A Brief History of Seven Killings

Didn’t feel like taking all this food back to the house. I don’t know but I loved the idea of just sitting in this little restaurant overhearing the announcer on TV get excited over cricket and eating fried chicken. There’s a Jamaica Gleaner and a Star newspaper in the booth right across. Also Jamaica Observer, which I’ve never heard of. The man turns on the big TV mounted from the ceiling, and the first thing that comes on is cricket.

— That JBC? I say.

— Nah, some hurry-come-up Caribbean network, maybe Trinidad, the way everybody sound so sing-songy. Is ’cause of them why Jamaica have carnival now.

— Carnival? With soca music?

— Eehi.

— Since when Jamaicans like soca music?

— Since uptown want reason to dance in them brassiere and panty ’pon the street. Then hi, you no hear ’bout carnival?

— No.

— You must no go back too much. Or you no have no family ’pon the rock. You read the newspaper?

— No.

— Is forget you a try forget.

— What?

— Never mind, me love. I hope you raising your children like Jamaica and none of them American slackness, you know.

— I don’t have — I mean, yes.

— Good. Good. Just like the Bible say. Train a child how he should grow and—

And I’m already tuning out. I’m in a little Jamaican food shop tuning out a man giving me granny wisdom. But damn this is good fry chicken, light brown and almost chunky and soft inside like he fried it then baked it. And rice and peas together, not the separated shit from Popeyes I have to mix together. I’m already a third of the way through this plate of plantains and was this close to anointing sorrel my favourite processed, possibly toxic, chemical lab re-creation of an original drink.

— Bombo pussy r’asscloth.

Couldn’t remember the last time I heard those words coming out a mouth that wasn’t mine.

— Bombo pussy r’asscloth.

— What going on?

— Look, me love. R’ass.

All I’m seeing is bad video of a Jamaican crowd, probably the same stock footage they’ve been using for the past fifteen years whenever anybody does a story on Jamaica. The same black men in t-shirts and tank tops, the same woman jumping up and down, the same placards made out of cardboard from people who can’t spell. The same army jeep moving in and out of camera. Seriously.

— Bombo pussy r’ass—

I’m about to ask him what so special about this report when I read the streamer at the bottom of the screen.

JOSEY WALES FOUND BURNED TO DEATH IN PRISON CELL.

The man turns up the volume yet I’m still not hearing a thing. There only the slab on the screen. Some man naked from the waist up, skin shiny like it was melting from all the heat, chunks of his chest and side blackened, large spots white like only his skin was burned off. Skin peeled off his breast like a suckling pig. I really couldn’t tell if the photo was out of focus or he really did melt.

— Copenhagen City burning down now. And the same day they go bury him son? Lawd a massy.

It’s running across the screen now: JOSEY WALES FOUND BURNED TO DEATH IN PRISON CELL * JOSEY WALES FOUND BURNED TO DEATH IN PRISON CELL * JOSEY WALES FOUND BURNED TO DEATH IN PRISON CELL * JOSEY WALES FOUND BURNED TO DEATH IN PRISON CELL

— No sign of forced entry, no visitors allowed in the cell today, nobody can say how the man get burn up. Maybe him just catch fire ’pon himself. Rahtid me can’t believe—

— They sure is him?

— Who else it going be? Some other man in General Penitentiary name Josey Wales? Shit. Fuck. Excuse me y’hear, lady, a nuff people me have to call now. Me can’t be — Lady, you alright?

I make it through the door just before the vomit burst my lips open and splatters all over the sidewalk. Somebody across the street must be watching me hack fried chicken while my own belly is contracting the life out of me. Nobody is coming but I still left a mess right near his door. I’m trying to stand up straight but my stomach kicks itself again and I bowl over hacking but no vomit. At least the man is back behind the counter. I go inside, pick up my bag and walk out.

I’m on my couch and the TV has been on for two hours but I still don’t know what I’m watching. Don’t think I’ve ever seen a man look cooked. I really should get a cover for this sofa. And maybe a painting or something for the living room. And a good plant, no a fake plant, any living thing would die under me. The phone has been in my lap for minutes now. Just as the credits start to roll it rings.

— Hello?

— Putting you through now, ma’am.

— Thank you, thanks.

My hands are shaking, making the phone rattle against my earring.

— Hello? Hello? Hello, who’s speaking?

My hands are shaking and I know if I don’t say something now, I’m going to slam down the phone before she speaks again.

— Kimmy?

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