My throat tightens, and the wind feels colder than before. The memories start crawling out like shadows, things I’ve buried, things I’ve become. All of it coming back, heavy and loud. The last time he told me to man up. The first time he told me I had to be the next Don. The gun in my hand before I even turned 10. Eight.
And now look at me. I’m a Don. A businessman. A fiancé. Somebody a guh call a f’d up man like me dem father. Jah. No matter how far mi go… it’s like mi cya escape him.
I place the paint down gently beside the grave, run my hand across the edge of the stone. “Yuh proud yet?” I whisper.
No answer comes. Just silence.
“Mi still a wul off everything fi yuh enuh, mi father… the way how yuh woulda want to,” my voice low. The brush still in my hand but motionless. The grave don’t answer but I swear it feels like it’s watching me.
“Mi have a woman weh mi really love,” I pause, jaw tight. My chest aches in a way that don’t feel physical.
“Mi breed har. Engage to har… so mi finally a see how yuh did seh yuh feel when yuh fall in love with Mommy.”
The wind shifts slightly. My fingers tremble, and I clench the brush tighter to steady them. “And now that mi a experience it… everybody a tell mi say it nuh hurt fi love. But even though mi love har and mi nuh regret nothing weh a gwaan between me and har, mi still feel like a the wrong move mi mek.” I blink slow.
“Mi shouldn’t mek it reach this far… cause now a she mi enemies a pree,” I say the last line in a whisper, like if I say it any louder, it might come true right in front of me.
My mind reels. He was ruthless. Untouchable. Yet Von still kill him. And mi? A reincarnation of that man. A better man in some ways… more calculated. But mi nuh half as good. Him ruthless, mi tactical. Him run shit with fire, mi run it with silence. But sometimes mi wonder… if mi ever really built fi this or if mi just a live off a him name.
What if mi enemy dem ketch mi lacking? What if mi clip empty? What if it stick? And sup’m happen to me… and mi cya protect har and mi youth? A voice in my head creep up, one that sounds like me but darker, heavier.You weak now.
I breathe out hard, looking at the grave like it might confirm it. “Mi just hope say yuh nuh disappointed inna mi… knowing say mi mek the same thing reach mi,” I murmur. My forehead damp, whether from heat or pressure, mi cya’ tell.
“Even though yuh always tell mi fi nuh worry bout nutt’n… mi worried bout this. Cause what if something fi go happen to har because of me? Knowing how innocent she is?” My voice cracks, barely noticeable. But I feel it. Mi feel everything. And that’s the problem.
It’s like mi brain never quiet. Mi thoughts always racing. Always prepping for worst-case… even in love. Mi love hard but mi paranoid harder. Sometimes mi wonder if a something wrong wid mi. If mi brain wired different. Cause mi always overthink. Over feel. Mi head ever loud, and even now, in silence, mi can’t hear peace.
Footsteps echo behind me, snapping me back. I turn slowly, blinking the haze away. “The Don month this,” Rick says, clapping a hand on my shoulder. I nod without a word.
“Yuh up here early man,” Gutta adds, walking up beside him.
“Yeah,” I murmur.
Jordane steps closer, eyeing the cans. “What color paint yuh buy fi paint Daddy grave?”
“Black and gold,” I tell him.
“No more white?” Junior asks, raising a brow. Suzanne stands beside him, arms folded.
“Weh Zara?” she asks.
“She a sleep,” I answer shortly. We get to work, using the brush to move across the stone. The white fades. Gold shines again. But that black… it don’t just cover the grave, it feels like it’s covering something inside me too. And I let it. Because right now mi cya feel anything else.
When we done, the others start laughing and talking, but I stay quiet, just staring at the grave. Mi light up a spliff, the smoke curling around my fingers as I inhale deep, trying to quiet the storm in my head. It don’t help much. But it helps enough. For now.
18
Boo
“Yuh practice yuh valedictorian speech yet?” Nickoi’s voice lands low in my ear, lips brushing the curve of my neck like they belong there.
Goosebumps trail across my skin. I exhale slowly, eyes on the mirror. “Barely.”
His arms slide around my waist, slow and sure, like he knows exactly what he’s doing. Like he’s done it a hundred times before. And maybe he has, but every time, it feels like the first.
“Mi nuh wah yuh go pon dat stage and nuh prepared, Mami,” he murmurs, voice velvet but firm. Protective. It makes me shift.
“Stop stare pon me like dat,” I mumble, cheeks hot, breaking eye contact.
