Melville Cooke Soun' fi dead
Tell dem sey we nah save no lead
Dub plate fi bus up
Inna soun' bway head
- Buju Banton
I ENCOUNTERED a deeper understanding of my country in between the cabbage and callaloo at Coronation Market about two weeks ago. The sage came in the guise of a rope-seller; his pearl of wisdom lay in his pitch. "Lotto problem! Husban' problem! Wife problem! Get yu rope! Fambily size!"
I looked at the yellow coils he was toting and, sure enough, they were thick enough to do the suicide job, but not so much as to make the knot-tying difficult. And they were certainly long enough to do the job for a traditional nuclear family, as well as our more practical extended ones. What was even more remarkable was that his ghoulish hawking did not excite a ripple or remark. It was business as usual.
Funnily enough (it is like when you see a striking car - others just keep popping up), a few days later a young lady in the newest shopping centre on Washington Boulevard/ Ken Hill Drive prodded me along the path the rope-seller had put me on. I passed her just as she was explaining to a young man that "Me haffi go buy wan shoes. Mi ave wan fineral fe go." That sealed it.
SHOCKING HEADLINE
We do not mourn death in Jamaica, we celebrate it. As much as the murder rate spirals upwards and the newspapers carry shocking headline after shocking headline of triple and quadruple murders, as well as how many people are killed in how many hours, it does not affect us as much as it should.
Hence, as a nation we will not be moved to do what we should towards if not eliminating, then certainly reducing the slaughter considerably.
The few funerals I have gone to, as well as those I have seen on television, have been much more about celebration than mourning. In fact, the pastors almost invariably say today we come not to mourn the death of Agnes, but to celebrate her life. Sure, the core relatives - and I mean core - and friends will mourn, but the vast majority wear broad grins and, when the funeral is over the party begins.
Hell! The meet-and-greet begins in the churchyard and the 'nyammings' and maybe 'jammings' is on while the concrete over the casket is still able to take a few initials. Those who do cry are the brief centre of attention.
And the fashions! Of course, THE STAR has kept us up-to-date with the party styles the ladies wear to the dons' funerals (Hey, speaking of which, are we not overdue for another dead don? Its been about a year since we had a real heavy one). At first one wonders if they are going to a party, but then you realise that they are.
CELEBRATING DEATH
In Jamaica we celebrate death. Think of how many different ways kill is used - from dominoes (Me a kill yuh han'), to sound system clashes (Ring de alarm, anadda soun' is dying), to deejay tussles (Me a go kill yuh a Sting), and you will see how this celebration of death is ingrained in our society. Hell, it is even used in the very act of reproducing life, when a man says to his friend that "Me waan kill da gal deh", meaning that he wants to have sex with her.
But when it comes to the death of actual people, we have a host of terms to avoid saying the word dead. Passed on.
Made the transition. Not with us anymore. Get tru'.
Similarly, there are quite a few alternatives to kill.
'Lick im dung'. 'Nyam im food'. 'Move im up'. So, how do we tackle a skyrocketing murder rate when we celebrate death in our lives as a people?
How do we even begin to think about preserving life in a society where the worth of the life you lived is judged by the size of your funeral? And in a country where front page shots and long TV news clips of faces contorted in mourning are fodder for laughter, how can we even think of stopping the madness?
In a country that elevates murderers in and out of uniform to a position of near deity, that is a bitch of a question.
As long as yuh no dead an' go unda de eart'
Trus me tings coulda worse - Goofy
Mel Cooke is a freelance writer.
