The soft kiss of the sun landed softly on the corner of his lips, teasing them up into a sleepy smile. Every morning he would sit up, digging the crust from his eyes and give thanks to Jah for waking him so sweetly. There was no glass or curtain to steal the gift of the sun, only an open square cut into the wooden planks of his shanty right above his bed. It could be closed by way of another square of wood, mounted on hinges that he could swing in and deadbolt when the rain came. As Masali stood he reached his arms up and up, stretching the groaning sleep from his body, shaking his locks and scratching his head. He walked over to the door and pushed it open, tying the string that hung from the side to a nail on the outside so that it stayed open. His shack stood in a small clearing surrounded by a forest of fruit trees. Standing in the doorway he took a meal of a breath. The smell of cocoa pods ripening on gnarled branches, the sweet ruin of rotten mangoes on the ground. The biting tang of lemons and the mild citric scent of grapefruit all swelled into his hungry nose, lingering on his tongue before filling his belly with their succulent aroma. The light was still soft and the dewdrops in the air felt cool in his nose, sliding down into his lungs and filling his body with clean peace. He turned back into his home and grabbed the tray of chopped herb off the end table next to the head of his bed. Across the room there stood a wooden table with two wooden chairs, like all of the furniture in his home heâd carved them himself. He sat down at the table as he rolled his morning spliff. Once he finished he tucked it behind his ear, and grabbed a pair of shorts from the shelf against the wall between the table and the bed that held the small collection of clothes he owned. On his way outside he grabbed a lighter off of the dresser and stuck it in his pocket. He walked around to the side of the house where a garden of pepper trees, peas and cucumbers stood in proud rows saluting the breaking morn. He grabbed his bucket and soap where they lay on the ground by the house and headed to the river, keeping an eye out for the ripe prickle pears that always covered the ground this time of year. By the time he made it to the river bank the bottom of his bucket was full of the sweet round fruit. He stopped beside a big flat river stone that jutted out into river and put down his bucket. He took the spliff from his ear and placed it on the stone along with the lighter beside the bucket. Finally he slipped into the clear brisk water with soap in hand. After enjoying his refreshing bath, he sat on the stone with his feet dangling in the water and lit his morning spliff, blowing a cloud of grey smoke into the clear sky. Sitting in the growing heat of the sun, Masali turned his thoughts to the day ahead, planning how he would make his money. He was a hustler who lived off the land. Usually he would spend the morning roaming the countryside gathering whatever fruits or vegetables he could find, then he would sell his load to people in the neighborhood, or sometimes he would find his way to the market and peddle his goods there. Just as he was making up his mind to go back and check on a breadfruit tree heâd seen the day before, the sound of crunching leaves interrupted his thoughts. He looked up to see a group of men headed in his direction walking along the river. There were four of them dressed in jeans and t-shirts, wearing bright yellow vests with reflective strips. They noticed him when they were a couple yards off and he waved good morning to them.
The man closest to him returned his greeting as they slowed to talk to him.
âNuttin much, I cool bredren. Yâall workin out here?â Masali asked.
âYea, some yankee man done buy up a whole thousand acres out here so we come and mark the boundaries for the sale.â
âI thought this land out here belonged to Francis people and dem?â
âWell it used to. I donât know if you know the old man Cedric, he was the last one that had claim on the land and he never had no children. He was livin over in England but he pass away a while back, about ten years now. Since nobody claim the land it went back to the government for a while but I guess they finally find somebody to take it off they hands.â
âYou know anything about the man who buy it, a yankee you say?â Masali asked.
âWell the talk is he planning to build some houses out here to rent for tourists. Thatâs all I really know. You know man donât ask too many questions long as they pay we.â the workmen chuckled amongst themselves at the bad joke.
âYou live around here?â the surveyor asked.
âYea, yea. You know Ms Sharon big shop up on the main road? Well right over there I stayin.â he lied.
âOk, yea I kno where. We gone head over there this afternoon for lunch. Well we aint mean to disturb your meditation, and we have to go get these boundaries run so we gone head out. Take care Ras.â
As the man and his team prepared to move on Masali picked up his bucket and walked towards them, âBefore yall go take some golden apple. I jus pick them up this mornin, they real sweet.â âYou sure?â the surveyor asked as he looked into the bucket of ripe fruit.
âYea man, bless up. Take that for the walk. I know yâall gone be workin hard out here.â
The men thanked Masali as they took his gift and headed down the river bank, leaving him alone with his thoughts again. He sat back down on the river stone and relit his spliff which had gone out. He turned to the sky and emptied himself into the smoke that rose to the clouds. He sat in the stillness of the clearing and no happy thoughts or plans moved through his mind. By now the heat of the sun was beginning to weigh heavy on his bare skin. The memory of the surveyorâs words came back to him but he pushed it away and smoked the rest of his spliff in stillness. The walk back to his shack felt long. He looked around as he walked the path and everything looked new and strange. The sound of his bare feet crunching on the dried leaves sounded too loud, as if the earth itself protested his right to walk here. Soon he was standing in front of his shack. Eight years he had lived in this little clearing he thought to himself. When he first found it there was nothing but untamed bush. He had asked around the neighborhood and people told him the Francis family had âgone to foreign.â He stood staring at the small wooden building, looking over the boards and remembering the sensation of pounding the nails into place. He noticed how his careful measuring had left no gaps in the boards. Each plank lay straight, even, deliberate, placed with meticulous precision. He remembered how proud he felt because instead of using big squares of plywood which would have been easy, heâd used individual planks because they were sturdier. The galvanized roof lay flat and solid, no shoddily laid patches catching the wind and rattling against the frame. He could see the posts heâd driven into the ground and how strong they stood. Standing looking at the house he had built alone, in the bush, his chest grew tight. He knew he would be fine, he had never had a problem surviving, but this was the one time in his life he had truly owned something. He could wait until the rich yankee came and ask him for permission to stay, but the very thought of begging for this home that he had built with his own hands hurt too much. Besides what would he have to pay? What piece of himself would have to be offered up in return. He had no claim to this land even though heâd fed the soil his own sweat and blood. No. No matter how he looked at it, he would have to leave. Even now he felt like a stranger on this land. How could he rest his head here knowing that when he opened his eyes his sunlit kisses would only mean he was one day closer to being robbed of his prize. He thought of strange men dressed in hard hats, stomping around his garden in work boots. He heard the roaring engine of the Caterpillar bulldozer and the screams of the wood beneath the iron treads. Saw them picking up the pieces and throwing them into wheelbarrows to be rolled to dumpsters where his house would lie with filth and debris like common trash. It was clear to him that whatever he did, he could not allow this to happen. It wasnât a thought so much as a compulsion. He felt the strength to move from where he stood rooted to the ground, he walked into the small shack and began throwing what little he owned into a green canvas bag. Once the house was bare he gathered as much dead wood and brush as he could find into the center of the floor. He moved deliberately and automatically, allowing his focus on his actions to block out all dissenting emotions or distractions. Soon thick clouds of black smoke billowed up into the afternoon sun. He stood in front of the blazing fire, watching it burn with all the vigor and spirit heâd poured into the wooden walls. Finally the storm of his tears broke, raining down his dark, still face. He stood and watered the earth with his tears while the cracking, splintering cries of his home rose into the sky. By the time the last of the flames curled lazily from the coals, a thick blanket of night laid softly across the sky. He raised his head and breathed deep, eyes closed, listening to the land. Crickets screaming in the darkness. The whispering voices of trees drifted on the wind. The memory of a pregnant breadfruit tree drifted into his mind and he opened his eyes.
âThank Jahâ he whispered as he turned and walked into the waiting arms of the bush. Â
