The King of Little Russia

An onshore Caribbean breeze caressed Skatta’s tattooed shoulders and chunky arms as he snoozed under his ackee tree in a low-slung hammock. The wind had changed direction during the morning and now swept through Little Russia, disturbing the roadside debris. Crumpled manifestos and discarded pamphlets swirled into the air, and the detritus from a fortnight of frenzied political hustings tumbled across the potholed asphalt like hordes of itinerant vermin.

   Most voters reckoned the outcome would be inconclusive and questioned whether they’d ever know the true result. Others argued that despite the polarised nature of Jamaican politics, not much would alter.

‘Nothing ever changes,’ they agreed. ‘They wouldn’t let us vote if it meant change.’

   The sudden drop in temperature was enough to rouse Skatta from his peaceful reverie, and he shivered as he opened his eyes. He surveyed his cluttered yard and snorting, reached for the tobacco tin next to the empty bottle of Uncle Wray. Too bad it was all gone. 

   “No more Wray and Ting, Two-Blood?”

   “We’ve plenty of Ting.” The young man chuckled. 

   “Shame ‘bout dat.”

   “Yuh want more rum?”

   “Nuh worry.”

   Two-Blood was like a son to Skatta and a staunch ally when they’d provided security for the new candidate as she’d strolled through their neighbourhood. Perched on a nearby deck chair in flip-flops and shorts, he was preoccupied with his iPhone. There’d been an endless stream of social media speculation since the election three days ago and untold rumours about the final outcome.

   “Any news, Two-Blood?” said Skatta, crumbling golden strands of tobacco onto a crisp white cigarette paper.

   “Nah, man.” Two-Blood frowned. “They’re counting again.”

   “How many times is that now?”

   “It’s a joke,” he said, shaking his head. “But perhaps third time lucky?”

   “Maybe, so.” Skatta shrugged. “And Missy B’s coming over, right?” 

   “She’s probably got busy or her driver’s over-slept.”

   “Maybe she’s heard?” Skatta drew on his rollie.

   “I’m sure she’d let us know.” 

   They’d both had a hectic fortnight on the Westmorland Parish campaign trail and worked hard to generate support for their party’s new candidate. Missy B was an aspirant from Kingston who’d been chosen by the party leader to represent the capital, Savanna-la-mar and the surrounding countryside including Little Russia.

Skatta liked what Missy B had to say and agreed that the youth needed a strong voice to fight for their futures. Skatta’s opinion mattered in Westmoreland and she needed The King of Little Russia in her corner. Despite coming from another municipality, Missy B had made an immediate impact. She’d won both the hearts of his local community and the business minded folk in Savanna-la-mar. In fact, everyone had fallen for her sassy charm and homespun sensibilities and Skatta loved a winner.

* * *

Missy B had rented a modest apartment west of Savanna-la-mar during the run up to the election and furnished it with the help of her constituents. The kitchen was adequate and boasted a portable two-ring electric hob, a microwave and a fridge that had seen better days. It was sparse but sufficed her needs as most mealtimes were on the road. Dan-Dan, her driver, had invited her for family meals on occasion and she’d returned the favour in the form of fast-food grabbed between ‘meet-n-greet’ appointments.

   Packing bags at the end of a holiday is never fun and leaving Savanna-la-mar with a bitter taste in her mouth was galling. Missy B had faced the might of a campaign hardened veteran who’d played hardball ever since she’d arrived in Westmoreland. His cohorts of zealous supporters had ripped down her posters at night-time and bad-mouthed her at every opportunity. Missy B had suffered his humiliating language and vile assertions during his attempt to secure the seat. He’d sent his trolls out to sniff around in her past and initiated background searches for gossip. After failing to find anything worth mentioning, he resorted to old-fashioned misogyny. 

   In many respects his tactics had been successful, except that he’d failed to account for a younger generation of voters. Those unheard voices, who’d suffered because of the lack of investment, wanted their say. Missy B saw their potential and promised training and intern schemes for a generation who’d given up before they’d got started; beaten down by endemic corruption and a candidate who lacked vision.

   Missy B couldn’t take everything with her. But what to take? She’d got all her note books, a couple of pamphlets and a “Time Come” t-shirt emblazoned with her official image. The photo-shoot wasn’t much fun, but everyone in the parish loved it. 

   ‘She’s so slim and looks young despite her years,’ they all said. 

   Twelve weeks after her first walkabout and that fixed smile picture still annoyed Missy B. Her husband and friends back home would laugh and tease her, but no-one here was bothered. She was a breath of fresh air in a district where the public were jaded by overt corruption and a system that guarded the public purse like a rottweiler with lockjaw.

   Missy B’s husband, Phil, had said she’d be swimming with sharks and he wasn’t far wrong. She had to give it her best shot to stand a chance. The campaign was something Missy B had to do for herself as much as for the people. Phil admired her ambition and given the opportunity told his wife to follow her guiding star. He’d hold the fort for as long as it took, and who knows? Maybe they’d both love living in Savanna-la-mar. There was no shackling Missy B. She arrived like a hurricane and exploded like a hand grenade of fragrant petals.

   Outside Missy B’s bare apartment, a familiar car horn beckoned her. Dan-Dan, pointed at his watch, but knew better than to hurry her along. She was a woman who took her time and had a particular way of doing things. She waved from the window and he acknowledged her with a nod, and rolled himself a cigarette. 

* * *

Little Russia was silent when Missy B’s driver pulled up outside Skatta’s home in a whirl of dust and grit. She waved at him from inside the Camry as Dan-Dan opened the passenger side door. Skatta recalled Missy B’s first walkabout as she tottered towards him between the stacks of car parts and piles of scrap metal. He’d escorted Missy B during her first week in Savanna-la-mar and suggested they visit the Old Fort by the harbour. Skatta had held her dainty hand in his mighty paw as she’d clambered up the stone steps to the crumbling ruin and remembered her forlorn expression as he explained its history. She’d sighed as he’d related the sad demise of the once proud eighteenth-century monument. However, there was a bright sparkle in her dark eyes when he mentioned its last days as a restaurant, before the business collapsed. 

   Skatta had said it was a missed opportunity and she suggested restoring the Old Fort and advertising it as a tourist attraction. Surely, an inspiring scheme to rebuild the pier and harbour could generate jobs and work for eager young hands? The idea was a vote winner for sure, but more than that, their plan had longevity. The Old Fort could help rejuvenate the town and generate both wealth and self-esteem. 

   Skatta grinned as Missy B produced a bottle of Uncle Wray from her bulging shoulder bag and accepted it without reservation. He recalled their ambition to renovate the harbour and Old Fort, smiling at the prospect of working with her on future projects. They’d both agreed they needed to mobilise the parish’s disenfranchised citizens to combat the nepotistic council whose only motivation was profit. 

   Dan-Dan honked the Camry’s horn and pointed at his watch again.

   Two-Blood wished Missy B a safe flight as she wandered back through Skatta’s yard. When Missy B reached the Camry, Dan-Dan opened the door for her. She turned to wave a last farewell and they set off with a tyre squeal that belied the impending time. 

   Skatta returned to his faded hammock and shuffled into a comfy position.

   “Do you think she’ll be back?” 

   “Maybe so,” said Skatta, opening the bottle of rum. 

* * *

The brooding clouds overhead were leaden in colour, and struggled to contain their ominous burden on the way to Montego Bay Airport. Missy B hauled on her jacket as she alighted Dan-Dan’s Camry outside the terminal and handed him a wedge of folded notes. Smiling one last time, he hopped out of the vehicle and carried her single case to the rotating glass door. The lights inside the terminal flickered as distant rumbles rattled its glazed façade. Behind the taxi rank, a row of unyielding palm trees strained to remain upright like troops holding their line under severe artillery bombardment.

   Milling passengers formed staggered queues in front of the check-in desks. Their faces paled as an announcement over the airport PA alerted them to their status in no uncertain terms.

   “The nineteen-thirty flight to Norman Manley International Airport has been delayed until further notice.”

   Missy B smiled as she left the crowds behind and headed for the taxi rank. Kingston could wait. There was going to be a big storm in Westmoreland. This was no time to admit defeat. The election was still being contested. It was time to return to Little Russia.

The End