I woke to news late this afternoon that Mark “Buju Banton” Myrie had been found guilty by the Tampa, Florida jury. I braced myself for what would no doubt be a warranted out pouring of emotion from his loyal fans. However, what greeted me was nothing short of ignorance and stupidity as the said fans searched desperately for justification of the verdict.
The blame was firstly attributed to his skin colour. “A caw him black!”. When it became clear that wouldn’t stick, there were calls of “A caw him a rasta!”. This too would prove insufficient and so gears were swiftly changed, “A thru him a Jamaican!”. And when nothing would hold, there came a last desperate and under handed attempt; “A di battybwoy dem set it up!”
So crude and unspeakably plain. Unfortunate isn’t it? Sigh.
I searched desperately for some voice of reason amongst his fans and in the midst of the chaos. This was not to be. I sat mortified as elaborate conspiracy theories were given life to justify, or rather, to explain the guilty verdict. And not once, no not once, did anyone stop to think… MAYBE HE’S JUST GUILTY. I know this sounds callous, and cruel even, but there must come a time when reason trumps emotional considerations. There must come a time when common sense defeats ignorance. Yes, today must be that time, that day.
In the face of overwhelming evidence to support his guilt, people still expected a jury of 12 reasonably intelligent men and women to return a not guilty verdict on all counts. This expectation bordered on insanity. The phone calls? The supposed video of Buju tasting cocaine? As in…. which jury wouldn’t be persuaded by all that? If you ask me, he’s lucky he was only found guilty on only 3 counts. I understand the emotional outpouring and I understand the concern, but this is how the justice system works and if 12 reasonably intelligent people could unanimously agree, then I am willing to accept the verdict. No other justification or explanation rather than the fact that the evidence presented was sufficient to convince those 12 people. Case closed. Argument done.
I hope, for the sake of his fans, that the judge is lenient and shows mercy. That is perhaps a reasonable thing to form prayer circles for.. (I say this with grave reservations)…but it will comfort those who mourn. I wouldn’t call myself a fan of his, but I did appreciate some of his lyrics. Especially ‘Destiny’ and ‘The Full’ (forgive me if this isn’t the name of the song. Perhaps a loyal fan can correct me.) May “Jah” guide you Buju, where ever you are. A nation prays with and for you.
I could go on and on, but it seems the full has finally been told.
“Gimmie di benz punnani mek mi gwaan drive it out, all taxi pum pum gwaan guh cool out.” – Adijah Palmer
I was recently apart of a debate which sought to assess the “blackness” of Mr. Adijah Palmer, more commonly known as Vybz Kartel; in light of his tampering with the pigmentation of his skin. And while driving home on the yellow JUTC bus, the A/C type, (yup, maw #Hottaz), Kartel’s voice blared from the speakers, inviting all young ladies who felt their vaginas were synonymous with his benz to come forward so that he might “drive it out”. I began to reflect on the unprecedented influence Kartel has on the young people of this country and I became deeply saddened.
I shook my head in disappointment because I believe Kartel’s most popular songs of the last two (2) years have done nothing but glorify promiscuity, commercialism and disrespected the female body, indeed the black race. While the beats of his songs are engaging and stimulating, I have to draw a line where a child refuses to go to school because he or SHE (sas crise!) does not have a pair of Clarks. I have to draw a line where a woman is persuaded into believing that it’s cute to tattoo “benz punany” across her mid section. A strong line must be drawn!
I’ve heard an argument that it has nothing to do with Kartel’s influence, or what I call ‘Kartel syndrome’ but rather it has everything to do with choice, the choice of the individual. I’ve considered that argument and found it wanting. You see, for whatever reason a significant portion of the Jamaican population is swayed by “di teacha”. Whatever he states is taken as damn near law and in a society where our youth fear being rejected by their peers, they will fall in line with the views of “di teacha”. I need not mention that any dissent against Kartel could get you stabbed (see Gully vs Gaza saga). On second thought, I should probably watch my back once this is posted.
And then there is the issue of altering the pigmentation of his skin. Frankly, that is his prerogative and I wouldn’t want to offer an opinion on that, but I’m compelled to argue against his endorsement of “di cake soap”. It cannot be acceptable that someone who is looked up to is actively promoting bleaching and encouraging our young people to follow suit. How is this beneficial? How does this advance our society? Oh, but wait; his aim is to make money, screw societal advancement. Isn’t that so? BULLSHIT! Whether Kartel wants to own up to it, he is a role model, he needs to set an example, a GOOD example for those who look up to him.
And then there are the idiots who say “a wi culture” & “art mirrors life”. To you I say, shut the hell up & have a seat! It’s our culture until your son or daughter steals to buy a pair of shoes! It’s our culture until your daughter’s vagina becomes a taxi because she believes “when mi say gimmie pussy, yuh fi holla yes boss…”! And it certainly is our culture until the black child you brought home from the hospital turns white, or some horrible variation of white. (Non-smile).
So yes, I think Kartel needs to be more responsible about what he puts out. His audience won’t diminish, they’re like mindless drones. He could do gospel & they’d ‘dagga’ to it. Too many people have the “Kartel syndrome”, we need a cure.
“Cool like mi wash mi face wid di cake soap. Every time mi f%@k my c%@ky get suck!” – The Gaza Governor, Kartel
Gentlemen, that warm sensation. The feeling of a warm tongue wrapped around your member. Saliva running down to your balls, (which she may attend to shortly). Your toes curl, eyes roll back. Heaven. Bliss. Ladies, that intrusive tongue. Probing every corner. Going deep. Flicking gently back and forth on your clitoris. You arch your back, forcing his face deeper into your moistness. Heaven. Bliss.
And yet, there is a certain stigma, a certain label attached to any person in our society who is brave enough to admit that yes, I enjoy receiving and giving such intense pleasure. This person becomes known as a “bowaz”. I admit myself baffled as to why anyone would ostricize someone because they opt to inflict, in my humble opinion, the ultimate form of pleasure that is to be had on their lover. After all, isn’t the aim of sex to provide, to the best of your ability, an intensely pleasurable experience for the person you are laying with?
What is so wrong with using your God given gifts, lips, tongue & my more talented ladies will include the throat, to bring your partner to climax?, to what Shakespeare and so many other great poets refer to as “the little death”. I say nothing. There is absolutely nothing wrong with oral sex. If you don’t want to suck, then don’t. But I can’t understand why society thinks it needs to reach into someone’s bedroom and dictate what organ goes where during intercourse, I am well aware how provocative this statement is, and I hasten to add; since it is between a man and a woman. Perhaps my stalwart christian readers can guide me, but I am almost certain the Good Book states, (chapter & verse to be identified), that the bed is un defiled in marriage. Now I’m no theologian but I’m almost certain that means that acts committed upon the marital bed are permissible.
So why not suck?
My friend on Twitter once told me it is to avoid “pussy breath”, I hope he reads this. (Shout out to you Locksley) Needless to say, that comment had me in stitches. (LMAO) – I’m willing to bet that even a “bowaz” brushes his teeth and therefore any remnants of the “pussy” that may have lingered on his breath would have been erased. Ergo one can’t “grounds” (become a bowaz by association). My learned friends in biology would always remind me that the acidic nature of the vagina is such that it is always clean, or at the very least self cleaning.
So why suck?
1. I hear semen is good for firm healthy skin. Ladies, get a cheap facial. No salon needed. Click here or here
2. I also hear semen contains protein. No expensive milkshakes. Milk your man. Click here
3. Pleasure. Please your partner. It’s good for your sex life. And chances are, if he/she wants it (and so many of us want it lately) and you don’t give it, they’ll get it elsewhere.
If you really love & trust the person and you’re already having sexual intercourse, why not? Think about it.
I’m not saying you must or you should. I’ve just given my views. Now you can decide to suck or not to suck.
P.S. : This post pre-supposes that no minors are reading. Sex, in any form, is for adults.
Check out my friend’s post on this same topic, Foxalot.
The rains had come early this year. Sharon made her way across the deserted market place, trying to find a place of solace from the heavy downpour. She finally settled on an abandoned stall which offered some amount of shelter from the angry raindrops. The rain always brought back painful memories. Her home. Her husband. Her children. Her former life. She shook her head to clear the thoughts and surveyed her new home, worn out price lists, piles of decaying garbage and rats scurrying off with scraps to feed their families. Food. Yes, her next task would be to go looking for food.
“Looking for food”, she repeated the words aloud as if willing them to sound less severe. She smiled bitterly knowing that her situation was indeed severe and that there was very little chance of improvement. That’s what Michael had said. As memories of her husband came to her, tears stung her eyes and she roughly wiped them away on the sleeve of the tattered blouse she had been wearing for the past two weeks.
It had been two years since she had last seen Michael or her children. Her heart ached as she remembered her daughter Isabella’s plea “Mommy, please… stay…don’t leave us.”
Her then nine year old son David had clung to his father, eyes fixed on her in a silent plea to the mother he knew still existed in her, but she had left… How could she have stayed? Her addiction to cocaine was tearing her marriage apart and turning her into a monster. She didn’t want her children to come home anymore and see her sprawled out in the bathtub with a syringe clutched in her fist, unconscious and barely breathing. She didn’t want to keep emptying her husband’s accounts to buy cocaine and then lying that she had needed the money for food or for the children.
But Michael, who had been trying to help her deal with the addiction, had insisted that she leave when she had nearly “sold” Isabella to one of her suppliers. She had gone to collect ‘the goods’ but she did not have enough money to pay, the desire for the powder had consumed her by this point and she was desperate. Pleading with the dealer, she had promised anything. He peered outside and saw Isabella waiting in the car.
“How ‘bout your lil’ precious there?”
She had turned on the spot and walked back to the car where her innocent 12 year old daughter had been waiting.
“Honey… mom…Mommy wants you to do something for her”
Isabella had looked up at her with those big blue eyes full of willingness. “Sure Mom, what’s the matter? You look ill”
Before she had a chance to answer, he was at the car. He flung a small bag in her hands and proceeded to drag Isabella from the car.
“MOMMY!” Isabella screamed “Get him off me!’’
But Sharon was already on the ground bag clutched to her nose… sniffing.
The release was immediate. She felt all her problems leaving her and the colours before her eyes blurred. She lay down on the sidewalk and saw no more.
She opened her eyes and saw Michael pacing by her bedside. “Mikey” she said weakly trying to smile but as she saw the grave expression plastered across his face, her smile faltered and died; the horrific incidents that had transpired came crashing back to her. She shot up in bed, “Where is ‘Bella?”
Michael stood there silent.
“Michael, where is our daughter?!” she shouted.
After what seemed like minutes, he whispered “My daughter is fine…”
The implications of his words hit her like a fist to the stomach.
“What do you mean your…”
He cut her off in mid sentence, “I have signed you up for the rehabilitation clinic in Kingston with immediate effect.” It was not a question.
“I have also tendered your resignation from the position of Chairman of the Bank”
“You didn’t tell them –“
He cut her again in mid sentence. “You are no longer allowed within 100m of this house or the children”
But he refused to meet her eyes as he turned to the door “Your things are in the living room and the cab is waiting”. With that he left the room, closing the door behind him.
She sat there in silence for what seemed like an eternity. He was casting her out but it was not for selfish reasons, it was to protect the children, to protect her. He had tried to help her by not committing her sooner and she had betrayed him.
She had almost hurt Isabella.
She slowly rose and got dressed, steeling herself mentally for the anguish that she was about to walk into when she entered the living room. She was about to walk away from the only thing that mattered more to her than cocaine, her family. But it must be done. With that she opened the bedroom door and stepped into the living area.
Isabella sat on the couch her head buried in her hands, crying. Michael held David by his side but clearly it was taking some amount of effort as the boy seemed determined to run to her. As if sensing her presence, Isabella looked up; her face stained with tears “Mommy, please… stay…don’t leave us”. David kept his eyes fixed on her.
Sharon willed her legs to move her forward and she grabbed the bag that lay waiting for her by the door, she turned “I want you to know that I never meant to hurt any of you…” Words began to fail her and she felt the tears rising to the brim of her eyes. She looked at the children and spoke directly to them “I promise I will get well and return to you soon…” She looked up at Michael and said more forcefully, “I promise…”
That had been two years ago and here she was rummaging through the trash for food, she had not kept her promise. She had run away from the clinic a month after she arrived and had not returned since. Lately she did whatever she had to obtain the drug. She had been raped, beaten, shot at and even arrested, just for a moment’s release. These days she was barely coherent enough to feed her urges and at times she thought it would drive her out of her mind.
As she dug through the scraps in the garbage, she saw it. A calendar, the date: July 25th. Her heart pounded in her chest, David’s birthday. Within that moment she knew what she had to do, she would call. But how? She had no money for a phone and had no cell phone. A surge of annoyance shot through her and then she made another decision, she would steal one.
The rain continued to pour in torrents and she could see no possible way of getting to a cell phone. The clock tower struck 4pm and as if an answer to her prayer, a gentleman dressed in a grey raincoat stepped from a building across the street from where she stood, a cell phone clutched to his ear. As Sharon stepped from the curb, he hung up and stowed the phone within his coat. No matter she thought, she would still have that phone.
She headed directly towards him and bumped into him, easing her hand beneath his coat and relieving him of the phone in one fluid motion. “Shit!” he exclaimed “Watch where you’re going filthy bitch!”
“Sorry” she muttered, head bowed and she continued walking in the opposite direction. “The filth that this government allows to walk the streets” she heard him say as he continued walking.
When she had put enough distance between herself and her unknowing benefactor, she stopped under a bus shed and took the phone from her bosom. With trembling fingers she dialled the only number she had kept etched in her memory these last two years. The phone rang. Once… Twice… Three times… She was about to hang up when a voice picked up, a teenage voice, a male voice. “Hello?”
“Dav- David?” she whispered. There was silence for a few moments and then, “Mom?”
“Yes, honey… its Mommy…”
A voice in the background shouted “David lets go!! Dad says to tell them to call back, come on!” It was Isabella. Sharon’s heart ached. Her voice sounded so much like her’s.
“Mommy… where are you?” David asked, “We miss you”
“David!!” Isabella shouted “let’s go!!” she sounded closer as if she had entered the room.
“Bella, it’s Mommy, here on the phone!!”
“That’s not funny David, stop it”
“Honest Bella, here see for your self” he replied.
Isabella reluctantly took the phone from her brother’s hand, “Hello?” she whispered.
“Hi Bella, how are you baby?”
At that moment the operator came on the line “You have one minute remaining on this call”
“Bella, I don’t have much time, I want you and your brother to know I love you both”
“No you don’t!!” Isabella shouted, “you left us!!’
“I believe you do Mommy” It was David.
“Thank you baby, Happy Birthday. I love you” she breathed. “I’ll be home soon…I promise… And with that the line went dead.
At that moment all the emotions she had held in for the past two years overtook her and threatened to consume her. She fell to her knees on the cold, hard, wet pavement and sobbed uncontrollably. She cried until she felt her eyes going dry.
She had to get help; she knew it, for her children, for herself. With that realization she got up and made her way towards a clinic.
Minutes later she stood before the doors, she read St. Joseph’s Rehabilitation Centre.
She took a deep breath and stepped across the threshold; she took one last look behind her and saw that the downpour had subsided. She smiled, it was going to be ok she told herself
So it’s February 14th again. The day of love & hugs & kisses & rainbows & a fat little fairy named cupid; the one day when relationships should go right and the stars and moon must align for love (gags). A man is expected to be the knight in shining armour and the woman is expected to be showered with gifts and adored as a princess.
However, this hasn’t been the case today. Instead, single people all across BBM, Twitter, Facebook.. Hell, even Hi5 & MySpace, have joined forces to declare war on love and particularly on Valentine’s Day. The posts and status changes are all bitter rants of single people, devastated at love lost and seeking to rain on everybody else’s parade and I’m thinking STFU and get over it.
1. It isn’t our fault you’re single.
2. Being single doesn’t mean you can’t celebrate love.
3. If you were in a relationship, you’d glorify the day.
So I’m thinking is just badmind. You’re badminded and bitter because no one wants you. Orrrrrr you’re mad at the world because some unknown guy/girl from some long forgotten time in history broke your heart. Well, boo wooo. Suck it the hell up and move on. Stop being a grinch.
Even if you can’t get the roses and chocolate and the much anticipated valentine’s day sex, you can still celebrate the love of your family, the love of your friends, the love of that creepy stalker on Twitter or FB. Something! Just stop being so bitter. It doesn’t help your case. You and I know that once you all fall in love again, your views will change about valentine’s day and it will be the perfect day for you then. So here’s to you… I love you all. Cheers to the single, bitter and lonely people all across the world. Happy Valentine’s Day!! ^_^