Free No Woman No Cry by Rita Marley Page A

figured, maybe we would be able to afford rent so that we could eventually come out of Aunty’s place. Or maybe we could build a house in Nine Miles, though the fact that I was all for going there didn’t entirely put Bob’s mind at ease. “There’s no water, no electricity, it’s not like you’re used to,” he kept saying. And I kept answering, “Well, let’s just try it. I want to. I want to go there, see what it’s like.” I felt it was compulsory for me to have this experience, because I didn’t know his family and wanted to know where he was coming from. All I knew about St. Ann was that Marcus Garvey had come from there, too.
    I know my enthusiasm made Bob happy anyway, and I guess we were so in love we didn’t care where we were as long as we were together. This was when he recorded “Chances Are”—which, as usual, was about the life we were leading: “Chances are we’re gonna leave now/ chances are hang on right now/ though our days are filled with sorrows/ I see years of bright tomorrows …” I kept my eyes on those “bright tomorrows.”
    I was so excited, so eager to go when the time came, that even Aunty’s continual grumbling didn’t bother me. I was like a child! I went shopping because we had to carry flour and rice and sugar, since Bob said there weren’t any places to buy staple foods there. I packed the suitcase he’d brought from America, all the while listening to Aunty in the background: “Where you think you’re going, you don’t know, you don’t know, you never did this before, they might take advantage of you … You might get sick, what can they give you if you get sick, what kind of clinic you’re going to, to have your pregnancy tests?” And all of this and that.
    Finally I said, “Don’t worry so, Aunty! I’ll write you, and I’ll come back in about a week to let you know how we are, and if it don’t suit, I’ll come back altogether.” And that seemed to satisfy her a little. In any case, she knew I’d keep my word about returning, because we were leaving Sharon with her while we settled ourselves, and Aunty knew we didn’t plan to stay away from Sharon for too long.
    At last it was time to go and we went down to Parade Square, in downtown Kingston, where the buses leave from, to catch a country bus, one of the painted buses that Jamaica is famous for, with names like “Amazing Grace” or “Praise the Lord.” Right away I said, “I want the window, I want the window!” But up to the last minute Bob was still questioning me. I’d already sat down and had my nose pressed to the glass when he said, “You sure?” Of course I was sure—to me it was like going on a long trip, plus the chance to learn more about him and how he grew up. And that to me would only mean I could love him even more.
    It’s about a seventy-five-mile journey to St. Ann, a couple of hours if you go in a car without making too many stops, but for more than four hours that country bus went slowly over winding mountain roads, stopping at every corner. And that was an experience! People got on with children, chickens, baskets full of every conceivable variety of fruit and vegetable. It didn’t do too much for the morning sickness I was having—in fact, at one stop I had to jump off the bus to throw up—but I just kept looking out the window and trying to breathe the fresh air and stay positive.
    When we finally got off after reaching Nine Miles, it seemed as if the whole neighborhood had come out to welcome us. It was a party! People were shouting, “Oh, it’s Nesta!” and “Mas Nes come home!” and “Mas Nes come and bring him wife!” And then Bob pointed up this long hill, almost like a mountain, and said, “There’s the house.” And I looked up and said, “