A Jamaica Independence Story
“Eeda de chair too small or me too big,” she mutters and abandons her attempts to adjust her position in the chair. She taps her plump fingers on the frail arms of her chair to the rhythm of the festival song that is blaring from the radio in her living room. Soon, she is rocking to the music.
“Granny, wha’ kine a fool-fool music you a play? Nobody nuh listen to dem kinda music again. Now a modern times. You mus’ move wid de times,” Fenton says, as he bounces on to the verandah. He jiggles his body and smiles down at Miss Mattie.
“So me a nobody.” Miss Mattie looks up at Fenton and continues to bop to the music.
“No, you a nuh nobody. You a somebody. Dat is not what a mean. A mean dat…”
“Me ole?”
Without answering her, Fenton runs into the living room. He turns off Miss Mattie’s music and returns to the verandah fiddling with his phone. Soon, loud dance hall music blares on the verandah. As the artiste chants his lyrics, he cavorts in front of Miss Mattie, smiling all the time. Miss Mattie watches him.
“Dis is music!” Fenton says, nodding his head in enjoyment. He prances some more before turning off his music and smiling with satisfaction at Miss Mattie.
Miss Mattie stares at him while she counts backward from ten. Fixing her stony gaze on his face, she says, “Fus t'ing, go tun on back mi radio!”
Fenton lingers on the verandah, watching her, his smile gone.
“Now!” Miss Mattie barks at him.
He twists his body away from her and dances his way to the living room, his feet seeming to be fused together.
Miss Mattie watches him as he leaves, tempted to grab one of his sneakers that is drying on the verandah rail and throw it at his back. Soon, traditional Jamaican music fills the air. Fenton returns to the verandah — this time, stomping his feet and sulking.
“Tek a seat dey so!” Miss Mattie points to the chair beside her with her lips.
Fenton throws himself on to the chair and starts to bang his feet on the legs.
Miss Mattie glares at him but says nothing. After a while she sighs and stares over the smooth multicoloured hibiscus hedging into the greenery of the dense trees, her eyes following them into the slightly overcast rainbow sky. She peers at the disfigured shapes in the sky which trigger her memories of Junkanoo that she had enjoyed when she was a child. She shrugs and tries to relax, her face still upturned to the heavens.
“Granny, mi siddung. Why you want me to siddung beside you?”
Miss Mattie's gaze glides down from its perch and rests on Fenton’s annoyed face. “Fenton, mi sen you a school. You know what day is tiday?”
“Of course, Granny. Today is Sat’day. No school. A shoulda be playing wid mi fren dem.”
“Wha’ date tiday?” Miss Mattie asks, tapping her fingers on the arms of her chair.
“Mm, Mm,” he says, scratching his head and frowning before taking out his phone and pressing some buttons. “August 6!” he shouts, smiling up at Miss Mattie.
“Boy, why me sending you to school?”
“To learn mi ABCs,” Fenton says, laughing but stops when he sees Miss Mattie’s unsmiling face focussed on him.
“Wha’ ‘aliday we celebrating tiday, Fenton?”
“We nah celebrate no holiday today, Granny. Monday is de holiday. A gwine go a roaaad. Mi a go enjoy miself!” He bounces in his chair and laughs and claps his hands.
Miss Mattie rolls her eyes and watches him.
He continues to smile at her.
“A sure you teacha dem tell you bout independence and what it mean.”
“Yes. Dem say is Jamaica birt’day and Jamaica a go be 60 on August 6. Dat is today. Wow! Jamaica really ole. Jamaica oler dan you, Granny?”
“Boy, go bout you business. We not talking bout me. You teacha dem tell you why we celebrate independence?”
“Yes Granny,” Fenton says, his tone long suffering. “A tell you already. A Jamaica birt’day so we celebrate it.”
“Dem not teaching unno a t'ing in school.”
“Dat not true, Granny. Dem teach us Maths, English, Science, History…”
“What you learn bout Jamaica in ‘istry class?”
“Nuff t'ings. A kya rememba all a dem now but we learn nuff t'ings,” Fenton says and continues to swing his legs, forward and backwards, forward and backwards, ignoring Miss Mattie’s glare.
“A don’ wan’ to ‘ear everyt'ing you learn. Jus’ tell me one t'ing,” Miss Mattie says. Her tone is measured as she tries to control her aggravation. She has been trying to control her temper since she started to go to church regularly but it seems as if the devil is hell-bent on taking her to hell with him. She watches Fenton as he watches her, noting the smirk on his face.
“Mek mi go fi mi book,” he says and starts to rise from his chair.
“Siddung!” Miss Mattie snaps.
Fenton plops down in the chair, his glances at Miss Mattie suspicious. He rocks his chair away from her, watching her no-nonsense face.
“When teacher teach you, you fi ‘ave what dem teach you in you ‘ead and not in you book!”
“But mi ‘ead can’t ol everyt'ing, Granny.”
“A don’ know what a go become a you. Yu on yu way fi become one a dem good fi nutten young people wey a roam de street. Lawd know say we ‘ave enough a uuno aready.”
“No worry bout we. We a go grow big and wi a go tek over Jamaica when—”
“When what? When ole people dead and gone?”
“Not you, Granny. You not gwine dead. Du! no dead now, Granny. Wait until mi big. A will be good for somet’ing. Wait and see.” He stares at Miss Mattie’s face, his face worried.
“Stop worry, chile. A don’ ‘ave a t'ing do do wid wedda a go soon or late but if you no learn nutten a school you goin’ to send me to mi grave early.”
“No worry bout nutten, Granny. A will learn somet’ing. A promise.”
Miss Mattie smiles wryly at him.
Fenton returns her smile and relaxes. He drags his legs up on to the chair but drops them back to the floor as soon as he looks at Miss Mattie’s face.
“Alrite, Fenton. You a go learn somet’ing, but you shoulda learn nuff aready. Wha’ use to ‘appen in Jamaica before August 6, 1962?”
“Granny, ‘ow mi fi know dat? Me neva born yet.” Fenton glances at Miss Mattie, seeming to be gauging her mood.
Miss Mattie throws her arms in the air. “Fenton, what me a go do wid you? A know dat you never born yet. You don’t tink you need to know what use to ‘appen before you was born? Dat is what dem call ‘istory. De same history dat you say you learn a school. Figive me fi say learn because it obvious dat you nat learning a blasted t’ing in dat class.”
“Since you know nuff t’ings, Granny, tell me what ‘appen before you born. Dat is history.”
“Fenton, nuh mek nobady ‘ear mi mout’ up ‘ere dis evening! We not talking bout me. We talking bout wha’ you teacha dem tell you ‘appen before 1962!”
“You go first,” Fenton says, eyeing Miss Mattie. He covers his mouth but his laughter escapes.
Miss Mattie gives him a playful slap on his head. “Dat should put you brain back in de right place.”
“Nutten no wrong wid me brain, Granny,” Fenton says, rubbing his head.
“Arite Fenton. Yu say you brain good. From 1962 to 2022 is how much years?”
Fenton takes his phone from his pocket.
Miss Mattie watches him.
“Mek mi see…”
“Somet’ing definitely wrong wid you brain. No easy sum dat?”
Fenton continues to fiddle with his phone before saying, “Easy for you, Granny. But why mi fi punish mi brain when mi ‘ave dis?” He shoves the phone towards Miss Mattie’s face.
Her fingers itch to grab it and toss it down the hill.
“Breat’e, Mattie. Breat’e,” she tells herself. “Yu decide fi tek care a de boy. Nobody force you. ‘im jus like ‘im puppa who punish mi no end when ‘im likkle and ‘im tun out good. Dere is ‘ope fi dis one.” Miss Mattie continues to take deep breaths as she watches Fenton.
“Mmm, Mmm,” Fenton murmurs as he taps the keys on his phone. “Sixty! Oh! Dat is why Jamaica a sixty. Mi jus a get it. Who Jamaica ole like, Granny?”
“Don’t change de subject, boy. What you teacha tell you ‘appen before 1962?”
“A not sure if it was before 1962,” Fenton says, wrinkling his nose, “but de Tainos and some odda people used to live in Jamaica. Dem dead out now.” He directs a smile at Miss Mattie.
“A don’ t’ink is de teacha dem fault. A good backsiding would mek you memba what dem teach yu inna school.”
Fenton drags his chair more than an arm’s length away from Miss Mattie.
“Listen good to what a gwine tell you now, chile, and neva figet it. You understan?”
“Yes, Granny. A understan and a won’ figet it,” he says, plastering a studious look on his face.
Miss Mattie stares at him and sighs. She won’t allow him to aggravate her. She sighs again, a deep sigh that rocks her body, and begins. “Before August 6, 1962, Englan’ rule Jamaica.”
“What you mean by ‘rule’?”
“Just what me say. Dem tell de people dem wha’ dem can do and wha’ dem kyan do. Dem own Jamaica.”
“Jus’ like ‘ow mi own dis phone?”
“Same so but don’ interrupt me, boy.”
“Sorry, but dat not right. So what de people dem do bout dat?”
“People like de ‘eroe dem do somet’ing bout it.” She stops to stare at Fenton. “Who a de ‘ero dem?”
“Hero?” Fenton asks, frowning, but laughs as he lifts his head to meet Miss Mattie’s glare. “I know dem – Nanny of de Maroons who ketch bullet wid her battam — she was goood.”
“What damn foolishness! Not a t'ing no go so and a don’ care who tell you so!” She raises her hand to stop Fenton from saying anything.
“Okaaay,” he says, eyeing her and smiling. “Dat is foolishness. But why dem say she do dat if nutten nuh go so?”
“You eva ‘ear bout magic?”
“You mean obeah?
“Same t’ing.”
“Wow! You mean de same t’ing dat M…”
“Shut you mout’, boy! Nuh talk bout wha you nuh know. You ‘ear me? And a don’ care wha’ yu ‘ear nubbady say. Me neva go a court ‘ouse from de day me baan and you nah go carry me go dey. Yu ‘ear me?”
“Me ‘ear you. Only Nanny alone did know bout obeah, long, long, long time ago.” He smiles at Miss Mattie and before she can say anything he says, “The next ‘ero is George William Gordon, den Paul Bogle, den Marcus Garvey, den Norman Manley den Sir Alexander Bustamante, den Sam Sharpe…He stops to count them off on his fingers while Miss Mattie stares at him.
“You a learn somet’ing a school, boy,” she says, nodding her head.
“A learn dat in primary school,” Fenton says, his smile in place.
“Dem a de people dem who do somet’ing bout de situation. “What dem do?”
Fenton asks. “A learn dat in school, too, but a figet.”
"‘ow you can learn somet’ing and figet it? If you learn it, it inna you ‘ead an’ you kyan figet it.”
“Well, if you say so. Dem t'ings was long long long long time ago, who memba dem?”
Miss Mattie sighs and snaps at Fenton, “Mi memba!”
Fenton stares out into the growing gloom and slaps at a mosquito, taking pains to open his palms to make sure he has caught it, while he stares at Miss Mattie from the side of his eyes.
Miss Mattie watches him and flexes her fingers, then pops one, causing Fenton to jump. When she notices that he is ready to listen to her, she continues, “As a was saying, Englan’ did own Jamaica. Before dem, de Spanish di own wi. Christopher Columbus come say ‘im discover Jamaica and tek it go gi Spain. Discover me…She looks at Fenton and swallows whatever she was going to say. “Anyway ‘im come and kill off all a de people dem who use to live ‘ere.”
“De Tainos and dem people dey?”
“Me did learn bout de Arawak and de Carib dem.”
“De Arawak, dem a de Tainos, a t’ink and de Carib…dem a who again? De Caribs? Dem all mix up inna me ‘ead.”
“You need to sort dem out and soon,” Miss Mattie says, her tone mild. “Afta de Spanish dem de ya fi a while a do dem mischief to de poor people dem and kill dem off, Englan’ come and fight ‘gainst dem and tek Jamaica. Den because de Spanish people dem did kill off most o' de people dem who use to live ya, de Englan’ people dem affi go get new people fi wuk fi dem. Wey dem get dem from?” Miss Mattie pauses to throw the question at Fenton, causing him to jump.
“Africa!” he shouts, shaking his body to a rhythm it seems only he can hear.
“De African people dem was yu ancestor dem.”
“Ancestor?”
“You relative dem come from Africa. How you tink you come ya?”
Fenton smiles and turns his chair to face Miss Mattie. “Me madda and me fada…”
“Boy, if you say another wud!” She hisses her teeth before continuing her story. “You notice dat we ‘ave all kind a people live inna Jamaica? If a never fi de Englan people dem, nuff a dem wouldn’ de ya. And we wouln’ be so mix up, mix up. De long time people dem woulda still de ya and de res’ o’ we woulda still inna we country. We woulda be somewey inna Africa.”
“So me a African?”
“In a manner o’ speaking.”
“Me a no African. Me a Jamaican.”
“What is de difference?”
“Me no live a Africa.”
“Me kyan badda wid you, you know, boy. You wi learn. As mi was saying de white people dem punish we so till…”
“We?”
“Fenton, we ancestas!” Miss Mattie says, dragging out each syllable of each word.
“How dem punish dem?”
“Dem wuk dem like ‘orse and beat dem when dem feel like and do all kind a odda bad t'ings to dem. Dat was during slavery. Dem tek de people dem from Africa and tun dem inna slave. And even after slavery done, dem still own wi and treat wi bad.”
“And de people dem tek it? I woulda…”
“Yu woulda wha’? During slavery time, dem ‘ad guns, you know. And if you did run wey and dem ketch you dem woulda do you bad bad bad.”
“A woulda still do it. Dem couldn’t ketch mi.”
“Dat is exactly wha’ some a dem do. The Maroon dem. Dem run way to the ‘ills and start dem own community dem and when de white man dem come fi look fe dem, dem beat dem up and sen dem way.”
“Cool, I woulda be one a dem,” Fenton says, laughing and clapping his hands.
“Yu?” Miss Mattie says, laughing.
“Me. You don’ t’ink me brave, Granny?”
“Not de boy wey fraid a one likkle bug.”
“Bug nasty!”
“De slave driva dem was nasty, too!”
Fenton frowns and stares at Miss Mattie.
“Anyway,” she continues without looking at him, “after de white man dem couldn’ tek no more beating from de Maroon dem, dem sign Peace Treaty wid dem.”
“Peace Treaty?” Fenton asks. “Wha’ dat?”
“Dem just come to agreement wid dem dat dem not going to bodder dem no more but dat a one nedda lang story. Nanny ‘elp de Maroon dem win nuff war ‘gainst de white man dem.”
“Wid ar battam?” Fenton asks, laughing when Miss Mattie swings her arm at him and misses.
“No Fenton! Wid ar ‘brain!”
Fenton uses his fingers like a key to close his lips.
Miss Mattie tightens her lips and loosens them several times before continuing.
“De other ‘ero dem like Gordon, Bogle and Sam Sharpe never like what de white man dem did a do too, so dem do somet'ing bout it but lose dem neck. Dem ‘eng dem.”
“‘eng dem!” Fenton shuffles in his chair and seems to be studying Miss Mattie’s face.
“If you wan’ fi change somet’ing you don’ like, you affi be willing to sacrifice somet’ing.”
“But not mi neck, Granny. Not mi neck.” He clutches his neck and stares at his now still feet. After a while, he looks up at Miss Mattie and asks. “So wha dem did really do mek dem ‘eng dem? Dem kill somebody?”
“A don’ know de whole story. A lang time mi lef school but dem say dat de oler ‘ero dem use dem mout and mek people know say dem no affi mek de white man rule dem and tek liberty wid dem. Dat cause de people dem to rebel and de Englan' people dem neva like dat.
“Morant Bay Rebellion!” Fenton shouts.
“Yes,” Miss Mattie says, “an’ dem did ‘ave nuff more rebellion before dat. But back to de ‘ero dem. Garvey did ave nuff advice fi black people but dat is annoda story. Bustamante and Manley and some odders you no ‘ear much bout talk to de white man dem in Englan’ and dem decide fi let we go. So in August 6, 1962, we start to rule we self. We get independence. And we celebrate dat every year.”
“So, dat’s why we celebrate independence,” Fenton says.
Miss Mattie watches him and smiles as he nods his head and contorts his face.
The night noises and the sound of the music soon lull her into a doze.
“We a rule we self better dan de white man dem did rule we?”
Fenton’s voice startles her and she jumps, taking the chair with her.
“You say somet’ing, Fenton?”
“Me ask you if we a rule we self better dan de white man dem did rule we.”
“Well…It depen on what you mean by better,” Miss Mattie says, her face thoughtful. “One t’ing a can say is dat Jamaica belong to we, wart and all. We can do as we please ya.”
“So we free?”
“We free as de bud dem up inna de sky till summady decide fi shoot we dung or fling stone lick we dung.”
“Wha’ you mean by dat?”
“T’ink Fenton! T’ink! We free fi do de right t'ing an’ mos’ a wi do dat. But some a wi choose to do different.”
“Mmm. Like de gun man and tief dem?”
“Same so.”
Fenton sits with his hands cupping his jaws, staring at the shiny red floor and rocks himself, until Miss Mattie’s voice rouses him.
“So you see de song dem dat me listening to, dem a festival song dat dem sing to mark where we coming from and what we been achieving and mek we feel good. Listen to you bogoo yagga music but listen to dem too. Memba dat you need to know wey you a come from before you can know wey you goin’. And du! No ask mi no more question now. Go a school and learn.”
“Boogoo yagga? You calling…”
“Arite some o’ dem mek sense. You ‘appy now?”
Fenton jumps up, fiddles with his phone until a dancehall tune pulses through the air. He starts to show off his dance moves. “Dis one tell me wey mi a come from, and wey me going and it mek mi feel good,” he says. As he dances, he sings along with the artiste.
Miss Mattie smiles and watches him as he dances, while tapping her feet to the beat.
About the Author
Janette B. Fuller is a ghost writer and author of four books.
When you are ready to write your story and/or after you have written your story, make contact with her at writingwisdomtree@gmail.com. She'll help you write your best story by helping you arrange your thoughts and/or edit your work. Check out her books here.
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