Chapter 3
ZINZI
Kingston Harbour, Kingston, Jamaica
On a sweltering August day that has melted into a steamy night, I stand outside the Harbour Street storefront, listening to the excited voices beyond the door, and a thrill runs through me.
They have a pop, a zing, a pulse of anticipation—like the rhythm of change that every Jamaican worker needs. Some call it hope. Others call it a dream. I call it the labor union.
I arrive at the entrance of the storage room.
Inside, it feels like a party. Rows of folding chairs are set up in the center, while long tables hold pitchers of water, slices of melon, and a few pots of strong coffee, the aroma so intense that it stings my nose.
A podium, similar to those used by ministers, stands at the front, and a paper sign pinned to the wall reads LABOR UNION MEETING.
This evening, I will give a speech, or, as I prefer to call it, a talk. Speech sounds too formal, and only leaders like Allan Coombs give speeches. I keep records, collect names on signup sheets, and write and distribute pamphlets. I am no Allan Coombs.
It doesn’t take long for the rows of chairs to fill up.
Those without seats find places to stand or lean against the wall.
I move among them, smiling, offering sincere nods, and reaching out for outstretched hands.
Admittedly, I avoid those with too much grief in their eyes—those who have lost a loved one to sugarcane, bananas, machetes, boiling pans, or burning stalks of cane.
I understand those feelings all too well.
I, too, have lost loved ones to the sugarcane fields. That pain lives beneath my skin.
I quicken my pace and take the seat saved for me in the front row. It doesn’t take long for the voices to go silent, but only for a moment. A name is whispered and repeated, gaining momentum until it becomes a chant: “Allan Coombs! Allan Coombs!”
He is the reason I joined the movement. The power of his words, the timbre of his voice, and the passion he openly displays—no hiding his emotions, no shielding his soul—he shares his heart, his mind, everything he has to offer—all to confront the injustices faced by workers on sugar plantations, banana plantations, in rum factories, at the docks, wherever Jamaican workers are mistreated.
Allan steps up to the podium. He begins his typically magnetic oration by advocating for an end to low wages and the absence of workers’ rights.
“Did you hear what I said?” He cups his ear. “I asked if you heard me.” His booming voice reverberates through the storage room, and the response is deafening.
“That’s right!” He pumps his fist in the air. “That’s how we will achieve our goals—together. A union!”
The thunderous applause feels like an earthquake. Allan surveys the room, his chin jutting forward with pride.
The crowd erupts, shouting, “Union! Union!” The room is in a frenzy, but Allan watches with a wide smile. He lets the ovation continue for several minutes before finally raising a hand and signaling for silence.
“Thank you. Thank you, everyone. There’s more to be said, and a young woman you all know is here to share her story. Please welcome Miss Zinzi Green.”
Why did I think I could speak in the same space as Allan Coombs? Walking to the podium, I keep my eyes on the floor. It feels better not to look up.
“You’ve never been shy before, Zinzi,” Allan whispers so only I can hear. “Speak from the heart. That’s who you are and what we need from you.”
I grip the podium and slowly lift my gaze. All eyes are on me, yet Allan’s words help ease my fear. “This truth I’ve shared before, but never with so many at once,” I say with a trembling smile. It’s the largest gathering the movement has attracted to a meeting.
“My family hails from the Maroon village of Accompong.
Our ancestors were Mandinka from West Africa, warriors who fought against enslavement.
My father inherited that warrior spirit.
When our land failed to produce enough to fill the bellies of his wife and eleven children, he left home to work on a sugar plantation, believing he could earn more money there than farming could provide.
His wife and children would tend to the land while he was away.
“At the sugar plantation, he volunteered for the dangerous job of the pan man, stirring sugarcane in large iron pans over an open flame until it melted into a molten liquid. His body, arms, hands, and legs were exposed to the unimaginable and the unbearable, but he endured as long as possible.
“My father died in late August, thin, weak, burned, and scarred.” I pause, holding back the fact that three years later, Marvin, the man I was meant to marry, died while working under the same perilous conditions at the same sugar plantation as my father.
I still wasn’t ready to share that story, not even for the sake of the labor movement.
I look at Allan for a moment, who nods, encouraging me to continue.
“Workers must unite for everyone to benefit. Our country needs jobs, but we deserve employers who respect and care for their employees—”
A commotion in the back of the room captures attention. A man in a light-colored suit with a tall, lean silhouette yells, “The constables are coming. Disperse. Disperse. Now!”
He forces his way to the front of the room. “They’re here to arrest everyone,” he informs Allan.
“Are you certain?” the labor union leader inquires. “They’re arriving now?”
“Yes. Someone alerted the authorities,” the stranger replies. “The constable and his men are on their way.” He shouts again, “Trust me. Leave now. The cops are almost here.”
For a moment, people are frozen in fear and distrust. I don’t recognize this man any more than anyone else in this room. But then Allan steps up to the podium. “Don’t just stand there. Run!”
Chairs are overturned. Water pitchers spill. Coffee cups are tossed aside. A small stampede charges toward the store’s exits—cries of shock and fear blend with angry shouts. Suddenly, strong fingers grip my forearm and pull me toward the storeroom exit.
We move quickly. The stranger knows his way through the harbor, darting in and out of alleys and side streets.
We race through the docks for several minutes.
He doesn’t let go of me until we stop a block from where we started.
From our position, I can see the storefront.
A half-dozen constables surround it. We would have been arrested if we hadn’t left when we did.
I might have spent the night or longer in jail, instead of the wooden shack in Trench Town where I live.
“You can let go,” I say.
He releases me. “I didn’t hurt you, did I? I just wanted to make sure you got away safely.”
“It’s fine,” I reply, raising my voice above the sounds of banjos, hand drums, and rhumba boxes. We stop in front of a tavern where a folk band is playing.
“We had to move quickly. I apologize if I was too harsh.” I observe him for a moment and quickly identify him as a man who spends his days lounging on the veranda, sipping martinis, or playing golf.
His clothing validates my assumptions: a cotton shirt from Paris, tailored trousers by Frederick Scholte, and Italian shoes by Ferragamo.
He resembles a wealthy British, American, or European tourist.
“You’ve never worked on a plantation. Why warn a group of labor union supporters about the police? Why bother?”
A smirk plays on his lips, as if he can read my mind. “You pass judgment quickly.”
“I ask questions because I value answers,” I reply.
His body tenses. “Then ask me another question.”
Judging by the jut of his chin and the crease between his eyebrows, he thinks I won’t. Well, I’ll take that challenge. “What made you take such a risk?”
“Why do you assume I’ve never worked on a plantation?”
“Because you’re white.”
“Take a closer look.”
I do as he suggests. His skin is lightly tanned, his hair wavy and blond, and his eyes are green. But there’s more to him than I had noticed.
“Are you mulatto?”
“I’m colored. My mother was mulatto, the daughter of a Jamaican woman and a British officer.”
I shrug. There are lots of mixed-race people like him in Jamaica. “You could pass.”
“I wouldn’t want to.”
“So, you’ve stirred a pot of boiling sugar and swung a machete in a sugarcane field?”
“Yes, I’ve done that and more.”
“I don’t trust you, even if you did save me and the others from a night in the hoosegow.” I extend my hand. “The name is Zinzi. Zinzi Green.”
“I’m not lying but believing me is up to you.” He exhales before adding, “My name is Byron Tynesdale.”
My hand falls back to my side just as he reaches for it. “Tynesdale?”
“Yes, of the Tynesdale Estate,” he replies. “One of the labor movement’s most fervent opponents.”
My breath catches. “I know your plantation well.” I try not to show too much emotion. It’s the same sugarcane field where my father and my fiancé were worked to death. “I wish I could say it’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“Believe me.” He sighs deeply. “I wish you could, too.”
Myrtle Bank Hotel, Kingston
Twenty minutes later, I’m not sure I can take another step. “We’re not being followed, now, are we?” I place my hand on my chest. “I need to catch my breath.”
Byron Tynesdale and I have traveled quite a distance, initially moving in a huge circle, but now we’ve made our way further along Harbour Street.
“Do you mind if we don’t stay here?” Byron says, his gaze darting. Still watching out for danger, I suspect. “There’s a place just around the corner. Can you make it that far?”
The vile taste in my throat spreads. “I’m going to be sick.”
“It’s okay if you are.” He offers me his arm, which, although tempted, I don’t take.
“I imagine it’s the adrenaline,” he says, taking my rebuff in stride. “Our bodies produce it when we’re stressed or in danger, and it can make you feel unsteady.”
“Are you a doctor?” I ask sarcastically.
“I was a cook in a hospital cafeteria in New York City.”
“Oh.” He’s trying to lighten the mood with a joke, but the pain in my stomach worsens with each step. I look up as a shooting star streaks across the night sky. Following its path, I hope it will take my aching belly with it as it fades from view.
“We’re here,” he says.
“I can’t go in there.”
“Why not?” he asks.
We stop in front of a crescent-shaped driveway on Harbour Street, where uniformed doormen greet a line of cars as guests enter the Myrtle Bank Hotel.
“The United Fruit Company owns this hotel. You know who they are, right?”
“I do. They are the largest distributors of bananas in the Caribbean.”
“The working conditions at their facilities are as horrific as those on the sugar plantation you own.” I don’t hold back. “Banana factories are no better than sugar plantations.”
His dark brows knit together. “Let me be clear—I don’t own the Tynesdale sugar plantation.” Abruptly, he points toward the hotel entrance. “I rent a room here—Suite 357. If you’d like, you can go upstairs until you feel better.” He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a key, and extends it to me.
I want to throw it at him. “No, thank you. All I need is to get home.”
“Look, I’m not trying to be rude, but you don’t look well. I’m not sure you’ll make it home,” he says. “I’ll wait for you downstairs—at the bar. Then, I’ll drive you home, or if you prefer, we can have a late supper—whatever you’d like.”
As much as I want to escape, the nausea in my stomach feels like it has a mind of its own and deserves some privacy. “You’ve already done enough for one night.” I wish I felt well enough to leave.
“I could never do enough,” he says, his tone heavy with apology.
What does he mean? He could never do enough of what? He can do any number of things, such as burning down the Tynesdale sugarcane fields, and not just a seasonal burning of the sugarcane stalks. No, he can have the whole estate burned to the ground—also one of my recurring dreams.
I have plenty of ideas I’d share for making him useful if it weren’t for my stomach. I take the key from his hand. “Room 357. I’ll be right back.”
“Take as long as you need.”