The Under The Mango Tree (Next Part)

©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…

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(Chapter from the book Untitled)
©2009 K.Omodele
All rights reserved. Do not copy or reprint any part or section without the written permission from the author.

The Under The Mango Tree

©2009 K.Omodele

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 The Mighty 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)

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Death of a Soul, man

Copyright 2007 K. Omodele

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

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Dancehall Bubbler

Copyright 2009 K.Omodele

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

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Ital Stew

©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?

Copyright 2007 K.Omodele all rights reserved

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.

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Auntie's Ayes

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

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Dry Cry

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

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Induction of My Past

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

©K.Omodele 11-07

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.

©K.Omodele 11-07

How The Hibiscus Grew

Image via Wikipedia

How The Hibiscus Grew

© K.Omodele 11-11-07

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.

© K.Omodele 11-11-07

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How The Hibiscus Grew in the Dark

                    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.



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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

"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!

-© K. Omodele 2009

Even Icestorms in July (Intro)

©K. Omodele April 2003

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 ...

-© K. Omodele April 2003

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