Free The Rhythm of the August Rain by Gillian Royes

baby mother.
    The news seemed to have an effect on the middle-aged Rastafarian, who said he could give her five minutes. He had a customer coming back shortly to pick up his shoes. With his waist-length locks and enormous smile, he’d be an excellent subject for a photograph, Shannon decided as Shad retreated to wait in the car with Carlton.
    â€œShad don’t recommend anybody who not a good person,” Walker told her, “so you must be trustable. You will overstand what I and I have to say.”
    â€œI won’t take up much of your time,” Shannon said, settling on the stool he offered. “I’m working for a magazine and—”
    â€œYou know anything about Rasta?”
    â€œA little from what I’ve been reading.”
    â€œIs a whole different way of seeing the world, you overstand?” The man selected a tiny nail and tapped it into the sole of the shoe he was working on.
    â€œOne thing that fascinates me is the language you use. Why do you say I and I , or I- man , and overstand , when other people say I and understand ?”
    â€œRasta language is not like everyman language. Some people call it livalect , different from dialect, you know, because I and I believe words is a powerful thing. Where you have sound, you have power. Words have a meaning higher than man. That mean”—Walker searched for another nail—“you say I , but we say I and I because we believe that a man always connected to Jah. No man stands alone, so is I and Jah, I and I, not I one.”
    â€œWhat about overstand ?”
    â€œWhen you say understand now, you using a weak word. Being under is weaker than being over , right, so Rasta say overstand . I and I use power words, not weak words. You must ask Shad to translate for you.” Walker chuckled. “He know the language good. Is in every song he play on the radio in the bar, ask him.”
    While Walker continued hammering nails into the heel of the shoe, he told her that he was from St. Thomas, the parish south of Portland and over the mountains. When he was a teenager, he’d worked with some Rastafarian fishermen and had come to like their attitude toward life. He’d started growing a beard and dreadlocks, although his mother didn’t approve. The men came from the hills above where the Walkers lived, from a community known as the Bongo Rastafari. The leader of the group was Prince Michael, a man Walker respected a lot because he was a wise man. When he was in his early twenties, Walker had moved to the community, and there he’d learned shoemaking. More important, he’d learned to reason , to debate the meaning of life and his place in it.
    â€œWe would wear white. You ever see those people? . . . No? You not on that side of the island and you don’t go to Kingston, that’s why. They wear turbans on their head, so you don’t see the dreadlocks.”
    â€œWhy do Rastas do that, grow their hair long and let it get—?” Shannon asked, waving a hand over her own head, thinking of Eve’s question.
    â€œYou ever hear of Samuel one, verse eleven? They was talking about Samson. When his mother was asking Jah to give her a son, she promise that her child will serve God all the days of his life and that no razor shall come upon his head. And Jah give her a powerful son. But he meet a woman called Delilah, and she cut off him hair and cut off him strength, and he get weak after that. Rasta believe that hair is strength. Jah give us our hair, and I and I not supposed to cut it.”
    She nodded, juggling mentally—translating the patois, scribbling in her notebook, thinking of the next question. “Why did you leave the Bongo community?”
    â€œIt was too strictlike, and I and I more of an independent type, you know? Too much strictness tie up I and I mind and spirit.”
    Ras Walker bent his head to the shoe again, but Shannon had one more question. “I