camisole clings to her bronze skin which glistens like melting ice.
But Irie doesn’t notice. On a stacked milk-crate throne, he hunches over an unpolished, raw-pine desk. Light from outside feebly captures the concentration carving his features. Whittled brows glower as he slices a half-dozen Indica buds with a ratchet so keen, it can divide light from the darkness. Each drag of the knife scars the Steel Pulse “Armageddon” album cover he uses as a cutting board. He pauses. Removes his leather buckas-styled tam and Congo-natty locks cascade heavily over his stone-cut shoulders. A worn reprint of Bob’s “Confrontation” shield’s his chest.

Sukunya splays her thighs, bracing an elbow on a knee.
“I know you feel me, Irie. Can’t ig me forever.” Snaking fingers twine the gold, precious stones and pearls coiling up her neck.
She slips a glimpse off the clock. 11:40.
A light sliver ignites her cat eyes for an emerald second. “I see you watching me when I’m with Blacka. And Lenky. Or, when I’m hugging up Worries over in New Lots.” Puckering scarlet lips, she puffs him an air kiss. “Yep! I know you want me, Irie Dread. Act like you don’t, but you need me.”

Irie fluffs the sliced up ganja. Fingering the ring on the ratchet, in a single, fluid motion he flicks the blade shut and pockets it. Then he retrieves a challawa from the desk and packs the kutchie with herb. He begins chanting...

(To Be Continued...)

The Under The Mango Tree (Next Part)

2009-11-23T10:53:00.018-05:00

©2009 K.Omodele

Pruitt’s eyes riddled holes through him.
When Owens didn’t elaborate, the Detective sergeant wrenched his face and chopped a crooked fore finger at the younger detective.
“Well Man, out with it. Wha’? you want me box it out you mouth?” Wrenching his face up couple notches, he tiraded. “LISTEN HERE OWENS. I don’t want no more ghetto heroes. The LAST thing this country need is a next criminal masquerading like some damn Robin Hood. Which Fidel? I want out this boy light, Owens, before he shine no brighter. YUH UNDERSTAND ME?”
He pounded the table again; Owens’s gun jumped again.
He boomed. “Miss Lorna, bring the rest a the bottle!”

Behind the counter, Lorna’s eyes locked on the glass she was rinsing. Her hands trembled, so she balled them up to steady them. Took a deep breath, grabbed the rapidly-emptying bottle and rolled back her shoulders on her way to their table. She released the rum and a smile, and if they woulda paid attention, her eyes would’ve betrayed her. But as it was, they didn’t take stock; so, with her ears 'pon cock, she scampered back to her refuge.
Pruitt drained his glass, refilled it, and then furrowed his brow. “Well...”
Owens’s face didn’t move a twitch when he replied, “At the Foundation dance- Sound The Abeng Hi-Power playing tonight.”
Pruitt studied him. “Yeah? Make you so sure? Last time we miss him, ‘member?”
Owens picked up the bottle, smirking as he poured another drink.
“Trust mi nuh. A little bird tell me. And I hear the boy love Sound The Abeng sound system. You know how it is with them youth deh. This bird know for a fact that the boy goin deh tonight. Same bird tell we 'bout the girl, the baby mother. And that did pan out, right?”
“You must make me meet this birdie.”
“Maybe after tonight.”
Behind the counter, Lorna washed the same glass for ‘bout the third time.

Meanwhile, in a shanty enclave ‘cross town, Natty Fidel and Dally share a meditation…

The Under The Mango Tree

2009-11-12T16:12:00.047-05:00

In Nineteen Eighty, poor people couldn’t stop talking bout young Natty Fidel and the newspapers couldn’t stop writing about him. The capital city was a barrel of gun powder with a slow-burning fuse, and the people of the city squeezed their eyes tight and corked their ears.
The Under The Mango Tree was little more than four gray, cinderblock walls, with a fifty-five gallon drum grill planted outside the back door. Inside was a vinyl covered bar counter with a sink behind it. In one corner, a beatup jukebox offered 45’s, selections from an era that had slipped away-the time of Desmond Dekker, Sam Cook, and Sparrow. Overhead, a bare forty-watt bulb with a pull chain hung precariously, a threatening hangman’s noose.
A ruby glow snaked from behind the counter where the owner was bent over stocking the freezer chest with beer and stout and Malta. She pretended to ignore the two plain-clothes regulars huddled at a table by the juke box. She was a single mother of two and still attractive in her early forties. Her hands and feet were calloused and her heart tattered by pieces of shattered dreams.

Mid-day approached and she methodically prepared for the after-work, happy hours. Friday evenings were typically her busiest. The bar was a skip and jump from the city’s East-side police station and so it was like an officers' clubhouse. And so, in the surrounding ghettos it was known as the “Babylon Bar”.

Rising from the freezer, the owner wiped her hands on her apron and scooped up two plastic containers on the way out the back door. A minute later, spices dripping on embers sizzled and popped. Roast fish aroma wound through the door tantalizing the two men drinking at their table.
“Ms. Lorna,” shouted the older one-the detective sergeant. “I telling you, your hand coulda resurrect Christ. I need two piece a fish.”
“Coming deh, Mr. Pruitt.” This one was a killer, f’real. He was manatee large and deliberate in his movement. When he explained things, his voice was bogged in impatience.

Ms. Lorna scurried back outside and in few seconds flashed back behind the counter with two fire-hot fish in brown paper.
“And bring a next round,” the younger detective added, waving a long arm. He was a light post with a razor-bumped face.
Miss Lorna answered. “No problem!” and threw a pan of ice in the sink behind the counter. She ice-picked it and fixed two more rum and coconut water. Tossed a splinter of ice in her mouth, savored the coolness, and dabbed her forehead and neck with her handkerchief. Then she pressed her lips into a smile and went over to serve them their fish and drinks.

“So, where in the hell this little careless girl could gone?” the detective sergeant was inquiring. “Must be with the boy.”
Lorna placed the fish, then the drinks on the table and cleared the empty glasses.
The younger man snatched his glass and swirled the drink around. “She mussy left Town and gone out to the country.” He removed his nine-millimeter from his side and thrust it beside his food and drink.
Lorna wrapped a glance around gun and shuddered. Flashed a plastic smile then spun on her heels. As she retreated to the counter, she could feel the young detective’s eyes burning her backside.
“Is a week now nobody see this girl? You think she with the boy?” she heard Detective sergeant Pruitt ask. Before the young detective could answer, Pruitt slammed his hand on the table, jumping the man's gun . “Damn these hooligans! Running ‘round town like some leggo beast. I’m telling you Owens, is the politicians making them feel like they important. Me and you know where the guns coming from.”
Young detective Owens nodded in agreement. He stroked his gun metal and could barely conceal a twinkle in his eye.
Pruitt continued. “You can believe this? The gangs, they have better artillery than we. And still, the police force supposed to clean up this mess?"
Smirking, Owens leaned toward his supervisor and lowered his voice.
“Mr. Pruitt, I know where the boy going tonight,” he said, and then leaned back smugly.
Pruitt’s eyes riddled holes through him.

Behind the counter, Ms. Lorna strained her ears and threw her eyes down on a spot on the floor...

">(To be continued)

Death of a Soul, man

2009-11-03T22:32:00.015-05:00

At what point does a soul wither and drop?

Like rotten fruit from an ill-fated tree

The result of youthful intrepid plots

whose sole regal intent screamed, "LOOK! I BE."

What event led to the poor soul's demise?

Severed from his roots- a long stemmed Black Rose

Did volcanoes erupt in blood-fire eyes?

Time is a-grinding while youth decompose

Dancehall Bubbler

2009-11-03T21:30:00.012-05:00

Wind...slow...Wind...low

rub hard...don't stop

roll slow...tem-po

Grind slow...love dat

Ka-Boom...one drop

I-shense...draw slow

BOOM-boom!...BOOM-bap!

Re-lease...blow slow

Wind down...in time

slow wind...wind slow

wind up...roll slow

slow low...tem-po

Ital Stew

2009-10-27T07:35:00.003-04:00

©K.Omodele 2007

Ital stew is that book you cannot put down. The flavor excites. You anticipate the climax, and then savor it. You dread the denouement.

Vegetables and ground provisions are colorful characters brought to life in the folds of a good ital stew. Bright, upbeat yams, dutty-tinted sweet potatoes, irate orange pumpkins and simple off-white Irish potatoes conspire to supplant stringy, strenuous cassava- who for me is starboy.
There on the side lurks envious-green Calaloo, sulking, knowing she is only a side character.
The whole mix is antagonized by an angry gang of fiery peppers, flagging colors red, yellow and green. Adding even more spice to this intricate plot is scallion and a piece a ginger. And the foil is golden-ripe plantains-sweet and tender.

All these characters bubble in an aromatic theme of creamy coconut milk, the essence of Ital stew-the taste so exciting, you dread the impending end.

Longing For?

2009-10-24T07:14:00.022-04:00

Longing for...

Though you’re here in my heart night and day,
your scent is elusive, faded like life’s first image
Sometimes I can make out your voice sighing my name
light as a whisper of blossoms-sorrel, mango, guava;
gentle as the moonlight’s touch on a blacked-out night.
Night after night after night I can feel your touch
like a Caribbean breeze’s caress, goosing up my skin,
lifting through me like sap in a ganja plant.
Intoxicating. Stimulating.Yearning
for you to appear

near.
Yet
memories
remain as fleeing illusions
to be pursued
but never attained.

Auntie's Ayes

2009-10-16T22:37:00.070-04:00

Happy Earthday, Auntie Cee!!!

My Auntie’s Ayes
©K.Omodele Oct 10, 2007

My auntie’s ayes are never ever blue,
but warm glims, they blend green tints hazel-brown;
When down pressed they arise, as phoenix true,
Like gusts of wind, they urge me off the ground.

My aunties’s noes not straight , not cold,
And never isolatingly abrupt.
Round African noes, like a blanket old-
Still somehow comforting- love enwraps

Auntie’s voice beacons like a lighthouse bright
Guiding a lost ship through a dark night sea.
When storms have battered, her words dove-like
sing, “Boy you can be who you want 2 be”
My Aunt, who bestows Divine Oneness wealth,
Believes in me times I’ve doubted my self.
©K.Omodele Oct 10, 2007

Dry Cry

2009-10-08T02:55:00.026-04:00

B-Block, Unit 6
Copyright K. Omodele 12-24-04

I share a block with twenty-six convicted felons who shed no tears.

Never. Ever.

The day room where I like to write, when not in-cell, and where I am writing now, is a hard twenty by thirty feet with a solid, concrete-slab floor and frigid brick walls painted in more layers than a geisha. The pale pastels match the monotony of life in the bing. Hanging from a locked, metal frame above, a twenty-four inch JVC lords down upon its faithful subjects.

Basketball is on this boob tube. There is an incessant buzz of anticipation that periodically explodes into cheers for Lebron or Iverson. Even with earplugs, I cannot drown the babbling completely-laughter leaks through. A stifled shout slips into my thoughts here. Covert conversations crease my concentration there.

By the bathroom, Rasheed hangs up the phone. "Man, it's cold as fuck up in Philly right now. What's up with these warm-ass winters down South?"
His voice barely filters through my earplugs. From my table in the back, is like watching a sitcom with the volume way down.
He barks. "Yo, Fronz, grab the horn."
Looking like JJ from Good Times, Fronz leggo the dice and hops on the phone. I'm sure he's dialling Virginia Beach.
'Sheed returns to his table in front of me. He meets my eyes and shakes his head, sighing with the weight of the world before plopping in his chair. I just nod in recognition. Holidays...always rough.

At the table to my left, Wolf and Bass hide hands from each other in a game of casino. Wolf is Grizzly Adams from the Mountains in West Virginia and Bass is this ever-cool, surfer dude. Whenever Wolf opens his mouth, he sounds like a Harley, idling. Smells like one too, exhaust fumes like stale Camels. Last week we made him take a fresh. He's due for another shower any day now.

The Uptown Saturday Night hip-hop mix on Power 98 must be on because the younger Brothers have their headphones locked on while they catch the game or throw the dice or strategize over chessboards. From what I can suss out, Jay-Z and that new one...wha his name?...Young Jeezy must be on the airwaves. Anyhow, doo-rags bounce and heads bop. And, wha de fuck, I might as well pick up back smoking because the air is a mish-mash of Newport, Camels, and Tops smoke. My lungs vex, vex, vex. In a few minutes, I'll have to suck some relief from my inhaler.

Against a wall a microwave hums. Holiday packages ordered by families and loved ones arrived last week and I hear the chow hall-AKA Vomitville- is a ghost town with tumbleweeds right about now. The microwave might rebel soon. Every couple minutes the bell DINGS and somebody yells, "Next." Popcorn, salmon, garlic, jalapenos, sausage fight a losing battle against the overpowering tobacco stench.

The holiday spirit is a hollow barrel in B-Block. Beneath masks resides a longing only revealed in sunken eyes. Under a fragile facade of contentment, draped in nonchalance, lurks an angst- disconnection, seperation from the world-that is only communicated in raised eyebrows, grudging grunts, and even gnashing teeth.
Anything...everything...but no tears.

And early tomorrow morning, in the absence of the distraction of the JVC lord and radio shows and bedlam, we'll rise from our bunks. Methodically wash faces and routinely brush teeth. And one by one we'll bleat, "Next" for the phone. Then, when finally our turn comes up, we'll pull up a chair, burrow into the phone partition and carry on tender, covert conversations with our weeping families and children.
But always, with determination, we refuse to shed tears.
Never. Ever. Shed no tears.
Copyright K.Omodele 12-24-04

Induction of My Past

2009-10-01T22:19:00.005-04:00

I heard, "No man is an island," many times in my life, but only processed the words from one perspective- that as human beings, we all need other people in our lives; i.e., we aren't seperate entities totally independent of others. This is true, of course, but I found out first hand that this guinnep is a "twinnie"-there's more than one seed here. It is bigger than the small i and, through experience, I found a Universal truth that transcends the statement's surface meaning.

Our actions affect those around us. That's it. Every single thing we do in life, in some way, no matter how small, affects someone. Simple; but I never used to really study that. As a result of my oversight, I unintentionally caused a lot of pain and hurt and confusion amongst the people closest to me...innocent people. The results of the choices I've made in life have strained some of my relationships. That's the price...Regret. Jay-Z said you gotta learn to live with them. I have to tek lil time and rebuild bridges and tear down couple fence. Jah know, I hope its not too late.

Induction of My Past

Society's exiled outcasts

Numbered sheeple, penned to the side

Chattel once more, bounded self-pride

Dignity waves but at half-mast

Can we escape a haunting past

which sew the seeds- our souls' demise?

Pine box, cell blox, our grace denied?

Induction of our ruff neck past.

Is there redemption for sordid souls?

Confined by our pasts, perdition nothing more

Striped with contrition, confusion, neglect

Will bloodstained hands ever grow cold?

Find peace in the robe the Emperor wore

summation of our past-live with regret.

How The Hibiscus Grew

2009-09-26T13:45:00.010-04:00

Image via Wikipedia

How The Hibiscus Grew

Spring’s vernal fragrance like anointing dew

Blue cloud free skies, a washed and anew

In golden morn’s kiss, the hibiscus grew

From sodden nightmares, it writhed fresh - anew

Like how young lovers' hearts surge as they grew

through fences - the way hibiscuses do

Despite shoddy soil the hibiscus grew

Discarding old dreams; embracing the new

morning’s glisten, as it kisses the dew.

From the dew dampened night, the dawn arises anew; each winter

presents the promise of spring. The gift of Jah is Life.

How The Hibiscus Grew in the Dark

2009-09-24T13:18:00.004-04:00

Image via WikipediaGod and Nature first made us what we are, and then out of our own created genius we make ourselves what we want to be. Follow always that great law. Let the sky and God be our limit and Eternity our measurement. - Marcus Garvey

A long time friend asked me the other day, what made me turn to the East. All right, what she asked was about my being Ras. We had an enlightening reasoning about what Rastafari means...to I (me). She didn't realise I have sighted (known) Rastafari's glory for going 'pon twenty years now. But when I thought about it, it wasn't 'til I was in the hole - way dung (down) in the belly of the beast-that I fully embraced the premise and conviction of Rastafari, and found... "Self."

I have come to acknowledge that stagnation is death...anything wha' don't grow or change is stagnant. And, trust me, in the belly of the beast there is much that falls still. But they say "still waters run deep." From Bilal to Malcom, many Lions have emerged from outta the holes to claim, or re-claim, and bask in the glory of Life. Meditaiton, Self-evaluation, and then tuning in to Knowledge-Wisemind (wisdom)-Overstanding (understanding) is the key. Can you not see Starlight brightest in the deepest darkness?

So, Rastafari is...Light. Even in the darkest of times. Put a hibiscus in a dark room and it will wither. But let sunlight strain through a hole in the wall and that flower will gravitate towards that light.

Just knowing the source isn't enough. One has to know, accept, then live it (practice): Knowledge, Wisdom, and Overstanding, respectively. The power, or overstanding, is in practicing what one knows and accepts as Light.

And, know Sistren, I'm not religous-just Ras; and simplicity is what we use to survive. All when it is the darkest of times.
-© K. Omodele 2009

Happy Earthday Ras Lee!!!
Big up Natty Chris and Duane-Lions,come rule your destiny.

Simplicity by Sizzla...Pree this...Feel these words:
"...its just the meditation of my heart/ is just the pure and conscious thought/ be overstanding a tell you to be smart/ Listen to the children speak the word and shine the light in the dark,yah..."

Resilience Through Icestorms

2009-09-21T05:04:00.022-04:00

"Our greatest glory is not in never falling, but in rising every time we fall." -Confucius

"There is no better teacher than adversity. Every defeat, every heartbreak, every loss, contains its own seed, its own lesson on how to improve your performance next time." -Malcolm X

The thing I love most about lyrical word play is its ability to inspire. Word-Sound-Power. One of my favorite poems of all times is Maya Angelou’s “Still I Rise.” The Elder painted the resiliency of the Human I-rit (spirit) with such crimson emotion and golden underlining conviction; I hung her masterpiece in my personal Louvre (Locker 212, along with other works by lyrical artists). Her imagery makes me want to get up, stand up…rise like the Phoenix outta despairing ashes.

Jah knows people need inspiration in these jagged times of socio-economic strife. Some of us looking to the sky for a messiah and praying to heavens that a solution soon fall from above. Nothing nah goh (not going to) drop from the sky, Bredren and Sistren-the Most High reigns from within. We all have an inherent spirit of resilience because Divinity is within us, just tap into it and let the energy flow. Word-Sound drums up Power. Positive lyrics can uplift during the wickedest trials and tribulations… Writers, singers, wordsmiths, better know-ledge!

Even Icestorms in July (Intro)

Tomorrow morning I begin the rest of my life. Man, if you could feel how cold it gets in here, you'd overstand my anxiety for the gradual thawing that my tomorrow promises. As late as the night is, my anticipation for this promise of warmth is what deprives me sleep. It has kept me awake at night, 3,128 to be exact. That's how long I've been exposed to this frigidness. That's a long time-a minute. A looong minute, I know. Something inside me should have died by now, you know-from exposure.

I can barely stand it. Especially at night when I'm on my bunk, alone with my thoughts, the reflections of memories-some vague with the passing of time, others sharp despite it. Only the voice from my radio and solemn songs from the 70's keep me company. This is when the cold is at its lonely worst. It seeps through me, penetrating flesh and bone, until it is imbedded in my spirit, causing my soul to shiver at the steel and concrete and razor wire that engulf it.

Seasons change, but the cold is omnipresent. Something inside me should've died by now.

But, like the sun, it burns continuously in the midst of an algid, empty galaxy, obstinately refusing to succumb to the icy nothingness. And tonight, as I await the dawn, I feel it-this thing that is enflamed deep within me. Is it a ray of emotion ... a spark of hope? ... It is an antiquated remembrance ...

The Abeng and My Conscious Pen

We Tribe: Granny Turn Ninety

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copyright 2011 K.Omodele

Ca·thar·sis (When I Write...)
a free-style