Narrated by Slippers
Mi just finish lickin di last bit of red dirt from mi paw after di storm from yesterday. Di yard did finally quiet. Birds a dry out, zinc still dripping, and Trevor sniffing di grass like nothing never happen. Lady Dee deh inside boiling bush tea, mumbling something ’bout her nerves, while Mama sit under the almond tree shelling peas. Shoes and Socks deh pon di zinc edge drying feathers, and Bubbles floating slow inna him tank like him finally find peace.
Mi seh to miself, “A likkle calm finally reach.” But not five minutes pass before mi hear it.
A long, loud, belly-deep “MOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” echo from di lane like a thunder roll. Mi ear twitch. Trevor drop to the ground like him hear judgement day. Lady Dee shout from inside, “A wha dat?” and Mama pause mid-shelling. Her face change. She squint toward di front gate and whisper, “Is not just any cow… is Trouble.”
Mi run to the front yard and stop in mi tracks. Right there, bold as brass, was a bull. Not just any bull — Trouble. Brown like roast yam skin, big like minibus, horn wide like coconut limb. Him walkin down the lane slow and heavy like him own the whole district. No rope. No owner. Just vibes and raw confidence.
Shoes bawl out from di roof, “LOCK DI GATE!” But it was too late. Trevor did gone from him post, and the gate swing wide open like it invite Trouble in fi dinner.
Mama leap up, Lady Dee come running out with oven mitt still pon one hand, and mi bark loud-loud from the front step like mi is K9 officer. Trouble stop, sniff the air, then walk straight inna the yard. Him nuh flinch, him nuh blink — just stroll in like him get letter fi appear.
Him march straight to the callaloo patch and start munch like buffet open. Lady Dee fling a green banana — miss by a mile. Mama shout from behind the broom, “Somebody distract him!” but nobody move. Then di bull move toward the clothesline pole. Him turn sideways, bend up him back like him doing yoga, and start scratch him hide against the post. The pole lean. One sheet drop in a puddle. A pillowcase fly over the tank like white flag of surrender. Bubbles shout from inside, “Trespasser!”
Mi run forward to help and end up inside a crocus bag of banana. Socks gone. Shoes hiding behind a bucket. Trevor flat on his belly, whispering, “Mayyyyy…”
Everything quiet. Then Lady Dee step out slow with a mango peel bucket. Her voice soft like lullaby. “Trouble… yuh want sumn sweet?” Him sniff the air, tilt him head, and start trotting over — still chewing callaloo. She backstep slow, leading him right back to di gate like she a bull whisperer. Mama swing the gate shut just in time and lock it with a broomstick. Trevor run up and tie it off with one wet sheet corner like him part of security team.
The yard went quiet again. Nobody talk for a minute. Just the drip of zinc and the flap of one surviving towel on the line.
Mi lie down by the tank, paws full of red mud again. Shoes peek over the roof. Socks still hiding. Bubbles blowing soft bubbles like therapy. Mama sip tea from an old enamel mug and seh, “A goat we expect fi trouble we. But a cow come remind we say… not every beast ring bell before him enter.”
Same mi. Same shoes. But today mi see it wid mi own eye — a cow name Trouble can bring a whole yard to its knees.
Coming up next:
Episode 8 – Scene 1: Market Day – Who Tief Di Callaloo?
Lady Dee heading to market with the full crew in tow.
Will this finally be a normal day… or is trouble already in the basket?
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