Suave sighed loudly. Prophet was Cobra’s uncle, and he had heard tales about the man since they were kids, but Suave never met him. He was leery of Prophet as he was of God. Suave didn’t need any of those jokers.
“Suave, you’ve always trusted me. Believe me when I say I know what’s happening to you, and I’m sure Prophet can help. Just give it a try, man. What do you have to lose?”
He’s probably right. I’ll try anything right now to get rid of those two sissies. “All right, then. I’ll go with you, but I’m not expecting much.”
“That’s cool. You know I always have your back, and I’m going to help you,” Cobra replied with conviction.
Minutes later, Suave was riding shotgun beside Cobra in his truck as they headed to Bull Bay, a close-knit community that lies on the border of St. Andrew and St. Thomas. Many people associated Bull Bay with Rastafari as it had one of the largest settlements of Rastafarians in Jamaica.
Suave listened as Cobra called Daddy Lizard and informed him that Suave had the flu. The same was said to Monica, who demanded to know where Suave was before angrily hanging up the phone on Cobra.
“Joel is very happy I found you,” Cobra informed Suave after he hung up the phone with Suave’s oldest son. “He said to tell you that he’s praying for you, and he believes God will make you better soon.”
Suave nodded his head. Nadine, an English teacher at Jamaica College, was now married to the vice principal, who moonlighted as a deacon. Joel attended Sunday school and church service every Sunday, except when he spent the weekend with his father.
“We’re almost there,” Cobra said. “Just wait and see if Prophet won’t free you.”
Free me from what? Suave pondered, but said instead, “We’ll see.”
Chapter Twenty-nine
The truck rocked gently from side to side as it propelled over small, sharp rocks, maneuvering the narrow winding track that was laced with rich red dirt. Suave gazed out of the window at the small bamboo shacks painted red, green, and gold that lined this route. Small groups of Rastas sat outside their respective home or place of business, smoking marijuana, drinking, and conversing. Some had their dreadlocks piled high on top of their heads in hair wraps and rastacaps with their long beards skimming their chests, while others allowed their tangled mane to flow freely over their shoulders and backs.
“Blessed, my Lord.”
“Heart of love, my brother.”
These were some of the greetings directed at Suave, whom they identified as a brother because of his long locks. However, Suave’s locks were more of a fashion statement and denouncement of Christ, with very little to do with the religion of Rastafarians. On occasion, Suave gave reverence to Haile Selassie as he had seen true Rastas do, but he knew very little about the Rastafarian religion that began in Jamaica in the 1930s and was inspired by the early nineteenth-century “Back to Africa Movement” of the powerful Jamaican leader, Marcus Garvey. Suave was ignorant of the significance of a culture that was respected and observed by approximately 265,000 Rastafarians worldwide. He wasn’t the real-deal Rastafarian.
“Here we are.” Cobra drove in and parked in a dirt yard. A small, wooden house sat on a pile of well-structured rocks, with two big, black water drums on top. High shrubs and numerous trees, including coconut, mango, and banana, surrounded it. A few chickens and roosters were scattered here and there, pecking at the ground, while four big mongrel dogs ran around crazily, baring their teeth and barking at the intruders.
“Sit!” The strong gravelly voice came from a tall, aged Rastafarian man who had just exited the house to stand at the top of the four small concrete steps smeared with red dirt.
Suave watched in amazement as the four dogs instantly quieted and sat, their long tails now wagging back and forth.
“Even the dogs obey the Prophet.” Cobra chuckled as he opened his door and alighted from the vehicle. “You are coming?” he said to Suave, who was still sitting in the truck.
“Yeah.” Suave hopped out and went to stand beside Cobra. He looked up at the man standing a few feet away, wearing a long, white dress like an African-style outfit, his gray locks hung down to his knees with his silver beard the same length.
Suave grew uncomfortable under the stare of deep, black, penetrating eyes. He glanced over at Cobra and said, “Listen, I’m feeling much better now. Let’s just—”
Cobra stared pointedly at Suave. “You said you would give it a try. Come on. The prophet is waiting for us.” Cobra walked toward his uncle, leaving Suave to follow him.
“Cobra,” Prophet greeted his nephew before giving him a warm hug. “You look good,” he said after he stepped back, looking Cobra up and down.
“Thanks, Prophet. You’re looking well yourself.” Cobra smiled at the man he respected. “This is Suave.” He moved to the side so Suave could come forward. “He needs your help.”
“What’s up, Prophet?” Suave firmly shook the right hand offered.
Prophet released Suave’s hand without a word, peering at him as if he were trying to read his mind. “Mercy mercy mercy.” Prophet closed his eyes, shaking his head, and began groaning as if in pain.
Suave’s mouth popped open, and his eyes widened in alarm. He glanced at Cobra, who was looking as cool as a glass of ice-cold lemonade, already familiar with his uncle’s behavior. “Is he all right?” Suave whispered to Cobra.
“Oh, he’s good. I think he just picked up on the blow they set for you,” Cobra responded, referring to the obeah that he believed was affecting Suave.
“Man, there is no—”
“Follow me.” Prophet hurriedly turned around and entered his house, followed by Cobra and Suave.
“Unbelievable,” Suave muttered when he entered Prophet’s small living room. The furniture was all wood. In the middle was a beautiful, flat, wooden coffee table sandwiched between two extra long wooden benches with red velvet cushions. An exquisitely crafted, humongous, wooden
