LETTERS FROM THE EDGE: It's hard to trust my Jamaican people Featured

Gossip & Rumours Written by  Friday, 17 August 2018 15:03 font size decrease font size increase font size 0
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Two months ago, I was driving south, inching  along in traffic along Grange Lane in the vicinity of the new KFC in Portmore when I felt a jolt as a man slammed into the bumper of my BMW. My first reaction was 'rass, look how da man ya mash up mi day now', so I pulled off onto the soft shoulder, dreading the worse.

However, when I inspected the bumper, there was only an offending, crimpled, dark line to show where the bumper had been violated by the car. 

I glanced over at the offending party and saw a fifty something year old clean-shaven man with a potbelly emerge from a 1989 Toyota Cressida and waddle over to me, his hands already out in an approximation of an 'I-am-really-sorry' apology. 


Immediately, a torrent of words splayed out from his fat mouth:  he had not been paying attention, he had glanced at his phone and the car came up suddenly and ya-di-ya-ya-ya. I took a breath and let his words wash over me. He had one  younger gentleman, and another man - with similar features to the driver, and who I guessed was his brother - with him, I sized them up quickly and decided they were not a threat. 


I asked him for his papers, and he waddled back to his car to get them. He came back, apologizing profusely. I snapped a photo of the damage to my car - really negligible - and his driver's licence and registration, and then - whoa, wait a minute - I said: "where is the insurance?".


He cast his glance downwards as if suddenly, his shoes and the melting blacktop were far more interesting that this bit of theatre unfolding before him. 

 I repeated the question, with more volume and bass this time. 

"Weh di insurance deh?' 

There was no answer. Agitated now. I turned towards my car, opened the door to hop in. 

"General, wah yu a deal wid? Come mek we go over the station then," I said. 

"No," he pleaded but it came out a squeak. Then he forced his eyes, literally herded them from the tops of his shoelaces up to meet my terrible gaze, acting as though he were some intimidated third-grader who had been caught putting a lizard down the back of some girl's school uniform, than the big 'greyback' asshole who had hit my car on a sunny afternoon. 


"Bossy, mi a beg yu a chance, mi no have no insurance, beg yu a chance, mi wi fix any damage to yu vehicle," he pleaded. 


"Really?" I said. "You can't afford insurance but yu a go fix a BMW bumper".

"Bossy," he said. I shook my head. I was almost 15 years his junior, but here he was trying to butter me up. "Ah fridge and dem tings de mi fix, mi can hustle back the money quick quick...ah just fi the work come in."


His brother chimed in, and another apologetic gush surged from his mouth. I moved downwind so I didn't have to hear much of what he had to say. I looked at his dirty fingernails, and surmised that he was a hard worker, but was he trustworthy?  I took his words off mute and listened once again  --  I would help him, he was saying, it was just that the work was coming in slow, but together, they could do it and he was oh so sorry, and all that happy-crappy. I smiled. This was my chance to run a social experiment. 


I went to the car and made a big show of inspecting the damage. It was hardly likely that the impact had dislodged the sensors and my mother's voice whispered in my ear: 'you can hardly see the damage'. My mother, a dear, gentle soul, is always willing to give people a chance, and so I submitted to the angel of my better nature. I took their phone numbers - both brothers, and offered them mine. 


As they retreated to their car, smiling their shit-faced smiles, they said "we will call you, don't worry, weh ah go deal with it general".


I smiled, jumped back in the car and sped off. They did not call the first two days, so on day 3, I called them and tried the number of Asshole #1 the driver, and said: 'what's up with my car?'. He promised 'soon'. Day 4, I tried to get him again, no answer. So I called Asshole #2, the brother. He vowed that his brother would soon get to it. I reminded him that it was a criminal offence to drive without insurance. he assured me that his brother would soon sort it out, they were honest men, and all that BS. 


I stared at him like he was a bug under a microscope, pretending like I was lost in thought, and then let out a heavy hiss of surrender. OK, I heard myself say:  I  will give you a chance. Six little words. But words that I have come to regret. 


Fast forward ten weeks. They haven't called me. Not once, to see if I have whiplash, or if I have exited this astral plane. Zilch. Zip. Nada.  I have since deleted both numbers out of my phone, and proceeded with my life. The world's a tough classroom sometimes, but eventually, you will learn. So today's lesson, if you care to absorb it, is : "don't trust no one, it's human nature to be selfish; don't give irresponsible people, especially a Jamaican a chance, that's just an opening for them to really put the knife in you later on'.  DONT TRUST THESE MOTHERFUCKERS. Jamaicans only understand the fist, a terrible legacy learned at the whips of our colonial masters. Most can't even spell compassion, and believe empathy is perhaps some shiny new gun they haven't seen yet. FUCK 'EM. 


Some Jamaicans a fuckery!


Read 937 times Last modified on Friday, 17 August 2018 09:13

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