Sweet Sweet Jamaica

Sweet, sweet Jamaica, mi nah lef’—
It’s a pity I had to go,
Leaving this beauty that I call home.
They say the grass is greener on the other side,
But no weh nuh better than yaad.

Don’t get me wrong; this isn’t a rant—
Just like yaad, ‘farrin’ has it’s good and it’s bad.
But oh, how I miss home.
No matter where I go, even the North Pole,
They can never take away my patoi—waah gwan?

I wish others could walk down the lane of my memories,
Across the pavement of my heart.
Only then could they experience Jamaica, my part.
But since they can’t, let me fill them in—

Let’s start.

It began with watching planes cross the sky,
Thinking from up there, they were really that small,
And that ‘farrin’ was that high.
I’d never seen one up close,
But always wished to fly.

Mummy always seh, “You have farrin mind.”
I never knew how much I’d miss those times,
Or that the iron bird would take me away
From my sweet, sweet Jamaica.

Away from those beautiful mornings with the golden sun rising behind the trees,
Twisting and turning in bed, I’d wish the crow of a rooster would wake me up,
But I was too used to that.
It was either the unforgettable scent of fried plantain and dumplings taking over the house,
Or my mother shouting, “Wake up, yo nah go school!”

Feet soaked from dew-covered grass,
That’s how you’d know morning was new—
Fresh, cool breeze rushing from the trees.
Morning showers under the open sky,
And the chimmy pot—never forget to empty that.

Ready for school:
Hair checked, uniform pressed, shoes clean (they had to be),
Skin well-moisturized, with a spritz of perfume
to set the mood.

Walking to catch the bus,
Saying “good morning” to everyone—
I mean every single one.
Miss one, and news would reach your grandma that
“You nuh have no manners.”

The excitement when I would see the school bus coming—
Packed full, with friends you could hardly find.
That bus, always a scene.

And the scent of school—
The respect for teachers,
When teachers could be teachers,
And students could be students.

I don’t know what was best—the school itself,
Or lunchtime and Nutri-Bun day:
Pink milk and bulla.

Best of all, though, was going home—
In broiling sun or pouring rain,
walking because I ate my bus fare.

Shoes off, racing paper boats down the side of the road,
Hurrying home to see what’s cooking in the kitchen:
It could be anything—from the famous tin mackerel to the national dish,
Or a nice bowl of soup.
But whatever it is, just know it’s gonna be good—
Just don’t let it be callaloo.

But it’s not like I had a choice.
I’d eat whatever was cooked, as long as my belly was full.
And for that lesson, I am forever grateful.

Nights spent sleeping like a baby,
The heavy rain beating on the zinc roof—
Oh, I’d wish it never stopped.

Busy Saturdays,
When every clothesline was covered with hand-washed clothes,
And mothers and grandmothers spruced up to go get groceries.

Hmmm, and Sundays—even a baby could recognize a Sunday.

The stillness and quiet of that day were undeniable. I mean, unless you lived near a church.

Sunday school was a must. Today, I believe the greatest gift my mother ever gave me was making sure I was in church. ” Train up a child in the way they should go,” and I never departed from it. But back then, I didn’t know that.

I just wanted to get out and run home. I mean, you know what Sunday is about. Rice and peas… but what on top? Fingers always crossed, hoping it would be fried chicken.

Oh, and the sound of the ice cream man’s horn in the distance meant it was time to nag your parents or shake out the week’s savings from the piggy bank. Rum and raisin and grape grape nut ice cream, chefs kiss.

Let’s scream about summer.
Jamaican summers.
It was a time when kids practically lived in the river, like amphibians, because the heat was no joke.
As for me, I didn’t have much river experience—my mother was too paranoid.
I had just to hope and pray that somebody would come to their senses and plan a beach trip.

The night before, bags packed, too excited to sleep,
Up wondering who’d get the window seat.
One of my favorite beach memories was catching glimpses of the glistening water from a distance, which always built up excitement

I’d rush across the beautiful white sand and throw myself in.
Just for the saltwater to splash into my face, melt my eyes, and rush straight up my nose.
I would think it was the death of me.
But that was home writing its memories across my heart.

Nothing like bully beef sandwiches or home-cooked food on the shore,
Watching the sky changes color as the sun sets.

Summer—a time for games,
For stucky-pully and idle hands,
As Mama would say.

Then, the excitement of school again—
Not for classes, but for new uniforms,
New shoes, and a new bag every year, like it was Christmas.

You really wanna talk about Christmas? That’s another story.
I mean, my family didn’t have ham or a Christmas tree,
But it always felt like Christmas to me.
You’d see the joy in everyone on the street corners you’d meet.

Choir rehearsals, Christmas concerts—
I didn’t know much about Santa Claus.
Heard a lot about him; he sounded like a cool dude,
But he never came to the ghetto, lol.

I knew much about Christ, though.
From a tender age, I could tell you about
The three wise men, the Star from the East,
Mary, the manger, our Savior.

Christmas tree? Nah.
He had to go to Calvary—for me.

We weren’t expecting snow,
But we’d know something was coming.
Thee Grand Market—
Every child’s dream, every teenager’s playground.

When you hear Grand Market,
You hear “new clothes,” and it didn’t have to be name brand.
Fresh hairstyles and whatever else our parents could afford.

We weren’t expecting snow,
But we’d know something was coming,
Something didn’t have all year.

That good ole red beverage—sorrel,
Ginger so strong it could burn your digestive tract.

And jingling bells? Nope—
More like the belting scream of the family goat.
You know what that meant: curry goat!

Come on, isn’t that better than a white Christmas?
And that’s just to name a few.

Thank God there was no snow.
That chilly Christmas breeze was enough for me.
Water so cold, you’d be dancing in the shower.
But that same Christmas breeze
Is what brings back Christmas for me.

Sweet, sweet, sweet Jamaica.
If you were a person,
You’d have lush green hair, big, beautiful eyes,
One radiant smile,
And your food—an irresistible perfume.

Sweet Jamaica,
There’s just so much to say.
Trying to fit you in a poem feels insane.

My little island under the sun,
Though you are changing day by day,
My love for you remains the same.

My sweet, sweet Jamdung,
Land of wood and water,
Where the vibes never die.

– Natalia Mason

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