Tis The Language o’ The Soul

***Tis the language o’ the Soul***
(#StorytellingSalemStory #999,998 out of 1mil:)

🎶So I’ve been travelling across the country—
town to town/city to city/State to State;
sitting down in random locations—
across this Nation— with a whiteboard in my haaand;
I’ve been asking pplllll:
“What’s Yor Story?”🎶

But this time, I wasn’t Stateside.
I was in Kingston, Jamaica; sitting beneath a battered tin awning across from a juice stand where the smell of sorrel and sugarcane tangled in the breeze. Music thumped lazily from a radio somewhere behind me, the beat never in a rush, never worried if it landed late; & it somehow fit perfe-ct–lyyy.

A woman in her forties, with long locs, a paint-splattered tee, (and one of those expressions like she’s already guessed the end of your sentence,) slowed her walk just enough to clock the board. She tilted her head sideways, smiled wide, and said in a warm, rich Patois-laced soun’:

⸻

**“Yuh askin’ people fi story, eh?
Mi have one—but mi tell it slowww, y’know. So yuh better sit down an’ tek yuh tiiimee.

When mi was lickle, mi fada used to build boat. Not di big one dem, nuh—not ferry. Small one, fi line fishin’.
Every morning before school, mi polish hull. Touch de wood like it could feel mi love.

But mi neva want to sail. Nahhh. Mi wanted to painttt. Everytin’. Wall, sky, goat—if it stand still, mi cover it- in colo’.

Fada say: ‘Painting cyan feed you, girrrl. Get reeaalll.’
Mi seh: ‘But maybe paint feed mi soouulll.’
He seh: ‘Soulll cyaan buy riceee.’

So mi sneak out. Go Kingston College of Art. Paint behind back alley. Sleep on cousin couch.
Mi get job paintin’ signs first. Then murals. Then people start callin’—big hotel in Ochi, gallery in Mobay. Next ting mi know, one o’ mi piece in New York. Den London.

But hear dis now—hear di sweet part:

Last year, mi get call from mi fada.
He say, ‘Girl, di church roof need a good touch. You paintin’ still?’

Mi laaaaugh & mi laaaugh, & mi laaaaaugh..,
Laugh till mi cryyyy & cryyyy…

Den mi go.,

Painted dat whole roof wit story of di sea..
His boats,
his hands,
his laugh-
right onto our church’s roofs & ceilings…

An’ when he walked up & walked inside dat church an’ see himself in mi work..?
Mi swear… man didn’t talk for full two hour;
just took it in;

He just look;
as mi look at him;

Like him finally taste di soouulll mi been talkin’ ‘bout all alonngg.”**

⸻

She gave a long blink, then dipped two fingers in a little salute toward the sky, muttered something too soft to catch, and headed toward the juice stand—already ordering before she reached the counter.

And I?
I stayed put beneath the awning, the paint still drying in the air behind me, whiteboard leaning on my knee, still asking:

“What’s yor story?”

(#StorytellingSalem #Story #999,998
Image provided by: WhatsYorStory.com )