[Part I - from Beaches to Peaches]
The middle-aged woman, a mix of irritation and determination in her eyes, clears her throat. "Hey, you guys need to take that vaping elsewhere. People are trying to enjoy their evening in peace," she asserts. Pretending not to listen, I grab my bag from the car seat, fix my suit, and press the alarm to my car.
“Screw you, Karen,” one of the teens blurts out, and then an exchange of eye rolls passes between them. The leader, a cocky figure with a mop of disheveled straight hair, exhales another plume of vapor. "Relax, we're not hurting anyone. Mind your business, bitch," he retorts, his words dripping with adolescent insolence.
I scampered through the altercation, leaving behind acrid fumes and the parking lot standoff. I had become accustomed to the nuances of this ‘concrete jungle.’ The towering buildings of downtown Atlanta strangely were no different from the zinc fences I had passed on my way to school back home. The same rules of “see and blind, hear and deaf” applied to the high-rises just as they had in the streets of downtown Kingston. I spoke only when spoken to—and definitely understood in this crazy place of black and white, ebry kin teet ano laugh.
A neon sign flickers above a modest entrance, casting a dim glow on the bustling sidewalk. The sign reads "Rasta Elegance" in bold letters, an incongruous promise that might as well have been penned by the '63 government. A heavy bassline leaks through the door, merging with distant traffic noises. Stale weed and hickory smoke waft through too.
Pushing open the door reveals a cringe-worthy interior. It was like those white Jesus paintings; no one had quite seen Jamaica, but from what they've heard, they've created this ‘paradise.’ The walls are adorned with faded flags bearing marijuana leaves, competing for attention with portraits of reggae legends whose expressions seem worn and weary. The dim lighting exposes cracks in the peeling wallpaper, revealing a lack of care that contradicts the proclaimed elegance.
Mismatched tables and chairs, seemingly collected from a thrift store clearance, scatter across the space. Each table hosts a menu that attempts to capture a Caribbean essence, but the dish names—like "Jerk Chicken Parmesan," "Reggae-infused Quinoa Salad," and the worst, “Rasta BBQ Pork Ribs”—only add to the jarring atmosphere. Enough to make any true Jamaican ‘chip two claat.’
At the bamboo-themed bar, a disinterested bartender with neglected dreadlocks grumbles while preparing overpriced cocktails. The air is thick as the very spirit of reggae is commodified into costly concoctions that patrons sip on, their attention more focused on social media than the live reggae band tucked away in a corner.
The band, lacking soul, mechanically plays Marley’s classics. The audience, scattered across worn-out furniture, sways with infectious enthusiasm. Conversations about the “authenticity” of the reggae experience echo through the air, punctuated by the clinking of glasses filled with overpriced Jamaican-inspired drinks.
This is how Satan must feel hearing preachers talk about a heaven they've never been to or a God they've never seen.
I rest my Breshe bag impolitely on the table. After all, it was stitched by gods—or at least, that's the impression my wife gave when she gifted it to me on Father’s Day. Thinking about it now, the off-brown leather did match the jacket she gave me. I try not to think about that—or her. I peer through the somewhat thickening crowd.
Eye contact has always mesmerized me, and the 5-foot-2 waitress with permanent duck lips had locked onto her mid-afternoon customer. Fully lip-glossed and body-sprayed, she lingered within arm's reach. Japanese cherry blossoms, I thought.
My body reacted instinctively, a visceral response to vulnerable prey. Simultaneously, my mind recognized the danger, abruptly pulling the emergency brakes. The impact shattered the windscreen of my thoughts, flooding my consciousness with vivid scenes of the wife’s adultery—entwined with the perplexing world of Christian therapy, intimate hand-holding, and the shared secrets concealed within passwords and Google Drives. Waves of emotional turmoil washed over me, leaving a rahtid bad feeling I had no vocabulary for.
"Good afternoon, sir, and what is your name?" she inquired. I paused, an awkward concern coiling into a smile on her face.
"I'm Luke John Graham," I stuttered.
"Okay, Luke," Kathy replied after taking my order. Having noticed her name tag, I observed her trotting toward the kitchen.
Hmm, Kathy, I said.
Once again, my name was resurrected...
Once again, my name was resurrected. I envisioned my parents—religious zealots. In their mid-thirties, they were fascinated by the novelty of sex, having scorned fornication and any worthwhile living in their early twenties while discovering the wonders of friction on genitalia. I saw them gawk, projecting the crux of their aspirations onto their poor mixture of sperm and egg, now cradled in their arms. A puny premature baby who existed for several hours, burdened with the weight of being somewhat of a miracle.
According to Grandpa's story, I detested life from the onset, having had my umbilical cord around my neck like a noose, kicking feet first from my mother. I was named Luke John Graham, my parents branding or bewitching me with their own failed aspirations. Apparently, I was destined to be a physician—a man of logic and science. My childhood playtime convincingly portrayed it. My GCSEs, the matriculation exams, and admission to University of the West Indies, a Chancellor man- part cult part neobaby daycare, appeased their foreboding. However, when the horrors of my rotations overwhelmed me in my final year, I rebelled. I inserted a Marley cassette into my Walkman and strolled through the commons in the stillness of the night towards Papine.
Following instructions, I sought out Shaka and purchased three bags of weed. I trekked back to campus and settled by the chapel, my parents' Adventist God as my witness. I rolled a spliff as Tuff Gong resonated in my ears. I inhaled deeply. Words emerged in a vision, so plain that no anatomy lab could explain. I realized I was also John, John with the prophet's eyes. My dear blind parents had forgotten that they had also named me the Revelator.
I was not meant to be a doctor but a storyteller. So, every time I speak my name, I say it in another tongue. No longer Luke, but Lucas—a deliberate act of rebellion. Each syllable and vowel is meticulously crafted, too intoxicated to sound like Adventist vision. A stranger, a foreigner to my parents' tongue.
Yet, here I am, hours after my dad's funeral, in a café, confessing to a waitress named Kathy that I am Luke John Graham as ashitty reggae band swaps E♭ (Eb) for G♯ (G#)
[Part II- Death and Resurrection Morning]
Somewhere between my sixth Corona and the third glass of Gin neat, I was extended an invitation. Kathy had discreetly slipped a napkin with her number into the bill. I remember glaring discontentedly; my life was a far cry from some rom-com. Filled with a mundane job and its accompanying procedures, I damn well had no time for the serendipitous. So I sent back the napkin with my card.
Yet, there she was, handing me my receipt and card. Her shift had ended, and she demanded answers to my non-interest. I failed to respond; she lit up a pink-wrapped spliff. She inhaled, her cheeks blushed, then handed the joint to me. A subtle grin etched its way onto my face. It felt like burying a clandestine body—a secret whispered in the language of smoke and shared glances.
Tonight, the Za and I rekindled our old rebellion. I sat dazed between funeral rites and roots reggae. She spoke coherently; I recall that much. She shared her journey as a pre-med student at Georgia State Uni, expressing aspirations to specialize in pediatrics. The more tipsy I became, the less rational my thoughts seemed.
“You're not driving; where are your keys?” she says, her hands grazing my upper leg.
“Call me an Uber,” I muttered before she yanked me up and waved goodbye to her friends.
The door closes—my Spotify playlist blared, a blunt between my fingers, navigating tunnels, stoplights, credit card transactions, and a hotel lobby.
The Black Convertible Mustang, revs. She leans and changes gears.
The engine. She was occupying the spaces of my drunken Karaoke, as I reclined and blurted, the lyrics of Steve Lacey’s “ Bad Habits.
“Damn, baby, you smell good,” I spluttered as she led me from the passenger's seat.
17th floor, patio, weed grinder, nachos with chili, Bud Light, and Summer Walker. Exiting the bathroom, Kathy triggered an instant return of all my sensibilities, like a sprinter assuming form. Her black panties pressed against her were a third layer of laced skin, and her steps resembled an odd funeral procession.
Seated on the balcony in one of those ornamental recliners, it morphed into a coffin holding a body frozen in rigor. Her naked body, akin to a wreath, unfolded with delicate beauty, mirroring the grace of a memorial. Each thickened curve and contour became a petal, a tender offering of vulnerability and allure with one solitary rose bloom. I felt the softness of her skin without touching it; she was a living, breathing tribute woven to lay to rest the sorrows of this morning. Stretching my hand forward as if to touch her, she countered with a slap and straddled my legs.
She sat upon me like death.
The room eases into daylight, witness to the aftermath of a night tangled in passion and decisions. Sheets cling to the mattress, like the last gasp of secrets spilled in the dark. The air stained with sweat and friction, a heavy reminder of a rendezvous that might've just rewritten the playbook.
I get up, the weight of the night settling in as I glance at the empty space beside me. The room, once unnoticed, feels more like a trap, and this blaring headache didn’t help.
Heading to the bathroom, I see clothes strewn. The cold tiles underfoot are a harsh reality check that I'm not quite ready for. The shower beckons, promising both a fresh start and probably an explanation of what had transpired.
Under the water, I scrub away as if hoping to erase the evidence etched on my skin. Steam weaves through images of flushed pink skin and bits of a funeral—my father’s face—creating a surreal mix of guilt and grief. The hot water turns lukewarm, a stark reminder of the chill creeping into my core. Reality sinks in—missed flights, the certainty that my wife is now headed home from her business trip. She had chosen law over her own father-in-law’s funeral. It infuriates me. My wife's face pops up from a time when I actually liked her. I turn off the tap. Her face spins and fades with the water downwards.
Stepping out of the shower, the bathroom mirrors reflect just me. The woman’s absence is glaring, her essence fading like morning mist. No trace left behind, just the echoes of shared secrets etched into the glass, my skin, and the bed sheets. Familiar duppies rise within me ,that rahtid feeling again. Buttons strained against fabric, a fumbling rush like discovering hair on parts of your body that were previously bare. A rush to hide from parents or aunties. The original sin of Eden in the dimly lit room. The tie wound around my neck, a tightening noose fashioned without thought. Cufflinks snapped into place, their metallic clinks against my ring, slipped back onto my finger, the gesture devoid of sentiment. The zipper of the trousers zipped up, a perfunctory act sealing the serpent away.
It was loveless choreography, this dressing after illicit sex. Suddenly, flashbacks of her mounting me became apparent; I grabbed my bag and exited the room.
As the pale morning light spills into the lobby, I am compelled to keep my gaze low as I walk toward the barista. The coffee—a double espresso, bitter—offers no solace. Where are my keys? My elusive escape is nowhere to be found. I retrace my steps in the direction of the room. In the hallway, the walls murmur the aftermath of the night, each moment a scene forgotten. Desperation fuels my search for the keys, an anchor to a reality I'm desperate to elude.
Amidst the chaos, a resolute maid insists on cleaning 407. Damn it, why now? A reluctant compromise hangs in the air after a minute of small talk and fifty dollars. She agreed to clean as I searched.
As she meticulously tends to her task, cleaning the room, she reaches a spot against the wall. An unexpected gasp escaped her lips, eyes widening.
"Mister, what, this?" she asks, her tone a blend of shock and accusation. I thought she pointed to the balcony, and sure enough, there was my key. I walked over and picked it up, but her face still had discomfort. "¡Señor! ¿Qué jodes? What is this?" she points.
The sight of a used, laden condom, splashed against the wall, starkly exposed. The weight of my secrets casts a shadow over the compromised silence.
I walked directly to the lobby without uttering a word. The engine roars to life, and I sped away into the dawn, leaving behind the silent room, the tangled mess of my own making, and the unexpected witness to my surreptitious affair. The road stretches into the sprawling city.
To be continued…
If any part of this lingered with you .If it stirred grief, guilt, memory, or that thing you still won’t name—drop a comment, restack it, or pass it to someone who knows what it feels like to chase shadows and lie next to ghosts.