Narrated by Slippers
Mi belly still tight from that country bus ride. Mi paw dem sore, mi ear full of horn noise, and mi spirit? Barely holding on. All now mi cyaan believe Lady Dee put leash pon Trevor and not mi — and mi name Slippers!
But when dat big green and cream bus finally wheel into one narrow track inna St. Elizabeth, mi nose pick up something different.
Bush. Real bush.
Mi step off the last step, touch dirt, and mi whole system shock.
Dis was not di Kingston yard wid zinc and streetlight.
Dis was deep, raw countryside. Red dirt, fresh goat poop, mango leaf, and peace yuh can smell.
Mi look ‘round cautious.
Trevor fling off di leash like celebrity goat and shout,
“MAYYYYYY!”
like him reach back a homeland.
Bubbles inna him fish bowl look stressed. Him eyes wide like him wondering where the filter system deh. Socks and Shoes flap out pan full alert.
“Mi cyaan feel mi GPS!” Socks bawl.
Shoes seh, “How yuh tell weh north deh when all di tree dem look di same?”
Mi try calm dem down, but truth is — mi confused too.
We deh inna one big open yard. Fence made of rust and promise. Breadfruit tree inna one corner, zinc shed inna di other. Clothesline hang low wid some serious granny brassiere blowing like them a signal plane.
Before mi could adjust mi tail, out walk Mama.
Yes… di Mama.
Apron tight, spoon in hand, eyebrow cocked like she expecting noise.
“Mi seh — who bring goat, bird, dog, and fish come mash up mi yard?”
Then she laugh one big laugh and open her arms.
“Mi baby come home fi true!”
Lady Dee drop all har bag and hug har mother.
Mi swear a tear nearly drop from mi good eye.
Then a voice shout from cross di fence,
“LADY DEE?! MI DID TINK A LIE! UNNU REALLY REACH?!”
And out come neighbour Miss Pearl wid har headtie, bawling louder than di bus horn.
“Which one a dem a di famous dog?! Mi hear say him talk!”
Mi freeze. Mi sniff. Mi nah bark. Mi just nod.
Slippers don’t talk fi free.
One barefoot pickney run up and point at Bubbles,
“A fish? INNA A BOTTLE?”
Shoes fly down and seh,
“Respect di tank. Dis is international seafood.”
Trevor gone pon a mission — him sniffin every pole, every tree, every scent like him born deh so. But mi know him bluffin. Him never deh pan no farm inna him life till Lady Dee adopt him in Kingston. Still, him walking ‘round like him own coconut plantation.
Mama look Trevor straight in him face.
“Mi only have one rule: if yuh chew mi thyme bush, is brown stew goat by weekend!”
Trevor freeze.
“Mayyyyy,” him whisper — but softer dis time.
Mi wander over to di guinep tree fi claim mi spot. Breeze blow.
Sweet bush air. Likkle smoke from somebody cooking soup.
A rooster somewhere behind di house tun up like a selector at 6am.
KA-REE-COOOO!
Shoes fly straight up.
“WHAT DAT?! Dem rooster deh aggressive bad!”
Lady Dee flop down pon di verandah chair like she finally free.
“No WiFi. No TV. But mi have breeze and bush… and mi still alive.”
Mi lie down. Watch Bubbles float.
Socks asleep pon a branch.
Shoes doing security sweeps.
Trevor sniffin under di yam stack.
And mi?
Mi close mi eyes and smile.
Same mi. Same shoes.
But mi know now… dis yard? Dis yard is where new stories about fi start.
Coming Up Next:
Scene 4 – Yard Rules & Goat Feuds
Who running tings? Who get tie up? Who chew di wrong bush?
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