Marlon James - A Brief History of Seven Killings

— The three meet up in England right before the peace concert.

— So? And the peace concert come and gone almost a year ago. So?

— You think three biggest men to come out of downtown Kingston only meeting about a peace concert?

— Seem to be as much as those three could handle.

— Peace concert was just the fringe benefit.

— I’m going to take it for granted that you know what that means.

— For real. Just as I take it for granted that your financial wizard boss know what really causes inflation.

There it is again. Peter Nasser doing the double take with just his eyes, so I don’t notice it. Syrians.

— What this little mongrel pussyhole doing, starting a third party? What serious things?

— You didn’t seem like you want to know a minute ago.

— Busha, talk the fucking things, man. Cho.

— There’s a program after the peace concert. A plan, call it an agenda.

— What kind of agenda?

— You ready for this type of news? A Rasta government.

— Wha? What the bombocloth you just say?

— This is how you going know, when a bunch of Rasta from England all of a sudden fly down here. Some land already. Hold on, my boy, you don’t know say even Papa-Lo turning Rasta? He stop eat pork months ago. Twelve Tribes meeting? Regular thing that for him now.

— Me’ll believe it when him stop comb him hair.

— Who tell you say all Rasta have dreadlocks? Jesus Christ.

Have to remind myself to not make him look too stupid.

— How you mean—

— Anyway, you want to hear what Rasta and honorary Rasta was reasoning in England or not?

— Me all ears, busha.

— So one of them, me not sure who, say, The idea is to involve the Rasta in society, politics and grass roots.

— Those actual words?

— Me look like receptionist?

— Whoopee. So they meet for the peace concert and start talking about government. Just like every man on every verandah in every home in Jamaica. This is the news?

— No, brethren. They meet about new government then start talking about a peace concert.

— What?

— You don’t know what clock ah strike. You didn’t even know that the clock was Big Ben. Hear the plan: to set up a new opposition from both sides of the ghetto, party truly for the people to get rid of the whole of you in the name of Rasta.

— Some Jamdown Mau-Mau?

— What?

— But Rasta want to go to bombocloth Ethiopia. Why them don’t just splash red, black and green paint on some fucking boat and fuck off? Call it Black Star Liner 2 or some fuckery.

— You think London Rasta know shit about Ethiopia? London dread know Rasta through reggae, busha. Wherever is the home of reggae is the real home of Rasta. All of a sudden Rastaman in England going to business school and running for London Parliament and sending them children to get all sort of education, even the girls. What you think all of that is for? England don’t want them. Where you think they going go?

— Shit.

— Downtown divide up, master. You should know, you divide it.

— Me never divide nothing.

— You cutting yourself out of your party now? The two of you divide it. Me? I just enforce it. But what you think was going to happen after the peace concert? What happen when people come together?

— No more divide.

— That’s just first phase, sah. People come together in peace, means people soon come together in politics. Already people picking out which don can be an MP of which area. That means no more you.

— And all this happen at this meeting in London?

— For real.

— But busha, that meeting was one year ago.

— So it go.

— You wait one year to tell me this?

— Didn’t think you need to know.

— You didn’t think I need to know. Josey Wales, me ever hire you to bombocloth think? Does it look like when I need thinking done, I call the naigger man to do it? Answer me that.

— Mind you get an answer you don’t like, I say and watch the eye-only double-take again.

— Bombo pussy r’asscloth. Motherfucking dripping cunt bitch. You mean all now some fucking secret Rasta sect migrating back even when so many people right now flying out? You know how much could be here right now? You did think about that?

— No busha, when thinking need to be done, I leave that to you.

— Shit, shit, fucking shit. Election is only next year. Is only next r’asscloth year. What the bombo r’asscloth. You know how much people I have to call now? Can’t believe you wait a year to tell me this. Me not going forget this, Josey Fucking Wales.

— Good. Because you all love to forget when it suit you. Because of forgetting why Papa-Lo run things in the first place. But that is between you and Papa-Lo.

— Of course, because you all about your little trips to Miami now. You think the ministry don’t have eyes? Well, before you think you too big for people, just remember that you still in an appointed position.

— What that mean?

— You say you want to think? Figure it out.

But I figure it out long before he had to ask me any question. I figure it out from December 8, 1976. I figure it out from before the Singer get on that plane that if he was going to come back, he was going come with new reasoning and new power. Ignorant little-cocky Syrian don’t realise that certain dog sniffing a different master now, and even that master already mistake him for servant.

I look at this hook-nose idiot and realise something I learn from Bible school long ago. This man already receive his reward in full. Nowhere leave for him to go, not even down. Think he can raise voice because some people still think white skin give him the authority to speak to anybody any way he feel like, especially man who don’t know word like authority. Good for him that right now, I feeling a wave of good Samaritan-ness. Doctor Love tell me a stale thing a year ago, to keep my friends close and my enemies closer. Stale as dog shit, yes, but every time you take a step higher that tip turn fresh. After all, the hunter don’t shoot the bird that fly low.

Peter Nasser pay off three men at the airport to be on the lookout for any cockney-speaking Rastafarian landing at Norman Manley airport, especially at night. For some reason he didn’t think the Rasta revolution would be coming in through Montego Bay. He was even having them run to the one pay phone in the airport to call him every two hours. Then he want me to go, or send my best man to London to find the Singer and do something wherever he was on tour or recording. I ask him if he think this was a James Bond movie and should I also take out the beauty queen he was with, because that would be a shame to take out the most beautiful woman in the world. I laugh over the phone because otherwise I would be cussing that yet again this man wasting my time. Besides, the Singer really was good as gone. Send a man to near death and you do more than almost kill him. You unroot him, tear him from home so that he can never live anywhere in peace again. The only way the Singer was coming back for good was in coffin.

But that was 1978 and I done with 1978. When the old American leave for Argentina in January, a new one come and take the spot. New American song, same old lyrics. He call himself Mr. Clark. Just that, Mr. Clark. Clark, just ditch the E . He think it was funny so he say it every time we meet up. Clark, just ditch the E . He already know Doctor Love, but then it seem every American who walked around in Kingston in a sweaty white shirt with the tie open know Luis Hernán Rodrigo de las Casas. April 1978 and we’re at Morgan’s Harbour, the hotel for white people over in Port Royal. We’re looking over at Kingston from the almost empty restaurant, well, they were looking. I was watching. Me with two foreigner, who already feeling the pirate spirit taking over them from head to cock. It is a thing to watch, the kind of feeling that take up a white man every time you take him to Port Royal. You wonder if this is the same spirit that leap up in them as soon as they land on any rock. I’m betting it is so, from as far back as Columbus and slavery. Something about landing from sea that make a white man feel free to say and do as he please.