Holding On for Better

What will a Nation do when its stalwarts have passed away?

Will we find more Nettleford’s, Rhone’s Busta’s and Joshua’s to lead the charge? Who now can fill their shoes?

But how do you motivate a people to rise to the occasion of self, smadification is a long and hard fought battle few manage to win…what propels a people to fight when not only do their young not understand the concept of non-violent protest but are also unaware of the need to mold themselves in forms rooted in ‘weness’ and unconnected with those in the North. How can you motivate a people when their very beings cry out for sustenance…when their values have been crafted from parental love in the contents of a barrel sent every three months…..when their minds have been set on relieving the burden of generational restructured debt.

What will cause them to shine, to look beyond the now and then but to the possible future. A future of sustainable growth, a future riddled with achievements on all fronts, a future where minds think on issues before putting an X, a future of hope for generations to come.

In the balance of probabilities we find ourselves at the end of a tether; a script of great loss of pride and gold medals, of hit songs with no soul glorifying the gun, bling and dancing, confused males and females whose bodies don’t fit pants they’re in, of hostility and civil war in communities, a cultural dilemma, people bravely being scared of life, change… having and using its voice. From whose loins will the next Great Leaders be born?

How does one build a country when the champions have been silenced by time…the spirit of our great talent having been bartered away for another’s reality, a hat hung so far out of reach yet all our energies are concentrated in blindly, relentlessly striving towards that dream….We cannot continue down this path.

In the analysis we find hope in a fine thread of knowledge that in every Jamaican rests possibility…waiting to be uncovered and polished for countryward Victory.

Forgotten

As blue skies turned to dusk, ash grey clouds barreled in …my emotive self was lulled into accepting reality…this indeed was not meant to be.

The evening tide was coming in now and birds fed hungrily on God’s provision in the shallow…Etana’s “Don’t Forget” filtered through an open window along with the smell of fry fish and bammy….I was fascinated (possibly hurt) by the unexpected end to an unusual deed. The plight of singledom – “yuh win some, yuh lose some….ah suh di t’ing set up”.

Wave after wave of anger ticked by with the minutes spent chilling alone on a bench waiting, taking that chance that the businessman/cop/axe murderer would show up….I’m a simple girl with simple rules for life…honesty being at the top of the list, so opportunities provided to run for the hills having been rejected ought not to have resulted in Waiting. Yeah, I was late..ish, and at first didn’t mind the time alone to steel my nerve, but when the cold wind blew in, and comfortable warmth was nowhere to be found, my innermost sensitive self said @#&% It.

Drinking in the last bit of evening, the work stress still slowly seeping from my body, I watched two boys play in the sand as they hoped mommy would never say “I’m Ready”…..their innocence moved me. Regular people were locked in conversation, drinks in hand, the vibes running high…..but for one missing piece, 'they' could’ve been 'we'.

TRUTH

Back in the day when caffeine and weed flowed through my veins, I would rush to stretch my imagination to making the tiniest of things, experiences, desires, hopes, dreams, Something. A tapestry of creative poetry and prose would drip like rich molasses from my pen and I would feel alive again and again….. I miss this me.

Back when the devil prompted my thoughts and deeds I would carve out pieces of the day just to express myself in some way…..if this were then I’d share my desire to be more than held, to be kissed on the forehead, to watch him undress…..slowly, to dot kisses down his chest, over his hips, in search of that spot that makes his eyes roll back. I’d weave a collage of tender touches to urge a burning response from some unsuspecting soul.

Yes, if I were the former me I would have captured the cloud covered mountain tops this morning and would speak at length of that day at the beach…. how in the chill of the evening sunset he ran by once, then twice, then more times than I could count. I would admit I watched keenly as he stopped to stretch his overworked muscles…..I would confess that he sparked more than a little interest….but this is not then, and to move forward one has to let go of the who you were, in order to Become.

But a part of me wishes that creative spirit would return; that the block would be removed; that I didn’t care about my part in causing sin; that I could justify my actions in my mind…..but I can’t. I can’t turn back time, nor can I sit on the fence…to follow the Lord one must give up oneself to be Molded, Changed, Set Free….but couldn’t that be with the yearning still to write, to fill blank pages with Some things.