Chapter 17 Vent #2
“A me one deh yah. Dem gone a school,” she says. “End of term exam.”
“Okay,” I nod, remembering the date.
“Mi nuh know wah yuh say to Jordane,” she turns to Nickoi, “but him have wah piece a drive fi school this morning, essi.” Nickoi probably bad him up.
“That mi wah hear, man,” he calls out from the back.
“Nicki, a the brown dye mi get,” Marsha says, and I turn to see her. Nicki’s friend from the deadyard.
“Hey, nice girl,” she greets me.
“Hey,” I smile.
“Dem nuh have the red or burgundy… mi nuh wah that enuh,” Nicki says, and I wander toward the back, searching for Nickoi.
“Nickoi?” I call. No answer.
I call again, pushing open the door on the right. Uniforms scattered across the bed. This must be Jordane’s room. Messy. I close it quickly and try the other door.
Found him. He’s inside. His room is quiet and clean, fitted with white sheets that contrast the darker energy that always clings to him.
There’s a photo on the wall my feet carry me toward it before I even register the steps.
It’s his dad. Hazel eyes like the twins, but everything else?
Identical to Nickoi. The physique. The tattoos.
Even the cold expression. He’s brown-skinned with cornrows, dressed in all black shirt, pants and Clarks. The man was a shadow version of Nickoi.
“You look like him enuh,” I say softly, staring at the image.
“Everybody say that, but mi feel like him look more like Jordane,” Nickoi replies.
“It’s the eye color why yuh say that. But he’s your twin, same jaw, same features, same stare,” I tell him. He looks at the picture again and nods.
“Who and you a paint the grave?” I ask, stepping closer.
“Me and mi bredda dem.”
“Mommy nah go help?”
“She probably a go do har hair. So just me and Junior dem,” he says, his voice flat.
“Wah bout Gutta?”
“Them a go help too, but them nah reach yet. By 3:00, yuh a go see dem.” He sounds a little off—sad, maybe—but he’s masking it. I glance at my phone.
“A almost 3:00 ,” I say. “Dem soon reach.” I sit on the bed beside him, then slide over and straddle him.
“I hate how yuh look down. Is it ‘cause of your father?” I ask, close enough to feel his breath. He nods slightly, and our lips touch for a brief second.
I rest my head on his shoulder. “I know it must be hard losing your father. Even though mi and mine nuh have the best relationship, mi cya imagine losing him.” He stays quiet.
A knock hits the door. “Hey Nick, your bredda and sister just reach in,” his mom calls. I move to get up but Nickoi wraps his arm around my waist, holding me still. Him know you woulda move. Woiieee.
He nods. “Mi still a wait fi Junior and Gutta dem. Them have the brush and them thing deh.”
“Bro,” Jordane’s voice calls from the hallway.
“Deh pan?” Nickoi asks.
“Miss Williams,” he answers, and I smile. One thing, him always call mi Miss Williams.
“Just a fawud from school. Mi do electrical test today,” Jordane tells him.
“Wah Janel do?” Nickoi asks.
“Dem understand say she new, so dem nuh expect har fi do the exam dem. But she insist. A wah foods test she do.”
“Ah,” Nickoi says.
Janel appears in the doorway. “Good Afternoon,” she greets politely.
“Good Afternoon,” Nickoi and I reply in sync.
“Raise up deh, Mami,” he says, and I shift on the bed.
“Mi have something fi mek unuh know,” he says, and I already know what it is.
Nicki’s smile spreads. “Wah that?”
“Before mi tell unuh, mi a mek unuh know from now… unuh a go think seh a lie. Especially you, Jordane.”
Jordane bursts out laughing. “Tell wi!”
Janel beams. “Yeah, tell wi!”
Nickoi exhales. “Arite… so me and Zara a expect a you—”
Before he could even finish, the room erupts.
NICKOI
“Mi go deh tell a lie like this?” I ask, my tone flat but my mother just smiles in silence while Janel and Jordane continue talking over each other, voices tangled in disbelief.
“It’s unbelievable,” Janel says, her eyes wide.
“That mi a seh too,” Jordane laughs, shaking his head like his brain is still trying to catch up.
I lift my hand, stopping the noise with a gesture. “Wait til unuh hear the unbelievable part now.”
The room quiets instantly, all eyes locked on me, waiting.
“She a nuh just mi girlfriend,” I say slowly, watching their anticipation stretch thin, “but mi fiancée.”
Their mouths drop. Zara smiles, almost shy, holding out her hand as the ring sparkles in the light like it know its importance.
“Congratulations!” they burst out together, Janel already rushing over while Jordane shakes his head in disbelief.
“Thank you,” Zara says softly, her voice warm.
“Hey… yuh change mi bredda enuh, a swear,” Jordane says, eyes flicking to Zara with respect now, not just curiosity.
Zara glances at me and smiles, a soft, proud kind of smile that makes my chest tighten.
“Mi did know say yuh really love this girl enuh,” my mother says, stepping forward with a glow of pride in her face.
“But mi cya believe say mi first grandchild a come from mi son weh mi least expect it from.” She laughs, hugging me tight, then turns and hugs Zara too, longer, like she already see her as family.
I chuckle to myself, still processing the moment. Maybe the truth is… nobody expected it from me. Not even me. Eventually, they leave the room and Zara curls up on the bed, fast asleep not long after. Her hair slips into her face, and I brush it back before I get up.
I change into a black tee, black shorts, and my black Air Force 1s, head to toe in shadow. Quiet, ready. I grab the paint cans, fingers tight around the handles, and slip out of the house without saying much.
The sun is low now. Air thick and heavy.
I walk the familiar path through the back gate, through the alley, past the cracked fences and stray dogs that don’t even bark when they see me anymore.
And then, there it is. My father’s grave.
Still in its old gold and white. Clean. Maintained.
But it don’t feel right no more. I crouch in front of it, the black paint still in my hands.
I don’t move yet. Instead, I sit. Just sit. And stare at the marble.
My throat tightens, and the wind feels colder than before.
The memories start crawling out like shadows, things I’ve buried, things I’ve become.
All of it coming back, heavy and loud. The last time he told me to man up.
The first time he told me I had to be the next Don.
The gun in my hand before I even turned 10. Eight.
And now look at me. I’m a Don. A businessman. A fiancé. Somebody a guh call a f’d up man like me dem father. Jah. No matter how far mi go… it’s like mi cya escape him.
I place the paint down gently beside the grave, run my hand across the edge of the stone. “Yuh proud yet?” I whisper.
No answer comes. Just silence.
“Mi still a wul off everything fi yuh enuh, mi father… the way how yuh woulda want to,” my voice low. The brush still in my hand but motionless. The grave don’t answer but I swear it feels like it’s watching me.
“Mi have a woman weh mi really love,” I pause, jaw tight. My chest aches in a way that don’t feel physical.
“Mi breed har. Engage to har… so mi finally a see how yuh did seh yuh feel when yuh fall in love with Mommy.”
The wind shifts slightly. My fingers tremble, and I clench the brush tighter to steady them.
“And now that mi a experience it… everybody a tell mi say it nuh hurt fi love. But even though mi love har and mi nuh regret nothing weh a gwaan between me and har, mi still feel like a the wrong move mi mek.” I blink slow.
“Mi shouldn’t mek it reach this far… cause now a she mi enemies a pree,” I say the last line in a whisper, like if I say it any louder, it might come true right in front of me.
My mind reels. He was ruthless. Untouchable.
Yet Von still kill him. And mi? A reincarnation of that man.
A better man in some ways… more calculated.
But mi nuh half as good. Him ruthless, mi tactical.
Him run shit with fire, mi run it with silence.
But sometimes mi wonder… if mi ever really built fi this or if mi just a live off a him name.
What if mi enemy dem ketch mi lacking? What if mi clip empty? What if it stick? And sup’m happen to me… and mi cya protect har and mi youth? A voice in my head creep up, one that sounds like me but darker, heavier. You weak now.
I breathe out hard, looking at the grave like it might confirm it. “Mi just hope say yuh nuh disappointed inna mi… knowing say mi mek the same thing reach mi,” I murmur. My forehead damp, whether from heat or pressure, mi cya’ tell.
“Even though yuh always tell mi fi nuh worry bout nutt’n… mi worried bout this. Cause what if something fi go happen to har because of me? Knowing how innocent she is?” My voice cracks, barely noticeable. But I feel it. Mi feel everything. And that’s the problem.
It’s like mi brain never quiet. Mi thoughts always racing.
Always prepping for worst-case… even in love.
Mi love hard but mi paranoid harder. Sometimes mi wonder if a something wrong wid mi.
If mi brain wired different. Cause mi always overthink.
Over feel. Mi head ever loud, and even now, in silence, mi can’t hear peace.
Footsteps echo behind me, snapping me back. I turn slowly, blinking the haze away. “The Don month this,” Rick says, clapping a hand on my shoulder. I nod without a word.
“Yuh up here early man,” Gutta adds, walking up beside him.
“Yeah,” I murmur.
Jordane steps closer, eyeing the cans. “What color paint yuh buy fi paint Daddy grave?”
“Black and gold,” I tell him.
“No more white?” Junior asks, raising a brow. Suzanne stands beside him, arms folded.
“Weh Zara?” she asks.
“She a sleep,” I answer shortly. We get to work, using the brush to move across the stone. The white fades. Gold shines again. But that black… it don’t just cover the grave, it feels like it’s covering something inside me too. And I let it. Because right now mi cya feel anything else.
When we done, the others start laughing and talking, but I stay quiet, just staring at the grave. Mi light up a spliff, the smoke curling around my fingers as I inhale deep, trying to quiet the storm in my head. It don’t help much. But it helps enough. For now.