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Storyteller

The Naked Drunk

I never saw crack-heads on the island. Mainly drunks, some people love their fire water, but if you ask me, they are just as stupid and equally as dangerous. I was on the beach chilling, watching some kids play football – soccer to some of you. I saw a drunk in ragged old shorts and no shirt. That man was the skinniest person I ever seen. He looked like the rum was drying him up. He was using a cutlass to open a green coconut, but he was swinging it recklessly, becoming a danger to those closest to him. One of his friends tried to take the cutlass away from him and he became belligerent. More of his friends tried to reason with him, but he began swinging the weapon wildly.

Call Babylon!” someone shouted, and the melee escalated. The drunk was not swinging at anybody who came close to him. He was screaming something about the devil and evil angels.

The police arrived but even they could not control the raging drunk. They shuffled around as if doing some kind of voodoo dance, then the drunk broke free and ran for the ocean. He splashed into the emerald-colored water, still holding the cutlass. He swam or waded until he could not stand, and then he started sinking. The police had no choice but to go after him. They reached him, grabbed the cutlasss and dragged him back to shore. When they got to the shore and laid him on the sand, laughter erupted when the people on the beach realized that he had lost his pants in the struggle. His little Dexter was exposed for all to see. That made the drunk furious. He started to fight again. He broke free and began running down the beach with the policemen in hot pursuit, followed by the crowd, laughing and shouting. They finally caught up with him when one of the policemen dropped him with a perfect football slide. But now that they had him down, they hesitated, not wanting to touch his naked body. They finally had to when he tried to get back up. You have never heard such cursing and screaming in your life as they carried him off the beach and to the police station.  

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Pics with verse Storyteller

Banana Trance

It is early morning, like 2am, I had just came back from the local rumshop, not drunk, just tired from running around. I opened the door and walked into the living room. I did not turn the light on for fear of waking Mommy Charles up. I was breaking one of her rules, never come in after midnight. I struggled ti take my shoes off in the dark, hopping around making more noise than I wanted to. I stumped my foot on the centre table, hissed a little, my toes throbbing with pain. I shushed myself and listened, no Mommy Charles. I tiptoed towards the kitchen, got to the door and stopped, took a deep breath. Looks like mommy Charles had gone into the garden in the back yard and picked some fresh bananas. I closed my eyes and inhaled. I loved the smell of fresh, ripe bananas, reminded me of going up to the countryside to visit family. Ahhh that smell permeated the village.Standing there in the dark, it felt like i was standing in the middle of a plantation, a slight breeze sweeping through it, the banana leaves whistling a little, goats bleated somewhere in the dark, an own hooted in the nearby mango tree. I stood there, hypnotized by my imagination and the scent of the bananas. Suddenly it was bright. i opened my eyes and looked down at the bowl of bananas. I felt as if someone was looking at me. I slowly turned around and I came face to face with an angry Mommy Charles. I should have gone straight to bed and not get emtranced by the scent of those bloody bananas.

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Storyteller

The Naked Drunk from I am a Dirty Immigrant

I never saw crack-heads on the island. Mainly drunks, some people love their fire water, but if you ask me, they are just as stupid and equally as dangerous. I was on the beach chilling, watching some kids play football – soccer to some of you. I saw a drunk in ragged old shorts and no shirt. That man was the skinniest person I ever seen. He looked like the rum was drying him up. He was using a cutlass to open a green coconut, but he was swinging it recklessly, becoming a danger to those closest to him. One of his friends tried to take the cutlass away from him and he became belligerent. More of his friends tried to reason with him, but he began swinging the weapon wildly.

Call Babylon!” someone shouted, and the melee escalated. The drunk was not swinging at anybody who came close to him. He was screaming something about the devil and evil angels.

The police arrived but even they could not control the raging drunk. They shuffled around as if doing some kind of voodoo dance, then the drunk broke free and ran for the ocean. He splashed into the emerald-colored water, still holding the cutlass. He swam or waded until he could not stand, and then he started sinking. The police had no choice but to go after him. They reached him, grabbed the cutlasss and dragged him back to shore. When they got to the shore and laid him on the sand, laughter erupted when the people on the beach realized that he had lost his pants in the struggle. His little Dexter was exposed for all to see. That made the drunk furious. He started to fight again. He broke free and began running down the beach with the policemen in hot pursuit, followed by the crowd, laughing and shouting. They finally caught up with him when one of the policemen dropped him with a perfect football slide. But now that they had him down, they hesitated, not wanting to touch his naked body. They finally had to when he tried to get back up. You have never heard such cursing and screaming in your life as they carried him off the beach and to the police station.  

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Parts Dirty Immigrant Storyteller

Giant On the Dancefloor( Don’t grind on my Knees) From I am a Dirty Immigrant

I stopped going to bars, not only because of the fighting, but because the atmosphere was so much different from the island. For one, the dancing was too sexed up for me. Booties flying everywhere, people faces contorted with sexual pleasure. Being seven feet tall was not consummate with slow dancing. No woman wanted to slow dance with their face pressed up against my crotch, nor was it any fun to do all that grinding and gyrating on the back of some woman’s head. Yes, being seven feet sucks on the dance floor. I remember one time I was standing against a wall in a club, looking at all the people going wild on the floor. Suddenly, I felt a bump on my knees. I did not think anything of it, but became a little annoyed when the bumping persisted. I looked down and there was this short blonde girl grinding against my knees. Her blonde hair was whipping from side to side, her drunken eyes glazed with pleasure. I gently bumped her with my knees, but soon she was back at it again. I shook my leg as if trying to stop a dog from humping me, but she was relentless. I leaned down and whispered in her ear, “I don’t know about you, but you grinding on my knees is not doing anything for me. Now stop attacking my bum knee.” She looked up at me, rolled her eyes and stomped off into the crowd. When I went out back home, I always danced by myself. I would park right next to the speaker and just sway to Bob Marley, or Denis Brown, or whatever cool runnings music that was playing.

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Parts Obeah Storyteller

From the novel Obeah

It was three in the morning and Akosua was still asleep in the corner. She had not dreamt all night, but now she tossed and turned. Her dark sleep had changed, and now she stood in a field that was engulfed in a thick fog that came up to her waist. She heard animals, and felt them brush against her legs. Birds flew just above the fog, as if in search of something. She heard laughter and tried to figure out where it had come from. The laughter echoed, and the macabre sound seemed to surround her. She saw a black top hat coming towards her; someone or something slowly ascended a flight of stairs. She waited, a face appeared, and it was skeletal like. Despite his dark glasses, his red eyes seemed to be floating in its sockets. He wore a black tuxedo and had cotton plugs in his nostrils like a corpse dressed and prepared for burial. Akosua recognized him; it was Baron Samedi Loa of death. He walked up to her and stopped about an arm’s length away and laughed. He lifted his hand and took a swig from a bottle of rum and puffed on a cigar that dangled from his mouth.

“Me little pickeny.” He said his voice was nasal. “You thik you go win a war with me,” he threw his head back and laughed. Smoke floated out of his mouth. He stopped laughing, took a drink, and then tossed the bottle into the fog. She heard the bottle hit the soft mud then roll a little. A wolf howled then scurried away. Baron Samedi laughed again.

“You don’t have the power to defeat we. Your parents will always be our slaves, Jumbies for life.  We will destroy you chosen one or not. “He said, his eyes became a deathly stare, Akosua shivered a little in the damp air.

“You are not all powerful you can be defeated, it has happen in the past,” Akosua said. Baron Samedi threw his head back and laughed.

“That was no defeat, remember, a man who turns and run away, lives to fight another day, and furthermore, do you think I am going to let meself be defeated by a mere child. You should be out playing. Just because you have a boyfriend does not make you big woman,” he said and laughed, smoke bellowed out of his mouth.

“Yemaya and her good spirits will make sure you and your Ligaroos are destroyed,” she said, Baron Samedi took a drag from his cigar and looked at her.

“Yemaya, that’s Obeah witch, that lose woman, a little of me charm and she would be like sugar in me tea,” he said, a twisted smile on his face. Akosua smiled back and that enraged him.

“You should be afraid of me you little witch. Your services and offerings will not save you and soon you too will become me Jumbies just like you mother.” He shouted then laughed, and backed up. His red eyes flashed with a spark of orange.  Slowly drowning out the sound of his laughter was a chorus of voices, some moaned woefully while others screamed causing the area around Akosua to vibrate. Behind him, she saw a human form above the mist. Akosua shook her head but kept on smiling;

“Your black magic doesn’t scare me,” Akosua said. Baron Samedi threw his head back and screamed then charged at her. Just before his body slammed into her, she woke up and looked around. A thick fog floated into the hut from the door. She saw a dark figure looking down on her and sat up, Kwao stood looking in at her. When he realized she was awake he turned and walked away.

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Food Storyteller

What is a Christmas cake

Each island have different names for it. On my island we called it a fruit cake, some islands call it black cake and others call it rum cake. I will leave the recipe because it is ismas. enjoy and have an irie ismas.

For the fruit:
•1 3/4 cups whole raw almonds, coarsely chopped
•1 3/4 cups dried cherries, coarsely chopped
•1 3/4 cups prunes, coarsely chopped
•1 1/2 cups dark rum, such as Myers’s, plus 4 tablespoons for brushing
•1 1/2 cups raisins, coarsely chopped
•1 1/2 cups ruby port
•1 1/4 cups currants
•3/4 cup candied orange peel, coarsely chopped

For the cake:
•3 cups all-purpose flour
•2 teaspoons kosher salt
•1 tablespoon baking powder
•1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon
•1/2 teaspoon ground clove
•1/2 teaspoon ground nutmeg
•4 sticks (1 pound) unsalted butter, at room temperature
•2 1/4 cups packed light brown sugar
•6 large eggs, at room temperature
•2 teaspoons vanilla extract
•3/4 cup burnt sugar syrup

INSTRUCTIONS

For the fruit:
Combine all ingredients in a 3-quart container with a tightfitting lid and mix well. Cover tightly and store in a dark, cool, dry place for 1 week.

For the cake:
Heat the oven to 300°F and arrange a rack in the middle. Coat two 9-by-5-inch loaf pans with butter; set aside.
Combine flour, salt, baking powder, cinnamon, clove, and nutmeg in a large bowl and whisk to aerate and break up any lumps. Set aside.
Place butter and sugar in the bowl of a stand mixer fitted with a paddle attachment, and beat on medium speed until pale yellow, about 3 minutes. Scrape down the sides of the bowl, and return the mixer to medium speed. Add eggs one at a time, letting each mix in fully before adding the next. Add vanilla. Scrape down the sides of the bowl and return the mixer to low speed.
Add flour mixture, macerated fruit and nuts along with any unabsorbed liquid, and burnt sugar, and mix until just combined. Divide batter evenly between the prepared pans (the pans will be completely full).
Bake until a cake tester comes out clean (the cake centers will be very moist), about 2 hours.
Let cool 30 minutes in the pans on a wire rack. Turn cakes out onto the rack, and brush each with 2 tablespoons dark rum. Cool completely before slicing and eating, or aging.
To age, store each cooled cake in a resealable plastic bag at room temperature for up to 2 months. A dark cupboard or pantry is ideal, but do not refrigerate, as the moisture le

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Stories Storyteller

The christmas cake mix

The christmas cake mix

Here I was eight years old, standing in the kitchen, the tropical sun blazing through the open back door. Mommy Charles stood over a bowl filled with dried fruit. On the counter was a bottle of wine, a bottle of brandy and a bottle of rum. I watched as she pours the liquor into the bowl and stirred, slowly the liquor and the fruit blended, creating a fruity alcohol scent through the house. Now for the next month, I had to walk around this house with the scent of fruit and liquor everywhere, anticipating Christmas night when Mommy Charles will bake the cake. One day, I walked by the cupboard where she had stored the mix, I stopped, looked around, I told myself, just one taste, just one. I opened the cupboard door, someone moved in the backyard. I closed the door and walked to the window and looked out. A dog walked out of the bushes. I went back to the cupboard and opened the door, closed my eyes and inhaled. I got a spoon from the drawer scooped a spoonful from the bowl. Ahhh that rummy taste, that fruit, the burn. Before I knew it I had eaten ten spoonfulls. I staggered back, my stomach churning, my head spinning. Oh brother, I should not have done that. IU sat down, the room spun like the hand made top I made few days earlier. I got up, stumbled to my bedroom and flopped onto the bed. The next thing I remembered was Mommy Charles shaking me away. I felt like Santa’s helpers were building toys in my head. I did not tell Mommy Charles what I did and she never found out either. That woman would have been real vexed if she knew.