Obama's Victory is America's Victory and a victory for minorities worldwide : Images of the Game's political commentary.

It is 6.35pm Tuesday November 4, 2008, and across the atlantic, more than 4000 miles away it is 1.35pm. In another six hours, the first results of these US elections will begin to come in, and it is my prediction that by 11.00pm USA time just hours after the first announcements the elections will be called for Barrack Hussein Obama and the Democratic Party, victory by a landslide.
Like most observers of these elections, I had by mid-August become almost punch drunk by the coverage by USA media who failed the American people by their coverage (not dissimilar to their coverage of the Beijing Olympics) of these elections, choosing to focus on trifle as opposed to covering the real issues at stake. The media failed to educate the electors about the candidates, to produce in-depth assessment and analysis of their backgrounds and the relationship and obligations that America has to its people and the rest of the world.
I take nothing away from Senator John McCain, as he has served his country as a member of the military, albeit eons ago and almost forever as a US Senator. In my view though, although his war record was his greatest credential, it was woefully inadequate as qualification to lead America in this time.
Barack Obama is the personification of what the USA is to most Americans, and to disadvantaged peoples the world over. He is the man that this time requires for America- A family man, an educated man, a man of proven moral fibre, a man with the intellectual skills, and the personal history to motivate and to bring the country together at a time when it is literally on its knees.
Congratulations to the American electorate... you have matured enough to judge a man not by the colour of his skin, but finally, by the content of his character.
Congratulations to Senator Barack Obama. And even as we celebrate, our condolonces on the loss of your grandmother. She will smile in her eternal sleep knowing that she has given a gift to the world.
Now, the real work begins.

Visit my website at : www.imagesofthegame.com.

Jamaicarunnings Serial- "the Girl from the Lane"

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The Girl from the Lane- 17th Installment

The exhalation of Jamaicans could be heard and felt worldwide when the most epic National Elections climaxed on October 30th, 1980. More than a thousand Jamaicans had lost their lives in the process as the island made a choice between the Communist/Socialist ideology of the then ruling party as opposed to the Rightist-Capitalist direction of its opposition. Aided and abetted by the undermining influence of its powerful North American neighbour, the Opposition triumphed, trouncing the socialists 52 to 8 in the number of seats won in the country’s parliament.
The political battles left deep scars in the nation, dividing communities along political lines and literally pitted neighbours against each other. The conflict provided perfect cover for the development and strengthening of criminal and gang violence throughout the island, particularly in the major townships as the guns once controlled by the political contenders were now trained on civil society for personal financial gains. In the capital city, gangs ruled with brutal and deadly force as they sought to carve out territory for themselves.
This was the social climate that the country’s young had to contend with, and with the disappearance of jobs many unwittingly fell in with the ubiquitous gangs that abounded.
“Tony, I need you to hold on to this bag”, Big George instructed as they boarded the shiny new Toyota Corolla motor car. There were five of them in the vehicle as it slid smoothly into the afternoon Washington Boulevard traffic. Tony was seated behind the driver in the right rear passenger seat. Whatever was in the bag carried a fair amount of weight. He cradled the bag in his lap as the car proceeded east along the Boulevard and onto Constant Spring Road.
Tony wondered about Sheila, and about his two children. It had been months since he had seen them as he had not ventured home since the shooting at the post office. His longing for the company of his children and the warmth of Sheila was severe. The fear for their safety as well as that of himself was more compelling and on the instruction of Big George he stayed away. George ran things in that part of Saint Andrew and provided for his support group. Things had however become more challenging since the elections and the loss of political power by the party the group supported as there was no more money to be had from the political representative. The group, like others elsewhere in the country had been forced to fend for itself.
The car had come to a halt the Tropical Shopping Plaza in the Constant Spring Road area. Tony had been too lost in his thoughts to have noticed.
“Give me the bag …, Give me the bag Tony,” Bellowed Big George.
“Wha… what?” Tony Snapped back to the present.
“ Give me the bag man,” said Big George, clearly annoyed with Tony for not being attentive. “ You need to be more alert man.” He added.
“Boss, are you sure that you want to take this youth with us?” asked the driver of the car.
Tony was unaware of what their plans were. He handed the bag to Big George who emptied its contents onto the floor of the car. Big George then issued out four handguns among them. Tony recognized the 9mm that he had received from Errol that fateful night which now seemed ages ago. It then dawned on him that the group was about to rob somewhere. He had no idea as George usually only confided in his driver known only to him as “Scalla.”
It was at that point that the instructions were issued.

Four of them would go around the supermarket pushing shopping carts. Within a twenty minute period they would each join the longest check-out lines with whatever they had loaded into the carts. Big George would approach the manager’s office with a querey. “Thumpa” would provide the cover immediately as George was in the office and join him there. Tony and “Legs would remain in the queues. Scalla of course would remain outside in the car. The entire operation was scheduled to last 25 to thirty minutes. Tony felt the bile rising to his throat from his stomach.
“Jesus Christ,” he thought. “These people are actually going to involve me in a robbery.” “All right,” commanded Big George. “Check your watches. Twenty-five, to a maximum thirty minutes. Just keep your eyes on me.”
The four men filed into the supermarket and meandered around packing indiscriminately selected items in their carts. It was 5.25pm and the Saturday afternoon shopping traffic was thick. Big George had chosen the most popular supermarket in Kingston and Tony, his heart racing, wondered if he had someone in the supermarket who was working from the inside. He tried to take his mind away by thinking that he was shopping for his ‘wife’ and children. He picked up corn flakes, jam, canned and packaged juices. All the time he was glancing at his wristwatch while peering out for the others. He was certain the other shoppers could hear the pounding of his heart as it hammered inside his chest.
Soon they were standing inside the respective check out lines when George and Thumpa moved forward as they seemed to be accompanying the cashier who had been checking George’s groceries to the manager’s office. As the two entered the office Thumpa forced himself behind them. Within minutes shouting could be heard coming from the office.
“Open the Rass safe, manager boy” Tumpa had growled.
The supermarket manager fumbled around and eventually had the safe opened. Big George instructed Tumpa to clear its contents. The supermarket manager now lay on the office floor, his neck curled beneath. Big George’s heavy left foot. The cashier was also lying face down on the floor determined to avoid eye contact with the robbers. Within a few minutes they were backing out of the office. Big George came out first holding a large black bag, its zipper gleaming in the artificial light. As George descended the stairs he motioned to Tony and Legs who were now at their respective registers. Legs pulled his gun and swooped over the cashier to empty the register of its cash. Bewildered, Tony froze as this was not part of the plan.
Suddenly the atmosphere was shattered by a thunderous explosion from the office. The supermarket manager had fished out his pistol and placed a shot in the left side of Thumpa’s skull. As he fell, Big George turned to face the direction of the gunshot. His eyes were white with horror as he saw the manager’s finger squeeze on the trigger of the super 38 pistol. His bladder muscles relaxed as the bullets thudded into his chest. Urine flowed freely down his legs as his lifeless carcass slid down the stairs.
Pandemonium followed as the shoppers dashed from the store. Legs, had run from the store, discharging two rounds in his flight to the waiting car. Tony, too bewildered to move by himself was carried outside by the surging rush of frightened shoppers. The Toyota Corolla had disappeared into the evening traffic and Tony gathered himself and slipped away amid the excitement.

Jamaicarunnings Serial- "the Girl from the Lane"

The Girl from the Lane - 16th Installment

“Something really has to be done about these bus drivers,” Latoya complained to her friend Camile as they walked from the round-about to their respective homes.
“All they do is race each other on the roadways to stuff the buses with passengers, and will never ever complete their routes,” Camile chided.
The journey from the Bridgeport round-about to the normal bus stop where they should have disembarked was just over a mile and a half. On most occasions though, and especially when there were mostly ‘schoolers’ on the bus, the drivers terminated at the round-about, despite collecting full fares from all the passengers.
Both girls continued their chatter as they walked, facing the oncoming early evening traffic. They were approaching the CXC Examinations period and had stayed at school for extra classes. Both were intent on going to Sixth Form and were well aware that good grades required extra output.
As they approached the cluster of bars and shops at the Naggos Head community, Camile nudged Latoya as she spoke.
“There is the man that tried to accost us last week.”
“Where?” Asked Latoya.
“He is at the door of the bar on the left,” Camile responded, nodding her head in the direction where the man stood.
Latoya even without looking knew who this man was. On two previous occasions he had accosted her. Camile was with her on the last occasion when he had grabbed her arm, wrestling with her in front of the same bar in an effort to fondle her. Although there were other men present, they saw the event as funny rather than attempting to intervene.
Almost on cue, both girls held their bags and broke into a brisk run towards home. The man rushed across the street in pursuit, but the girls had had a good start, and soon disappeared into the maze of walkways and pathways that was the Braeton community. Latyoya decided that this was clearly a threat to her continued safety. She had not informed her mother of the two previous episodes. This time she would.

Sheila tried conceal her anger as she listened to her daughter recount the different encounters she had had with this man. She asked Latoya for a description of him and was very quiet as her daughter provided the information inclusive of the colour clothing that the man wore that afternoon. She fussed around the house for a quarter of an hour before announing to her children that she needed to pick something up at the pharmacy. Within a few minutes she was cruising by the piazza of the cluster of shops and looking for her daughter’s attacker. He stumbled out of the bar and onto the roadway and into the path of her car. The car was barely moving, so she needed very little effort to brake. He appeared annoyed that she should have been in his way and gesticulated his displeasure as he stared at her. It took a great deal of self control for her not to run him over with the Honda Civic.
“That would not be a very smart thing too do,” she thought. At least she could now confirm what he looked like. Continuing in the same direction, Sheila sped away, driving around the Portmore community for more than an hour, while she gathered her thoughts.

Jamaicarunnings Serial- "the Girl from the Lane"

The Girl from the Lane- Installment # 15

An air of expectancy hung over the group of executives in the company’s boardroom. The group had gathered for a briefing from the Chairman as to the strategic direction of the company in the face of difficulties in accessing sufficient foreign currency to satisfy the company’s financial needs. In addition the aggressive competition in the domestic market had placed pressure on the business resulting in shrinking margins on existing product lines. There was evidence that the domestic market had matured and there was a need to expand the company’s business internationally.

Sheila had been advised of this meeting a few days before, and wondered why it was necessary for her to attend. However, the chance meeting with Charles Livingstone the previous night had occupied her thoughts since. She had replayed their brief conversation several times since, complete with the images of this handsome stranger changing the flat on the Honda Civic. She recalled the instructions to have the tyre repaired, even more-so, the offer that was extended when he had handed her his business card. She had thought of calling to take up the offer, but decided against it as she din not want to appear to be pushy. She figured that maybe he was just being polite, and meant nothing by the gesture. Even so, each time the extension on her desk rang her heart raced in expectation. Needless to say, at 10.00am when the scheduled meeting began, Charles Livingstone never called.

“Ladies and gentlemen, thanks for taking the time out this morning” the Chairman begun.
“As you all know, we are facing challenging times. Slipping margins on a maturing product range, difficulties in meeting our overseas supplier requirements makes it necessary for an overhaul of our strategies…” he continued. The Chairman went over all the issues as they affected the business in surgical detail. Sheila had had the opportunity to hear him address the staff before, but had never been in a forum such as this. His voice was crisp and its clarity filled the meeting room. She was impressed with his presentation and wondered inwardly if she would ever rise to such heights in such a powerful company.
The presentation from the chairman went on for more than 45 minutes. Sheila begun to notice some uneasiness among a few of the attendees and then the reality struck home. A shuffling of the management was about to be announced.
The company’s Sales Manager was to proceed on pre-retirement leave with immediate effect. His deputy was to succeed him immediately with a mandate by the Chairman to aggressively reassert the company’s dominance in its domestic markets.
“In an effort to secure the company’s long term foreign exchange needs, it was critical that we earn our way,” he continued. “Faye Martin will head up the company’s newly established Export Trading Company also with immediate effect. In order to facilitate a seamless transition, Faye’s Marketing portfolio will be split. The non-food portfolio will be the responsibility of the New Vice –President of Marketing Mr. Michael Roberts. The very important food portfolio will be assigned to our new Vice-President of Marketing. This person has demonstrated the competence, dedication while making an investment in self development which has not gone unnoticed. Ladies and gentlemen, our new Vice President of Marketing with responsibility for our food portfolio, Miss Sheila Sampson.
Had Sheila not been sitting at the time of the announcement, she would have fainted.

The morning had passed very quickly since the announcement, and the entire office was abuzz with the excitement of the new appointments. It was apparent that Faye Martin had been pre-advised of the changes as her office was cleared by mid-day. She had moved onto the corporate floor of the building, and Sheila spent the remainder of the day between meetings and moving into a small second floor office. She now had a direct line as well as an extension. A secretary was promised, but she had to be involved in the selection. Even if she had classes today she would not have been able to make it as the first day as a Junior Executive had taken her long past school hours. The growling in her stomach reminded her that she had not eaten all day. That was when the extension rang. “Sheila Sampson, how may I help,” Sheila asked into the receiver.
“ Hello Miss Sampson, I am transferring a call to you ma’am” the voice on the other end stated. A couple of clicks followed before the call came on the line.
“Hello motorist in distress, did you get your tyre repaired?”
Sheila sank into the leatherette chair behind her large desk, cluttered with boxes and files. She wasn’t hungry anymore.

Jamaicarunnings Serial- "the Girl from the Lane"

The Girl from the Lane- 14th Installment

The late evening traffic moved snail-like along Hope Road, bumper to bumper. It was as if all the vehicles were linked an invisible chain and were being reined in link by link. It had been a long day for her made worse by the fact that she had driven in from Ocho Rios to catch her class at the Mona Campus of the University of the West Indies.
“Sunshine, blue skies, please go away.
My girl has found another gone away,
With her went my future
My life is filled with gloom’
So day after day,
I spend locked up in my room….” The Temptations song wafted in from the speakers of her brand new Honda Civic and overtook Sheila’s thoughts. Even without realizing it she was swept up by the lyrics and bobbed along to the rolling piano keys that accompanied the song.
“ …how I wish it would rain,” the song continued. Even though she was dead tired the music was providing a lift to her spirit.
Suddenly the steering wheel felt tight, pulling the car slightly to the right. Sheila tugged the steering to the left and slowly eased into the left lane. She glanced in her rear view mirror and guided the car into the gas station.
“Damn it man,” she let out as she exited the car. She knew it was a flat tyre, and was in no mood to perform a tyre change now. Moreover, this was the one thing that she hated about driving.
“ Hi, can I help?” The voice came from behind her as she had leaned on the driver’s door, back to the traffic in the service station to collect her thoughts. The figure strode towards her, the white shirt glistening in the light. The silk pastel necktie fluttered around his face in the evening breeze.
Sheila looked him up and down before responding. She noted the gleaming black leather belt how it seemed to have come from the same leather as the black Bally shoes with the burnished shine, hugged by the cuffs of a slate- gray pair of pants.
“Well…I…” Sheila struggled for a response. The man was clean shaven except for a carefully trimmed mouthstache which framed the most brilliant smile that she had ever seen. “ I think … I think it is a puncture….a puncture, “ Sheila stammered. The wisp of his cologne caught her as he bent over to examine the tyre.
“ It is a puncture,” he acknowledged. “Let me help with it.” He took the key fro her outstretched hand and opened the trunk of the car. The ease with which he operated, as if he had known her before was all that she could think of. In a matter of minutes the handsome stranger had completed the tyre change and replaced the tools in the trunk of Sheila’s car.
“Thank you so very much,” Sheila said. “I really was in no mood to do that tonight,” she added.
“Oh, that was nothing,” replied the stranger.
“Do you hang around gas stations just waiting for ladies in distress, I mean, not that I mind but…” Sheila fumbled.
“But what?” he seemed so unhurried. “ I am Charles,” he said sticking out a dirty hand. Sheila noted how well manicured his fingers were as she hesitantly put her hand forward to shake his.
Immediately, he pulled back the outstretched hand. “I am sorry, dirty hands.” he said.
“Oh don’t worry,” she laughed as she responded. “After all, the dirt is from my car. I am Sheila.”

The traffic seemed a little easier and Sheila reminded herself to have her tyre repaired as soon as possible the next morning. As she made her way along the Portmore Causeway, she could not get the exchange with Charles Livingstone out of her mind.
He had slipped his card into her hand before parting. “If you need to get that tyre repaired, you can call me at this number,” he had said in parting. Sheila looked at the card a couple of times throughout her commute. Charles Livingstone & Company: Attorneys-At-Law.

The disc jockey on the radio seemed to be playing all her favourite songs.

Jamaicarunnings Serial- "the Girl from the Lane"

The Girl from the Lane- 13th Installment

The shooting incident in the downtown area had been presented in the media as another politically motivated killing. The reports spoke of reprisals as the youth who had perished at the hands of the gunmen was an area leader from one of the warring communities. There was no mention of anyone escaping the attack. Needless to say, Tony was grappling with thoughts of abandoning his Post Office job as the potential for reprisal for him was significant. However, there would be consequences. After all he had a family to take care of and work was hard to come by in this pre- election period.
Maybe the attack was random. Two young men in the middle of warring factions in downtown Kingston at night were easy pickings for robbers, especially robbers with guns. And speaking of guns… , in the underworld, guns are a precious commodity. Invariably, these weapons formed part of a stash by respective communities, to protect themselves from marauding gunmen from other communities. It was no secret either, that a substantial amount of these weapons featured in robberies with deadly consequences for the victims.
Tony had fought within himself to remain in possession of the 9 millimeter pistol that Errol had handed to him for viewing before he had fallen victim to the gunmen that fateful night.
As the week ran off, thoughts of the attack receded and Tony gingerly made his way back to work. He figured that since the police hardly afforded ordinary citizens any protection, that he would keep the firearm for the protection of his family and himself. He was sure of one other thing… Sheila could never know that he was in possession of such an item.

The three men had been hanging around the precincts of the post office all that afternoon. They had been loitering in the area just outside the Sorting Office when the Royal Mail Van pulled up with its load of letters collected from the out of town mailing centres.
Mr. Johnson indicated to one of the workers to take one of the four wheeled trolleys and clear the bags from the van. Dutifully, the worker wheeled the trolley down the small ramp towards the back of the vehicle. As he slung the first three bags from the back of the van, he observed two men pushing past the guard and onto the sorting floor. One of them raised something from under his shirt and a loud explosion followed. The wooden sorting receptacle shuddered from end to end. Two of its cubbyholes shattered sending the stuffed envelopes flying. Post office workers scattered, some slithering on the floor on hands and knees to get away.
Tony had not recognized the man who was working the table next to him. “Maybe he was new, perhaps a replacement for Errol” He had thought.
The man had a B.O.A.C bag that was never far from his reach. As the gunshot registered, the man deliberately fell backwards from the stool, grabbing the bag with him. The gunman raised the shotgun to re-load its barrel. Tony had rolled under the table. He noticed the man pulling the 9mm pistol from the bag and in the same motion, pointing and squeezing the trigger. The explosion was less sharp and the gunman’s head seemed to explode as he fell onto a bundle of letters. His accomplice had only been a few paces behind him, his right hand under his shirt.
“Rass Clawt,” he shouted, “The damn boy have a gun….” And his jaw disappeared with the explosion as the next shot from the man tore into his face.


There were two or three more explosions from outside the building as Tony sprinted away from the scene. The City Centre police was less than a quarter of a block from the
Sorting Office and the police had obviously engaged the other man on the outside. Tony did not care to find out.

Sheila had sat up all night in expectation of her man’s arrival from work. At first she figured he might have stopped to play dominoes somewhere. Her anxiety grew as the hours slipped by. Despite their occasional differences, he had never slept out of the house. Always, he would come home. She thought about how she had refused his advances a couple of nights before and if this was his way of getting back at her. She had been insistent on condom use as the birth control pills had been causing her to gain weight. Tony was livid, and had stayed out of their bedroom that night and the next two nights. Now tonight he had not come home.
“Maybe I should find another type of contraceptive,” she had thought. “Tonight, I will allow him to go bareback as my cycle is safe right now”
Her neck was stiff from the discomfort of sleeping in the couch. The television was off and she figured that Tony had come in and turned off the set without bothering to wake her. She got up and checked their bedroom, then the children’s. Tony had not come home.

“The word on the streets is that Errol had borrowed the gun to’ mash a work’ and had failed to return it. Guns are not easy to come by you know, and for an ‘area leader’ to lose a gun, it is sending a negative message in the community. Errol was killed to assert the area leader’s authority. They must know that you have this gun Tony. That is why they came to the Post Office.” Big George reasoned. He was the “Top Man” in Jones Town and knew the runnings. Tony had known him from school days and had headed to him after escaping the shooting incident at the post office.
“I can tell you one thing Tony boy,’ George continued, “life won’t be the same for you right now. I suggest that you cool out with us for a while until this situation calms down. It does not help that they lost three more guns in the incident today.”

Jamaicarunnings Serial- "the Girl from the Lane"

The Girl from the Lane- 12th Installment

The heat of the Saturday afternoon sun had eased somewhat as a result of a shower that had blown in from the nearby Caribbean Sea. Aided by a light summer wind, the two electric ceiling fans were now enjoying a fair amount of success at dispersing the residual heat from the living room of Sheila’s 2 bedroom concrete house. Summer was always a testing time in the Portmore community, and the Braeton area had been enjoying its fair share. When the heat dissipated it would be the mosquitoes that seemed to drift in with the first approach of nightfall.
The peals of laughter from the children rang along the Walkway as they shrieked with delight from their antics in the bounce-about nestled on Sheila’s small front lawn. Delceita had settled in comfortably as hostess, passing out thin slices of Newton’s birthday cake to the group gathered on the small veranda. She made repeated trips to the kitchen to replenish the tray with cake and mixed drink. Her pride in her grandchildren was obvious. She had a special bond with Latoya to whom she was always anxious to pass on her culinary and domestic skills.
Two of Sheila’s friends from her office had journeyed over from Kingston for the occasion, bringing their own teen-aged children with them. It amazed them how children seemed to gravitate to each other, yet as they moved into adulthood, their behavior
shifted so drastically.
At the centre of the conversation as usual was Margie, rattling on about her latest love interest at the office, a Sales Supervisor who had joined the company three months earlier. All three women shared one major characteristic. They were all single mothers of adolescent and teen-aged children.
Dawn had settled in a visiting relationship, whilst Margie still juggled with two men. The latest interest would count for three, except that she maintained that one of her older consorts had been mis-firing of late and she knew that he was obviously firing somewhere else.
“His departure is imminent” she mused. It was clear that her thoughts were on the supervisor.
“I get the feeling that the supervisor has been supervising your affairs already” stated Dawn.
Margie was silent, still adrift on whatever thoughts swirling in her head.
“Margie, what happen… cat got your tongue?” asked Sheila.
“Oh no, no. Not at all” Margie replied.
“Then how is it that you are avoiding the question. That is not like you” Dawn chided.
“Actually, I was thinking about later. I had made plans to be out with him after I leave here later” Margie countered.
“Excuse meee…” both Dawn and Sheila responded together.
“What about you Sheila. I have never heard you mention any male companion at all since I have known you, or is it that you are keeping secrets.” Asked Margie.
“Let me tell you girls this” Sheila replied. “ My two children are enough work for me and I really don’t want to take any chances bringing any man in my house with these children. Moreover, my teenage daughter is at that stage where I cannot afford to send her any mixed signals by bringing a different man home when the previous friendships don’t work.”
The conversation ran along the same theme for most of the evening. All the time each woman goading the other. Delceita appeared busy as ever, her ears all the time tuned to the conversation on the veranda. She thought of her six other children and the joy she felt at how they had all developed. Today though, she was proud of her first daughter. Even though Sheila’s late teen years gave her a lot of anxiety, she was maturing into a solid woman. It was obvious that her friends from her office held her in high esteem.

Out in the parking area, Newton was with a group of his partying friends playing a game of “Ketchie- Shoobie.” (An impromptu game of cricket) with his new cricket gear. The group was having a good time. Newton’s schoolmate Marlon was at bat when he swung wildly at a delivery. The ball peeled off the outside edge of the bat and flew in Newton’s direction. Five other boys raced towards the ball as it swirled in the air. Bracing himself, Newton raised his cupped palms above his head and snared the catch just moments before the other boys bundled him over.
Dusting himself off, Newton collected the bat from a forlorn Marlon and prepared himself to face all the bowlers and “flingers” alike. The first ball came at him like a rocket, hissing and roaring through the air. Newton shuffled forward, played the ball with very soft hands, dropping it dead at his feet. The group surged forward to retrieve the ball, with Marlon showing some deft football skills dribbling it away from the group before picking it up and running in to bowl to Newton.
Newton crouched, tapping away at the makeshift crease. Marlon trundled in, skipped at the bowling crease and fired the ball at Newton. In a flash, Newton pivoted and hooked the ball out of the parking lot. The boys stood in amazement at the execution of the stroke before the crash of glass woke them from their reverie.
In fright most of them turned and ran towards Newton’s house. Newton stood transfixed to the spot. He was completely aghast at the thought that he had broken the window of someone’s house. Instinctively though, he followed the aerial route the ball had taken. As he made the turn on Barracuda Path, he saw Mr. Chin standing in the middle of the Pathway with his arms akimbo. In his left hand was the shiny red ball.
“I am sorry Sir” said Newton, before Mr. Chin could have spoken. “I am going to call my mother” he added.
Mr. Chin gave them a long look then he shook his head. “The window was already broken” he responded. “I had already changed the glass so you boys only broke the pane that was leaning by the side of the house” He tossed the ball to them as he spoke. “It’s little late in the evening for cricket though.”
The boys looked at each other for a moment then ran back down the Pathway to Newton’s house.

Visit my website at :www.cricimages.com,. for great cricket souvenirs and some fabulous Jamaican Original paintings.

Jamaicarunnings Serial- "the Girl from the Lane"

The Girl from the Lane- 11th Installment

Tony sat on a stool in the middle of the sorting room at the General Post Office listening to one of his co-workers relating his adventures of the previous night to the sorting crew who were more than eager to hear the tale. The country was in the violent grip of National Elections and the strong ideological divide had literally cut a huge swath through the Jamaican population. Considering the wanton politically motivated killings, particularly in the downtown area, it was a little unusual that there were so many intent listeners to the discourse. The Post Office, or the Central Sorting Office as it was called stood in the heart of downtown Kingston adjacent to the infamous Matthews Lane where the strongmen of the ruling party controlled turf. To the immediate west lay the feared Tivoli Gardens, the political strong-hold of the challenging political opposition. Only days before, a group led by the leader of the Opposition had come under heavy gunfire in the same downtown area as they wrapped up a tour of the area. The tension that emanated from the saga could still be felt, despite efforts from all quarters to lighten the atmosphere.

The co-worker related his experiences of jumping a number of neighborhood fences in order to escape his attackers who had accused him of being a supporter of the Opposition party. A he continued his story, Tony begun to question the wisdom of this chatter in the current environment. He slipped off the stool and shuffled over to where his friend stood dramatizing his experience alongside the pile of unsorted letters.
“Errol” Tony called out to him. Errol though was on a roll and therefore not hearing him.
Tony reached over the group and tapped him on the shoulder from behind “Errol!”
“What is the matter” Errol responded as he spun around to face Tony.
“Com on man, we have a lot of mail bags to finish and it is getting late” Tony stated.
“I am on the floor man, allow me to finish,” Errol replied in annoyance.
“Mr. Johnson will soon be around here and he will certainly give you all the time you will need to finish your story” pointed Tony.
At this, most of the workers dispersed. Everyone was aware of Mr. Johnson’s intolerance for employees slackening up on the job. In an environment where most of the workers in their category were non-unionized, Mr. Johnson fired and hired at will.

A fusillade of gunshots in the surrounding area had shattered the mood of evening shift. Mr. Johnson, not wanting to have the death of any of the Post Office workers on his hands calmly advised the workers to close down the shift. Within a half an hour, they were all making their way to their respective bus stops. As Tony and Errol walked to the top of King Street, Tony spoke.
“Brethren, how can you be relating those stories in that place. Are you completely stupid?”
“What do you mean by that?” Errol asked.
“Do you realize that this is downtown, where everybody is. Labourite, Socialist… everybody!” Tony exclaimed.
“So do you mean that I should be frightened by that?” asked Errol.
“Yeah, right” Tony was not prepared to conceal his annoyance.
They were both at the top of King Street where it connected with South Parade. A smattering of pedestrians scurried to the different bus points clearly trying to get out of the downtown area.
“Let me show you something” Errol chipped.
“ I really don’t want to see anything man,” Tony replied. “ just walk quickly”
“ Check this out man!” Errol exclaimed, slowing his pace and extending a bag he had had slung over his shoulder.
Tony turned around to implore him to keep closer. In the current socio-political atmosphere, running gun battles were common in this area between the Matthews Lane and Tivoli Gardens factions. Occasionally, there were flare-ups between factions in Central Kingston with the theatre of war not uncommonly being right there in downtown Kingston.
They both crossed the wide South Parade at the southern section of the Saint William Grant Park with Errol still insisting that Tony take a look at the contents of the nylon bag.
At the corner section of the park where South Parade intersects West Parade, Errol halted just away from the glare of a street light.
“Let me see it” said Tony. He figured that the only way to get Errol moving quickly was to appease him. For such a small bag, it felt rather heavy. “What’s in this?” he asked.
“Just look man” instructed Errol.
Tony pulled apart the drawstrings which sealed the bag. In the semi-darkness, he could not clearly see the bags contents so he stuck his right hand into the bag. At the same moment two men approached them from West Parade.
“Don’t move boy” The voice came from directly above them out of the darkness of the hedges of the park. Tony was still in the motion of retrieving the object from the bag. Errol, on instinct shot off like a hare, sprinting away in night up West Parade.
Tony, his hand still in the bag turned as Errol fled, noticed the two approaching men across West Parade as they turned and ran in Errol’s direction. In a flash, Tony was away, sprinting back across South Parade towards the dark silhouette of the Kingston Parish Church. He had shot away as the explosion thundered above him. Two more explosions followed, then another. They seemed more distant. In one motion he was over the gate of the Parish Church and running through the small cemetery at the north of the ancient church. The explosions continued, sounding further and further away.
Tony scaled the fence at the north of the church. He knew he had placed some distance between himself and the attacker who had chased after him. He had gone in a semi-circular route, running on instincts. The cheers of the National Stadium was nowhere this time. There was no medals to be had here. He was running for his life. He sprinted north along Orange Street, and east on Charles Street. At the corner of East and Duke Streets he ran left scaling the fence into the King George VI Park. His right hand still clutched the hard object in the nylon bag as he slid into the shadows of the historic Marcus Garvey monument. His heart was thundering from the exertion. It had been a while since he had done so much running. Only the sounds of insects feeding in the park could be heard. Once or twice, the engine of a motor vehicle droned by in night. As the silence enveloped him he pulled the object from the bag. It was cold, oily and heavy for its size. It was the first time he was holding a gun in his life.


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Jamaicarunnings Serial- "the Girl from the Lane"

The Girl from the Lane – Installment # 10

The city of Kingston is the centre of all social, economic and political activities in Jamaica being the island’s capital. With most economic activities originating from that point in the island, it was not surprising that almost all the top secondary schools were in the capital city. Latoya had already made her mother proud by passing the local Common Entrance Examinations for Saint Andrews High School for girls three years earlier and was among the top five students in her class. Newton, had done the same examination earlier that year and was determined that he would pass for the most legendary Boys School in the island, Kingston College. This would not have been among the choice of his mother, and certainly not his father had he been around. However, Newton had a mind of his own and he had expressed a great deal of interest in this school long before he would have been preparing for the exams.
Newton had been compiling comprehensive notes on the school within a year of his Common Entrance. He knew about the school’s Founder, the Late Percival William Gibson. He was aware of the school’s legendary second principal Douglas Forrest. He was quite familiar with the school’s scholastic record and its’ luminous contribution to academia, the island’s Justice System, the numerous Medical stalwarts turned out by the school. More than anything else, he followed every early morning sports report on the radio on his commute to school in order to keep track of the schools’ performance in seasonal sports.
Sheila was very proud of her children and did her best to secure their happiness and comfort. As her son prepared to celebrate his 12th birthday, she had bought him a new set of cricket gears as this had been his latest interest. She reflected on the challenge she had to deal with raising her son. While Latoya too was a challenge, raising a boy child and keeping him focused required significant effort. It would have been so different if he had a father. This thought stayed with her for a while as she realized it was over eight years since she had seen Tony. “A boy should not grow without a father,” she thought aloud. In the recesses of her mind she also thought about having a man in her life. She was mother and father to her children and by her own standards, she was satisfied that she had done her best for them but she had not been particularly successful in the male companionship department.

“Why are you being so aggressive Tony? I have not seen you for over three weeks and as you walk into the house you begin to complain. What is the problem, I really need to know what the problem is?” Sheila had pleaded.
Tony had hissed his teeth before responding. He scoured the small two bedroom house with his eyes as if looking for something. “This place just not encouraging” was his response finally.
“But we have two children. Look at how they have developed. In spite of everything else, they are healthy, they are not hungry. Both of us are going along. It could have been a lot worse!” Sheila pointed. She was really becoming annoyed with what was now becoming an all too familiar behavior of his.
Tony seemed a little fidgety. He shoved his hands into his pockets as he shuffled around the house. It became immediately clear to her that he had no intention of staying, even for the night.
“I am of the impression that you have something that you want to say.” Sheila stated.
“Something like what?” Tony asked.
“Maybe if I knew I wouldn’t be pressing you for whatever it is,“ she said.
“I don’t know where you are going with this argument. All I am saying is that I not encouraged by this place and…”
“You have somewhere else that you would prefer being…” She had not allowed him to finish. “Let me tell you something Tony Campbell. I don’t like this place any more than you do but it is all that I have for me and these two children. Maybe you have something better, wherever you are when you are not here, and that is good for you, but this is what I have… me, and these children. I can’t even remember when we have had a decent moment together without a quarrel. If all you can do when you come here is to pick a quarrel, then don’t come here at all then.”
“What do you mean?” Asked Tony.
“You know damn well what I mean” she responded.
“No I don’t” he had said.
“Let me spell it out for you then” She was now becoming quite enraged. “I don’t need your antagonism. I don’t need your whining. I have had enough of that from you and everybody else. If that is all you have to give, because it certainly isn’t money, affection,
nurturing for these children or anything else, then just don’t come here. As a matter of fact, do not even think about staying. Take your damn complaining self out of here.”
Tony was completely taken by surprise. He had never seen this side of her before. She stormed past him and flung the door open.
“Go!” She said. “Leave now and do us a favour…. don’t ever come back”

That was more than eight years before. Today, for the first time in a while, on the 12th birthday of their son, Sheila wondered where in the world was Tony Campbell.

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Jamaicarunnings Serial- "the Girl from the Lane"

The Girl from the Lane Installment # 9

Jamaica sits just a little over 90 miles from the southern tip of the island of Cuba in the West Indies and just over 400 miles south-east of the Florida peninsula. Since the popular uprising in Cuba in 1959 that saw the ousting of Batista buy Fidel Castro and the adoption of a Communist ideology, the United States has subjected the island and its Communist regime to a range of economic and political sanctions designed to isolate the regime, spread social discontent and bring it to its knees. In 1976, the Communist revolution that saw to the ascension of Fidel Castro to political power would only have been 17 years old. The United States political interests were keen to prevent the spread of this Communist influence in the Caribbean region. The region formed part of the non-aligned grouping in a world shaped by the “Cold War” between “East” led by the Soviet Union and “West” led by the United States of America. Jamaica’s populist Prime Minister- Michael Manley was Chairman of the Non-Aligned group and spoke out in support of his friend and island neighbour Fidel Castro. The wave of discontent created by this un-sanctioned alliance between the two provided a huge platform for the political rise of Edward Seaga in Jamaica.
Playing on the Communist bogey sentiments that prevailed at the time, and ably supported by western interests, Seaga trounced Manley at the polls in late 1980 to win the seat of government. The platform on which Seaga won his electoral victory was “To make money jingle in the pockets of ordinary Jamaicans” and to “Bring order and decency back to the Jamaican society.”

This was the socio-political setting of Jamaica in the mid -1980’s. Most of the business people who had held back their investments in the island in the latter part of the 1970’s were now prepared to re-invest in Jamaica. This provided a period of hope for hard-working Jamaicans, many of whom made personal investments in developing themselves.

The end of the Diploma programme meant a few extra hours with her children in the evenings after work for Sheila. The course programme had been quite hectic and Sheila told herself that she would use the opportunity now afforded to catch up on her sleep. This would be even more fruitful during the summer break as she would not have to be up as early for the remaining thirteen weeks in order to catch the bus into town. How she hated having to chase the buses in the mornings. How she wished she had a car. This however seemed like wishful thinking. But it was a pleasing thought after all. She would be able to easily handle the rigorous commute to school after work in the evenings. She would be able to take her children on outings on weekends. The more she thought of it the more real the thoughts became. That was when Sheila decided that this summer she would learn to drive. After all, you needed to have a drivers licence to be able to operate a motor vehicle.

That Saturday morning Sheila paid a visit to the supermarket parking lot at Newlands in Portmore. It was well known that the Portmore driving instructors went through their paces with their clients. Many provided what was known as the “Short Course” where for Ja$6,000.00 a Private drivers license could be had in a matter of six weeks. The client would be given 10 lessons behind the wheel at a cost of Ja$600.00 per one hour lesson. A fee of Ja.$5000.00 was to be paid to the contact at the Examination Depot and you would be a licenced driver. It was no wonder there were so many road accidents. Most of these people never faced the examiner. They simply signed the forms with what passed for them as a signature and went to the nearest Tax Collectorate to pick up their licence. Most would never be able to say what was contained on the forms. This was Jamaica.
Sheila was not prepared to participate in such schemes. She was determined to do this correctly. “The proper way” as her mother would say. Furthermore, what kind of example would she be setting for her children? A handful of these instructors actually followed the rules and offered the correct or “Long Course.” Sheila opted for the “Long Course.”

The company Notice Board usually contained general communications from Personnel Department, The Sports club, as well as inter-departmental correspondence that would be of information value to members of staff. It was Margie (generally regarded as the department’s mouthpiece) who made the others aware of the vacancy in the company’s Marketing Department for a Marketing Assistant. Without hesitation Sheila crafted her application to the Personnel Department for the position. The job requirements were for candidates with a Business Administration background and possession of a valid driver’s licence, both of which were already in her hands. All she needed was a chance to sit with the personnel representative. The chance came a few weeks later.

Jamaicarunnings Serial- "the Girl from the Lane"

The Girl from the Lane – Installment #8

Delceita had walked the three hundred or so metres from her home at 33 Lane to the bus stop near the intersection at Waltham Park and Hagley Park Roads. She normally rode the bus from there to Half-Way-Tree then walked to the pharmacy at the Mall Plaza where she worked. The journey from home to work normally would be covered in less than half an hour. The owner of the pharmacy was a stickler for time. Each clerk in the pharmacy had specific chores before they opened to the public and it was very important that these be completed in time for their opening at 7.30 am.
As she crossed the street to await the bus to Half-Way-Tree she wondered at the pile-up of traffic going south on Hagley Park Road. Even the pedestrian traffic going north to Half-Way Tree seemed unusually heavy. She crossed the street to await the northbound bus that would take her to work. Most of these buses would have been coming from Portmore. The smaller buses that plied the Half-Way-Tree to Three Miles route were operated by small-time operators whose indiscipline on the roads were legendary. Delceita preferred the Portmore buses as their larger sizes gave her greater comfort even on her short commute.
The shrill wail of a police siren preceded the blue and red flashing lights as the patrol car sped in form a distance. Hagley Park Road by now was jam-packed with traffic but seemed to re-form itself as motorists and pedestrians yielded passage for the police car as it made its way through the thick morning traffic. In addition to the two policemen in the front of the vehicle, there were passengers in the back seat. Delcieta figured there must be some type of emergency somewhere. The traffic was becoming increasingly heavier and there seemed to be no buses whatsoever coming in from Portmore. Strangely enough her thoughts shifted to Sheila.

It would have been incorrect to suggest that Delceita did not love her first daughter Sheila. This did not prevent her from being disappointed when she became aware of her being pregnant at 16 years of age. Phanso was equally livid at the discovery and would have nothing to do with a pregnant daughter living with them under the same roof and as a result, Sharon’s pregnancy put a strain on the relationship between them both. The arrival of their granddaughter though brought a bitter-sweet joy into their lives. Delceita
loved Latoya as if the child was hers. She loathed Tony, firstly for impregnating Sheila, and secondly for shattering her dream of Sheila becoming a worthwhile human being and helping them later in life to move from 33 Lane. As far as Delceita was concerned, it was as a result of this “good for nothing boy” that her daughter was destined to now follow squarely in her own footsteps. Despite Sheila’s not living in the same house with them, the second pregnancy was even more devastating. Delceita swore her away as her child and severed contact with them.

By now news had filtered from the Causeway to Hagley Park about the horrific accident. Traffic was backed up for miles around, and most people had resorted to any other means of transportation to get to their various destinations. Delceita reluctantly boarded a “robot” Volkswagon van that sped her into Half-Way-Tree and to work. Still she could not release her thoughts from Sheila.
When she arrived at the pharmacy they were already opened to the public. One of her
co-workers had already handled her morning chores. Two other ladies including the cashier was absent, no doubt caught up in the traffic confusion coming out of Portmore. The pharmacy owner Mr. Anderson was running the cash register. She apologized for being late and immediately fell in with her work. For years she had done house-work to support her children and subsidise Phanso’s weekly allotment to the household. Before her last domestic employer had migrated to the United States of America with their grown children, she had gotten a letter from them to take to the owner of the pharmacy. She reported to work there the following Monday morning. Three years later she had grasped enough about the operations of the business to become a useful counter clerk. All this time she kept tabs on Sheila. She had smiled with great pride when she heard about Sheila’s job with this big company, but did not hide her disaffection about the direction other aspects of Sheila’s life had been taking.

She remembered that Sunday afternoon that Sheila had turned up at her house in 33 Lane with these two gorgeous children for a long overdue visit. It was Delceita’s 43rd birthday. Sheila had brought her a birthday present. It was the first time she was receiving anything from any of her children. The best present though was seeing those two children. After that Sunday and despite the challenges of not having one, they kept in touch by phone. Sheila on occasion would call her from work. On weekends, Delceita would wait in line at the call box at the corner of Espeut Avenue and Waltham Park Road to call her daughter on Miss Brown’s phone next door.

The thoughts of Sheila would not go away. At 10.00am, all of the pharmacy’s staff were in place. She requested permission from Mr. Anderson to call her daughter at work. That was when she received the news.

There was more than the usual hive of activity at the Children’s Hospital when Delceita arrived there an hour after receiving the news. On a normal day the hospital would be teeming with activity as it was the only facility on the island that specialized in offering in children’s medical care. Out patient areas normally overflowed with parents (mainly) mothers cuddling their ailing children and patiently waiting their turn to see a doctor. The Causeway accident only elevated the activities as people converged on the facility. More than a dozen children had been brought to the hospital as result of the accident. From what Delceita had gathered, two had been pronounced dead. Her anxiety subsided as soon as she saw Sheila with Latoya and Newton. They had already seen a doctor, thanks to the efforts of the police. Both children were diagnosed as slightly traumatized but were fine physically.

Mother and daughter bonded, reminded by the fragility of life and the unpredictability of time. Delceita would keep the children for the rest of the day so that she could attend to her Final Exams at the Institute.
“Just do your best my child” Delceita reminded her as they parted that evening.
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Janaicarunnings Serial: The Girl from the Lane

The Girl from the lane- Installment #7

Sheila had moved down the aisle in the Isuzu bus on the instruction of the conductor in order for the already overcrowded bus to accommodate one or two additional “full-fare” passengers.
Most of the buses that plied the route were owned by private operators. The owners simply engaged the services of a driver, who in turn engaged a conductor to handle the collection of fares. The bus owner would generally obtain the necessary permit which allowed them to ply the route without regular interference from the police. It was generally felt that more than a third of the buses in the system were owned by policemen and these owners did not take kindly to interlopers on their turf. Seizure of buses by the police was a daily event, often leaving the innocent passengers stranded in the middle of nowhere, at the risk of job or pay loss for lateness. The “schoolers” as the children were termed suffered the most as the fares they paid was not attractive to the operators.
The general operating principle was that the owners demanded Ja.$3,500.00 or thereabouts from the drivers each day. In an effort to realize this daily target, the drivers broke every rule of the road competing for “full-fare” passengers. Once they made their quota, they then drove to pay themselves.
Accidents were a common feature of the operation of this bus system, and the Road Traffic authorities’ attributed this to the large number of drivers in the system who could not read nor write. Anyone who could pay the requisite fees to the contacts in the system could purchase a driver’s license.

As Sheila settled in a good standing space, she secured her children by ensuring that they each hugged on to either of her legs. The bus sped along the causeway, its’ loud profanity laced music blaring from the multiple speakers that dotted the roof of the bus. Were it not a Friday morning, it could have easily been taken that the bus was on an excursion to the country what with the chanting along of the other “schoolers” in the bus. They knew the lyrics by heart and were especially intoxicated by the lewd “chorus.”
The bus tilted almost thirty degrees on its’ left side as it made the right turn on to the main Causeway Road to the delight of the conductor and the youthful passengers on board.
“Non-stop to town now driver” the conductor shouted.
Sheila could smell the stale smell of beer on his breath. His open shirt exposed an undershirt that reeked of stale perspiration from several days wear. It was obvious that be had not been close to water nor a bar of soap in the last 24 hours.
The bus roared along on the right side of the road overtaking the snaking line of slow-moving vehicles who were obliged to follow the road rules. On-coming vehicles simply careened onto the soft shoulder to avoid a collision. Most of these buses had little or no insurance. The main company that insured these vehicles had a claims list over three years long as they hardly paid a claim.

The driver’s hand seemed to have been glued to the wire that operated the air horn. From some fifty metres away from the bridge he had been blaring the horn. The bus mounted the bridge followed by the loud thudding as if the landing gear had retracted as the bus soared into flight. Sheila was caught in the backward surge of bodies and both children flew away. Then she started falling. She was about to hit the ground when she shot up. The darkness was so thick, but not thick enough for the light as her room sprang from the darkness.
“Mommy, mommy…” It was Latoya. She had heard the screams of her mother and rushed into the room turning on the lights as she came in.
Sheila looked about in bewilderment. As Latoya wrapped her arms around her she sprang from the bed with the child in her arm and raced into the room where the children slept.
Newton was fast asleep, in a puddle. He had wet the bed, but he was there. They were still here. She had been dreaming about the accident.


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The Girl from the lane- Installment #6

The community of Braeton was one of the earlier settlements in the now sprawling residential area known simply as Portmore in the parish of Saint Catherine, Jamaica. Braeton was referred to in the old days as “New Town.” As the settlements grew in the early 1970’s, the area came under the development microscope and New Braeton rose from an area that was generally sugar-cane lands. By 1980, Braeton had expanded into three phases of residential construction.
Sheila had retreated to the Braeton area with Tony after their second child had arrived. They had rented a room with shared ‘conveniences’ from a woman who was acquainted with her mother through her infrequent visits to the Church in their area. To say that Delceita was annoyed with her because of her pregnancy would have been a complete understatement. The minute her stomach started to show she had to find accommodation elsewhere. However, there was still some amount of interaction between her brothers and sisters and by extension, her mother when Latoya was born. Being somewhat on her own though, provided greater opportunity as despite the non-event that had caused her impregnation, Sheila loved sex. The baby also added a different dimension to her physically, as after delivery she retained an additional 15 pounds on her frame that was quite useful in all the right areas. At seventeen and a half years of age, Sheila looked a fulsome woman, and Tony could not keep his hands off her. The only person surprised by the second pregnancy was Tony. Newton was a difficult child to carry, and the maladies normally associated with pregnancy were multiplied in this case. Most times, Tony was simply not around.
Tony claimed to have gotten a job through “contacts” as a supervisor on a hotel construction site on Jamaica’s north coast. He visited her and Latoya on some weekends but was off again by Sunday afternoons. It was two weeks after the birth of his son that Tony visited. He spent most of the weekend spewing a litany of complaints about the area they were living in, the sharing of bathroom and kitchen space. He complained about the children waking up at night, and his worst complaint was when she insisted on his use of a condom for any sex they would have.
The little money he provided her with was almost exhausted after the rent was paid. The chance meeting with Beverley at the area beauty Salon was a great blessing. Bev had been a schoolmate of hers at Excelsior, though three years her senior. Bev’s boyfriend had mysteriously come into some money. In order to make it last, they agreed to her opening the beauty salon. As the business grew, the demands on the girls in the salon became more hectic. One Thursday morning, Bev ran into her in the Square.
“So, that Salon is really yours Bev?” asked Sheila.
“Yes, but it stressing me out. Right now I am trying to find somebody to help me with the washing and setting, but the girls around here are not interested in this line of work. Those who come in, stay a few weeks and then think that they are hairdressers and leave to set up their own shops. I would love to find even somebody part-time” stated Bev.
Sheila hung on to Bev’s expressed wish. If she could wash her own hair, surely she could do better washing someone else’s hair.
“Maybe I could help you out a little…” suggested Sheila.
“You? What do you know about hair dressing?” asked Bev.
“Not much now, but I am sure I can learn” Sheila replied.
That same morning Sheila began her apprenticeship at Bev’s Beauty Salon. She would earn Ja.$7.50 for each head of hair she washed and set with the hair curlers.

Sheila disembarked the bus on Braeton Parkway and walked the short distance to Tarpon Walkway where she lived. It then occurred to her that for the first time in months, the bus driver was actually going to complete his route. She stopped for a while to observe the vehicle as it clambered away up the Parkway. She processed the observation, shook her head and headed in the direction of her home. There was a smattering of people in the Walkway. A group was clustered around her gate, while a much larger cluster appeared to be keeping vigil 6 or so houses further up from her own house. A small wave of panic enveloped her and she quickened her pace. Without even noticing it she broke into a jog and within minutes was at her gate. The group came towards her as she had approached.
Sheila dashed past them and was through the gate in a flash. Her house was in complete darkness. She ran to the fence and called out to Miss Brown who would normally have kept the children when they came from school.
“Miss Brown…, Miss Brown…” she shouted.
“Sheila…, I am right here” Miss Brown replied. “I am right here” She was in Sheila’s yard and standing behind her.
“Where is Newton and Latoya?” she asked as she faced her neighbour.
“But I was wondering the same thing when the van came with the other kids and they were not on board!” was Miss Brown’s reply.
The response hit her like a punch to the stomach. There were mumblings from the small gathering as the exchange seemed to have sparked a re-charge of a dying atmosphere. Sheila struggled for a response while desparately replaying the events of the day in her head. She tried to sift the events, picking at the different pieces of information that raced at her like the silver and blue missile.
Suddenly it came back and she fell on the patch of grass in the small garden and begun to cry.

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The Girl from the Lane - 5th Installment

“Time is up folks.” The statement sliced through the room like a scythe in a field of grass and a rustling of papers followed, as the students in the room placed their answer sheets together.
“Please make sure that your student number is correctly placed on the appropriate sections of your answer sheets. Beyond that there should be no more writing.” The invigilator cautioned.
Sheila was satisfied with her efforts with this paper. Marketing was a favourite subject of hers, especially as this was the area that she was involved in at work. She had maintained a good average throughout the programme, and would receive her Business Administration Diploma. This was only a first step as she needed the diploma in order to enter the “Challenge Programme” offered by the University of the West Indies for a Bachelors Degree in Management Studies. No one in her family had participated in any type of Tertiary studies before. Even at this stage, she had established a new standard for her family.
Phanso was completely illiterate, and her mother just able to function at reading and putting numbers together. Her pregnancy had hit her mother very hard as deep down she had expected that Sheila would have held her head up and provide some degree of example for her four younger siblings.
It was amazing how different exposures could impact people she mused. Prior to her joining the company, all she had focused on was on having a job in order to support her children and herself. The concept of attending school at this age never existed. That was before she had met Mrs. Martin. She did not even have a concept of a degree, not to mention a post-graduate degree. For Sheila, school from an early age was her mother’s way of having day care for her children while she went out to work. At least, her mother knew where her kids were between 8.00am and 3.00pm each day. It took them a half an hour to walk home, and by then neighbours would give an eye until she herself got home.
Beyond that she was of little help to her children as far as their schooling was concerned.
When Sheila passed the local school examination at 11 years of age, it provided a route to an even better education- at the secondary level. Her mother wasn’t particularly sure how it would, but she knew that this was a way out of the “Lane” for her daughter. She knew that if Sheila was successful, it could provide an example for the other children.

As the invigilator collected her paper, Sheila’s thoughts immediately shifted to her own children. An involuntary wincing flashed through her as she recalled the accident earlier that morning. In her pre-occupation with getting medical attention for her children, communicating with their schools and her office, she lost track of news related to the accident. She knew though that eight persons lost their lives during the mishap, including three children. Her mother was not generally supportive of her, but had connected with her during the day to help. Miraculously, there was no injury to either child. How different it could possibly have been had the gentleman not given her his seat. Two of the three children who perished had been passengers in the bus. Including the two children, there were in total six casualties from the ill-fated bus.



As she made her ay home that evening, she marveled at the difference time made. In the snaking traffic from Kingston back into the Portmore community, the police was out in their numbers along the route. Had they been there this morning, eight persons would still be alive, and the numerous other injured persons would have been spared.
There was no sign beyond that of the carnage that transpired earlier that morning.

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The Girl from the Lane. – Installment #4

“Why didn’t you take the money in the purse and keep it to yourself? “ the lady asked.
“Because it wasn’t mine to take, and furthermore, I work here” Sheila replied.
The woman studied her for a few seconds before she begun again. “You could have disappeared. You realize how much money is in this purse?” she was waiting for a response.
“Plenty” came Sheila’s reply, “But I was more concerned in getting it back to the owner, so I focused on finding a number… so that I could contact you.”
The woman was not particularly prepared for such a response. In 1982, at the current rates of exchange, $70,000.00 was a fair amount of money in Jamaica. As she studied the face of the waitress standing before her, she wondered whether the roles had been reversed that she would return the purse and even before completing the thought, knew that she wouldn’t have. She shuffled the notes and selected a US$100.00 bill which she handed to Sheila.
“No…, no thank you ma’am. You don’t need to do that” She backed away as she spoke.
“I insist” the woman replied.
“And I insist that I don’t want it” came Sheila’s reply. “I just wanted you to get your purse back, that’s all”
“So, will you allow me to reward you somehow…. some way?” She recognized that the girl before her was quite serious. “Are you comfortable in this job, do they pay you well? We have a nice canteen at my office and we could really use some good help.”
Sheila studied her for a moment. Maybe that was why she was always eating at the restaurant. The food at her office was no good. There was no other possible reason. She thought about the question, especially about the pay. It was small, but the tips made a big difference. “Well…. It’s all right, especially when I get good tips” she explained.
“You have children?”
“Yes ma’am”
“How many?”
“Two”.
“I bet you don’t have any medical benefits for yourself, nor your children” the woman stated. Sheila shook her head. “We will offer you those benefits… send you back to school too.”
“But you don’t know me, so why are you being so generous…. I hope you don’t think….”
“Listen” the woman countered, “Anyone who would do something like this must be a good person. I can’t force you to accept my offer. I just think you could use a break, and the rest is up to you. You seem an intelligent girl and if you take this attitude into a work environment that has great structure, more opportunities for advancement, you could go far. Think about it and give me a call” She handed Shiela her business card and was gone.
“Don’t take too long though…” Sheila had remembered those parting words from Mrs. Martin and they stayed with her all that night. She couldn’t wait to get to the restaurant the following morning to make the call. After all, what did she have to lose?

Four weeks later she was working with Mrs. Martins’ company. She had a work Identification card, plus the company paid a bonus at the end of the year. She had a medical scheme that covered her children health as well. To top it off, the pay was better than what she was getting at the restaurant. Even after accounting for the tips.

It was incredulous that neither herself nor her children had suffered any visible injuries from the accident. She needed to get confirmation from the doctors at the Children’s Hospital in the city and the thought had triggered her revisitation of that first exchange with Mrs. Martin.

“You okay, ma’am, are you OK.” The policeman was searching her face for a response. The crying from Newton in spite of his mother’s efforts to comfort him caused the policeman to be more insistent. He stuffed the three in the back of the patrol car, and turned on the siren. Like the Red Sea, the traffic just seemed to separate as the policeman skillfully glided the patrol car through the mountain of traffic, the siren wailing ahead of the flashing blue lights atop the vehicle.
“I am going to go to Public” the driver of the patrol car stated. This was the acronym for the Kingston Public Hospital in the heart of downtown. Public was the most famous trauma hospital in the Caribbean, but its reputation for long waiting was legendary.
“No, no” Sheila quickly responded. “Go to Children’s”
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The Girl from the Lane. Installment #3


At twenty-three years of age Sheila, a single mother of two was a good looking young
woman. In spite of the difficulties involved with raising two young children on her own, she kept an eye on herself. Maybe it was the brisk walks to the roundabout each morning for the bus, followed by the trek from the downtown area where the bus disgorged its passenger loads each morning to join the teeming throng of humanity, to the primary schools where her children attended daily, but Shiela did a lot of walking and was in good physical shape. At first, the walking was murder on her feet, particularly because of her shoes. Thanks to the television serials, she copied and carried her shoes in her hand bag and donned her sneakers for the streets. After the birth of Newton, she had apprenticed herself to a hairdressers shop in Braeton where she had learnt to style peoples hair and fix their fingernails. The money was almost nothing, but it stopped a gap. When Tony mysteriously disappeared from her life eight months later, she left her young children in the daily care of a neighbor for a small fee and stumbled on a job in a restaurant. The pay was not great, but her attentiveness to the customers gave her tips and daily, lunch was “on the house.”

The Isuzu bus did not seem likely to stop as it barreled down the street towards the roundabout. At 6.17am it was almost packed to capacity. The waiting commuters surged forward as the silver and blue missile hurtled towards them on the wrong side of the road.
The conductor seemed to be swaying in the breeze his right elbow locked onto the railing of the bus’ rear door his shirt like a kite-tail flailing behind him. The lewd reggae lyrics was pounding as the bus screeched to a miraculous halt centimeters from the throng of commuters. With practiced skill, Sheila bundled her two kids onto the bus and made a space for the three of them. The bus was about to lurch forward when the man seated below her motioned her to his seat. Her smile was sincere as she nestled the two children in her lap. There were indeed men still around who were gentlemen.

Sheila recalled her chance meeting with Mrs. Martin. It was the middle of the rainy season and the lady had come to lunch as usual with the most fabulous looking middle aged black man she had ever seen. He seemed very business-like, but very attentive. They appeared a little hurried today as if they had an appointment somewhere. Instead of eating in, they ordered lunch to go. She bagged the take-out order and the gentleman paid in cash, leaving her a whole Ja.$300.00 as tip. It was while she was clearing the drink glasses that she noticed the black pocketbook on the chair next to which the lady had been sitting. She was sure it belonged to the lady. Sheila opened the pocketbook and came face to face with the collection of Gold credit cards. The purse contained twenty-seven US$100.00 bills as well as Ja.$11,000.00. Then she saw what she needed. The business card read: Faye A. Martin M.B.A., B.Sc.- V.P. Marketing and the name of the company she worked. It was three hours later that she came to retrieve her pocketbook after her secretary with whom Sheila had spoken earlier had alerted her. A month later, Sheila was working in the canteen of the same company. Six months later she swapped her apron for the company’s uniform and was clerking in the Sales Department.

The Isuzu bus raced past the line of traffic that snaked its way over the causeway bridge towards Kingston. Ahead lay the great metropolis of Kingston, the third in line for the ignominious title of “murder capital of the world.” To the right, the Fort Augusta women’s prison lay, framed by the green/blue waters of the Caribbean Sea. Some of the passengers, particularly the school children were chanting along with lewd lyrics being spewed from the bus’ sound system. The conductor, his left hand clutching hundred dollar and fifty dollar bills between each finger, recited the lyrics with gusto. He was half way in and out the vehicle, prancing along to the lyrics as the engine of the bus whined to the beat of the music. Sheila was no driver, but she felt the immediate change as the driver shifted to high speed as he raced over the bridge. The long draw on the air horn by the driver was the signal to all and sundry that he was not slowing. The causeway bridge is a “hump-back” bridge for one lane traffic either way and the silver and gray missile was thundering from west to east on the wrong side. As the top of the bus broke the horizon the driver of the Toyota Corolla approaching from the other side gave up the ghost. He was dead even before his vehicle connected with the Isuzu bus. The conductor flew past Sheila on the left side and slammed into the back of the delivery truck in the line of traffic on the left side of the bridge. Sheila clutched her two children and forced their heads into her lap. The bus flew through the air, strafing five other vehicles ahead.
“Mommy” Latoya screamed as Sheila held them both. The bus came down on the right side, then rolled to the left, then right again and Sheila held on to her kids. The noise was horrendous, and the screaming unbearable. It seemed to happen in slow motion and to take forever. There was blood on Latoya left side and Sheila thought the worst. In a flash, she pushed the lifeless body of the woman seated to her left from atop Newton. The man who had given her his seat lay in a crumpled heap on the stairwell of the bus. She had to squeeze past him in order to exit the wreck with Newton. She placed him on the median in the causeway before making her way back to the wreck to see about Latoya. She pushed and pulled again at the seat where they were sitting. Latoya called out to her. “Thank you, thank God,” Sheila said aloud as she bundled her daughter out of the wrecked vehicle. They were now standing in the median. Newton was now crying, while Sheila stood looking to the skies, giving thanks to God for sparing hers, and the lives of her children. All the while the excitement on the Causeway main road mounted feverishly as passing motorists rushed from their vehicles to rescue the injured.

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Stay tuned for the next installment .

The Girl from the Lane. Installment#2

The early mornings were Sheila’s best part of the day. The chirpings of birds chorusing with the crickets were her alarm clock. Even without looking at her wristwatch laying on her bedside table, she could tell it was 4.30am. The blanket of darkness that had enveloped her small room had now been tinted by the creeping breaths of approaching daylight. Somewhere outside the dogs in the neighborhood were barking at the early risers. The public bus service was far from reliable. Most of the commuters had to intercept the buses at the roundabout as the drivers never completed their routes. She could hear the voices of mothers encouraging their young children to “keep up” as they scurried along to catch the bus. She had perhaps an hour to fall in with the commuters, get her charges to school and herself to work.
School. That for her was never a distant memory, but one with a bitter taste. Sheila never considered herself a genius but she held her own in her classes. The transition from primary school to secondary education was fairly easy. Secondary school was a greater challenge, especially after third form. She seemed to have transformed from girl to woman overnight. The quickness of the transformation took herself and her mother by surprise. Her hormones had raged like a tumultuous hurricane, fanned by the abundance of testosterone stored in the slabs of muscles two grade levels above her.
Sheila’s mother had the best wishes for her children. The one thing that she was determined to do was prevent the repetition of the cycle that she had become trapped in. At sixteen, she had given birth to her first child. By the time she was twenty two, she was the mother of three. At thirty, she had become an old woman with seven children. Sheila was her third child and first daughter. Her lack of education had condemned her to a life of misery, and shackled her with a man whose only skill was shooting from his hips.
Even so, he made a fair effort at providing for their children. Compared with others in their small community though, they never went to sleep without food. School supplies were usually in short supply except for the school uniforms, but that apart, each child had a good pair of shoes and a presentable enough suit of clothing for church on Sunday.
Her mother’s impassioned plea was for her “to take in an education so that she would become somebody.”
Tony was the top athlete at Excelsior High School and a fifth former. Sheila could feel the firmness of his athletic frame even before they connected. By fourth form her womanhood was there for all to see. Tony had stayed two years extra in fifth form in order to contribute his thirty points to the schools track team at National Schools Championships. He ran the right wing on the school’s soccer team like the legendary Brazilian link man and batted three at “Sunlight Cup” cricket where he had recorded 12 centuries in two and a half seasons. Sheila caught up with him in fifth form. Her mother had stood like a sentinel between them. She had chores after school which included her younger siblings so their liaisons were brief and limited to hand-holding and an occasional embrace. It was bound to happen though, and did. The only thing good about the episode may have been the timing. She realized she was pregnant a week after school released the G.C.E. Examination results, and what she had passed was the pregnancy test.
Delceita was devastated. Her daughter had disgraced her household. Needless to say their tiny dwelling could not accommodate a grandchild, and Phanso would have none of it. “If you are big enough to take a man, then let him take care of you” A year and a half later, Newton was born. The cycle was completely reset and well underway.

It was Newton’s sneezing that brought her back from her reverie. The haziness had very quickly become light, the brilliance of which now lit her room. “Good morning God” she said aloud, and in her thoughts she finished a prayer for guidance for herself and the protection of her children throughout the day. It would take five minutes to prepare the Semolina porridge she was serving with Vienna sausages and sliced bread as a quick breakfast for the trio. The children’s lunch kits had been packed overnight and their clothes together.
At 5.49am Sheila Sampson was appealing to Latoya Campbell to hold onto her brother Newton Campbell’s hand as they scurried to catch the bus for the commute to school and work in the sprawling city of Kingston, Jamaica. Barring anything unforeseen, they should be downtown on time.
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Please stay tuned for the next installment, and please visit my website at :www.cricimages.com,.

This is the first excerpt of a fictional story I am currently writing. Please give me your comments, and follow the tale as we go along.

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The Girl from the Lane

Sheila tucked her daughter Latoya in beside her little brother Newton and watched them both as they literally fell away into the comforting bosom of sleep. She wondered at the magic and the mystery of it and her mind tried to connect it with the finality of death. One moment you are here, physically participating with the rest of creation. The next minute you are gone. Sleep, that aspect of your existence that is as necessary as the breath you take and the miracle that it is, replenishing the wear of your physical self. The strange way it seemed to resemble death. That state where you are no more. Unknown to you in your defenseless physical state.
She stroked the foreheads of the two provings of her womanhood, pulled the thin sheet over their small torsos, turned out the light and strode from the little room both children shared. In a few years she would have to provide them with separate rooms. Boys should not sleep with their sisters she thought. For now it was ok, as they were little children. But at least it was a major improvement on the circumstances of her own childhood.
She had grown up with four brothers and two sisters. All seven crammed in a tiny room on two large beds that seemed to engulf the entire room. A cloth screen had separated the room shared by their mother and father doing nothing to shut out the protestations of her mother as she tried to ward off the unwelcome advances of her father at night. She wondered if she was the product of one such advances. The screaming of fabric as it was being ripped from her mother's frame would soon be replaced by the thumping of the bedpost against the wall of the wooden structure that they called home. Sometimes this would go on for what seemed an eternity. Then the silence that followed would be chased away by the guttural snoring of the "animal" as she called him.
These thoughts usually disturbed her, making sleep sometimes impossible. It was at these times that she would curse her own existence. Her being born in an island setting where with each passing year the route of opportunity seemed even more distant. It was not going to happen tonight though, she thought. She would summon all her strength and push these thoughts away. Tomorrow was Exams, final exams. The final point in four years of sacrifice and she was not going to drop her hands now.

Follow this saga and please, Visit my website at: www.cricimages.com.,

हे आउट तेरे

Hello out there in the Blog world.
As my profile indicates, I am an Artist. My objective on this Blog is to focus on issues that are essentially Jamaican, and Caribbean in general.
I would like to develop linkages with our people from the "Rock" and broaden these links to people in the caribbean diaspora.
Lots of things are happening in our country as I write this. It is important that we air our views on these issues as they develop and become more involved, if only by airing our views on our National and regional issues.

I am currently writing a Jamaican drama that I will publish weekly, maybe twice weekly on this blog. So stay with me. Also feel free to share my comments with the wider global audience.

Current Island Politics:
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Portia Sipmson Miller and the incumbent PNP goes up against a remodelled Bruce Golding led JLP for the island's top political prize in acouple of weeks.
Let's talk about it.
How can we get our politicians to really deliver for the betterment of our people?

Regional Politics
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Is the Caricom idea redundant?
Lets talk about this as Caricom Heads meet in Barbados this week.

Sports
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Whither West Indies Cricket?
Jamaica's Reggae Boys mauled on overseas tour. Where do we go from here?