remember our yard, a jungle of trees, sweet-smelling mangoes ripening, a rose-apple tree, banana, coconut, papaya trees, avocados, grapefruits, ackee and a great big almond tree. Magnificent beds of zinnias, crotons, spider lilies, birds-of-paradise, dwarf poinciana and roses spread in front of the verandah.Hedges of red hibiscus lined the path to the balcony steps. Overgrown bougainvillea in flamboyant colours weighed down the barbed-wire fence that separated our yard from the neighbour’s.
The kitchen smelled of mouth-watering sweet cakes, puddings, spicy Jamaican foods. I never ever wanted to leave that house, but I mustn’t blame you.
Part One
Y OU C ANNOT S HAVE A M AN’S H EAD
IN H IS A BSENCE
MARIA GALLOWAY DIDN’T GO to the Palisadoes Airport to see her son Freddie off. She never went to airports, not even when her son Peppie left in 1958 and then her daughter, Glory, in 1960.
The day Freddie left she sat on the verandah in the same chair she always sat in, a blue wicker one, smoking Craven A cigarettes, with the morning newspaper fresh in her hands. Back then she wore no old lady’s clothes. Her sleeveless, brown jersey dress made her breasts a soft mountainside, her hips rolling brown hills. She sat there, quiet, looking on as friends and family came to bid Freddie goodbye.
It was hard to know what she was thinking. Her sure calm never left her face. Freddie knelt in front of her, gave her an open smile, flashed perfect white teeth, then lowered his eyes, like a small boy reciting his prayers. But he was nineteen and leaving to find his fortune abroad.
It was 1966 and I was nine years old. He was like a big brother to me, and I knew I was going to miss him something terrible. Freddie was my grandmother’s youngest son.
“Come, nuh mek de plane lef yuh behin’. Hard-earn money buy dat ticket, and remember, nuh bodder go a white-man country and get inna any trouble. Act decent and show respect.”
Her left hand was holding her cigarette tight. I saw tears well up in her eyes, but she didn’t cry. “Gwaan, nuh mek de plane lef yuh,” she repeated.
Freddie shrugged, smiled at her and kissed her cheek. “Tek care. We will see each other again if life spare.” The December afternoon was humid, and the sun was like a yellow beach ball hanging in the sky. We crammed into cars and vans to say our final goodbyes. The smell of raw fish followed us as we raced along the seashore to the airport.
The waiting area was like Christmas morning in downtown Kingston. I kept expecting to see Junkanoos on stilts, their faces smeared in mud, horns on their heads, wire tails, dancing to drumbeats. Mothers and aunts and cousins laughed and cried, kissed their loved ones goodbye. The talk was hopeful and full of promise.
“Write mi when yuh reach.”
“Don’t forget mi.”
“Mama, ah going to send money home soon as ah can.”
“Ah hope de ackee and de fruits last de trip.”
“Lloyd, ‘member yuh have a ’oman an’ a child here, don’t tek up wid no foreign ‘oman.”
Vendors hawked their wares, selling everything from food to hair clips.
“Sweet bread, grater cake, bustamante backbone, paradise plum.”
“Fish and bammy over here.”
Uncle Freddie was all smiles and promises. “Yes, Dennis, yes man,” he said to his best friend. “As soon as mi reach, ah send dat pair of Clarke’s shoes fi yuh.”
Freddie’s girlfriend, Monica, admonished him not to forget her. “Nuh go up dere an’ feget mi yuh nuh.”
My uncle Freddie hugged and kissed her, whispered something in her ear that made her laugh. Then he smoothed his hands over her growing belly.
“Tek care a mi son. Ah going to send for de two a yuh soon. Send mi a picture when him born.”
He promised the grand-aunts, cousins and friends everything foreign had to offer. He promised Monica that he would write and send money. For Dennis’s ten-year-old sister, Punsie, he promised a camera. He saved his last goodbye for me. He lifted me
The kitchen smelled of mouth-watering sweet cakes, puddings, spicy Jamaican foods. I never ever wanted to leave that house, but I mustn’t blame you.
Part One
Y OU C ANNOT S HAVE A M AN’S H EAD
IN H IS A BSENCE
MARIA GALLOWAY DIDN’T GO to the Palisadoes Airport to see her son Freddie off. She never went to airports, not even when her son Peppie left in 1958 and then her daughter, Glory, in 1960.
The day Freddie left she sat on the verandah in the same chair she always sat in, a blue wicker one, smoking Craven A cigarettes, with the morning newspaper fresh in her hands. Back then she wore no old lady’s clothes. Her sleeveless, brown jersey dress made her breasts a soft mountainside, her hips rolling brown hills. She sat there, quiet, looking on as friends and family came to bid Freddie goodbye.
It was hard to know what she was thinking. Her sure calm never left her face. Freddie knelt in front of her, gave her an open smile, flashed perfect white teeth, then lowered his eyes, like a small boy reciting his prayers. But he was nineteen and leaving to find his fortune abroad.
It was 1966 and I was nine years old. He was like a big brother to me, and I knew I was going to miss him something terrible. Freddie was my grandmother’s youngest son.
“Come, nuh mek de plane lef yuh behin’. Hard-earn money buy dat ticket, and remember, nuh bodder go a white-man country and get inna any trouble. Act decent and show respect.”
Her left hand was holding her cigarette tight. I saw tears well up in her eyes, but she didn’t cry. “Gwaan, nuh mek de plane lef yuh,” she repeated.
Freddie shrugged, smiled at her and kissed her cheek. “Tek care. We will see each other again if life spare.” The December afternoon was humid, and the sun was like a yellow beach ball hanging in the sky. We crammed into cars and vans to say our final goodbyes. The smell of raw fish followed us as we raced along the seashore to the airport.
The waiting area was like Christmas morning in downtown Kingston. I kept expecting to see Junkanoos on stilts, their faces smeared in mud, horns on their heads, wire tails, dancing to drumbeats. Mothers and aunts and cousins laughed and cried, kissed their loved ones goodbye. The talk was hopeful and full of promise.
“Write mi when yuh reach.”
“Don’t forget mi.”
“Mama, ah going to send money home soon as ah can.”
“Ah hope de ackee and de fruits last de trip.”
“Lloyd, ‘member yuh have a ’oman an’ a child here, don’t tek up wid no foreign ‘oman.”
Vendors hawked their wares, selling everything from food to hair clips.
“Sweet bread, grater cake, bustamante backbone, paradise plum.”
“Fish and bammy over here.”
Uncle Freddie was all smiles and promises. “Yes, Dennis, yes man,” he said to his best friend. “As soon as mi reach, ah send dat pair of Clarke’s shoes fi yuh.”
Freddie’s girlfriend, Monica, admonished him not to forget her. “Nuh go up dere an’ feget mi yuh nuh.”
My uncle Freddie hugged and kissed her, whispered something in her ear that made her laugh. Then he smoothed his hands over her growing belly.
“Tek care a mi son. Ah going to send for de two a yuh soon. Send mi a picture when him born.”
He promised the grand-aunts, cousins and friends everything foreign had to offer. He promised Monica that he would write and send money. For Dennis’s ten-year-old sister, Punsie, he promised a camera. He saved his last goodbye for me. He lifted me
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