Page 115 of Not My Type
Zara
It only took us two hours to reach to Buff Bay town. As I look through the window at the place I once called my home a smile appears on my face. Nickoi approaches the Buff Bay square and turns on Nelson street. So many childhood memories. It feels like a yesterday enuh.
Everything looks the same, just a little more developed. Apart from the new business places and the houses that were once board and are now concrete mansions, Buff Bay is the same.
“Go straight up now,” Mama instructs, she’s sitting in the back of the car. We pass the Salvation Army church and I remember when my mother and I would go there on Sundays. Long time yuh nuh go a church.
I smile at the new houses, some of them were built recently. I can tell by the way they look. Dem look good mon.
“Up here look so different,” Mama says in the back. She used to live with us here in Buff Bay before we moved to Spanish Town.
Mek mi give unuh a likkle backstory. I was eleven years old going to Buff Bay primary when I had to leave. I did Gsat and I passed for Titchfield High School but I didn’t get to go there because my father, Henry got in some trouble with some men so we had to leave since he was our bread winner. We relocated with him and my mother got a transfer for me to St. Hugh’s and I’ve lived in Spanish Town ever since.
“It looks the same to me just a lot better,” I say. Nick looks a little tired.
Look how long him a drive.
“You okay?” I ask and he nods.
“Mi good mon,” he says with a smile and I look away.
“Nickoi yuh go turn right a deh yellow and green house deh with the shop,” Mama directs.
“Arite,” his voice low. I watch as he pulls over behind a train of cars parked on the side. Watch yerrr, wi man alone a push a Benzzz!Girl come dungggg!
I smile at my old house. It’s been a while since I’ve seen my grandma, Hanett. She’s my father’s mother. Majority of my family is from Buff Bay. My paternal grandfather, Harish, is originally from Caripachima, Trinidad. He moved to Jamaica in the 90’s. Funny how men in those days took ‘90’s love’ to heart. Imagine travelling milessssss just fi likkle rub dung? Bwoyyy mi extra! Seriously though, when I was a little girl dem always tell me stories that my great-great-greattttt grandfather came during the Indian Indentureship in the 1910’s. History class a pan Wednesday still...
I smile and look around. The veranda is crowded with the older family members talking and catching up. On the outside, the younger ones are taking pictures or doing TikTok dances. I spot my grandma walking over to the car. She’s known as Miss Hanett even to her grandchildren
“See Hanett deh,” Mama climbs out of the car. Miss Hanett comes at the window, her eyes on Nickoi.
“Hello dear.”
“Hey wahm,” he looks away from his phone. Dem affi bury deh bwoy yah wid da phone yah!
Hello Miss? Don’t even mention death when it come to my man.
“Nothing much just happy to see my family again,” she laughs. “What’s your name though?”
“Nickoi.”
“Nice. I’m Hanett,” she stretches her hand and he shakes it.
“Ah,” he smiles. That’s it? This man is soooooo antisocial, it’s crazy.
“Nice to meet you... you’re sweet,” she smiles. “Your lashes so long and pretty! My God... dem make yuh eyes stand out,” his dimples sink deeply as he blushes.
“Respect aunty... big up yuhself,” his voice low.
She looks at me and exclaims. “Watch fat face!” I smile sweetly.
“Am I... that fat?” She’s the second person commenting on it. I open the door and hug her.
“Yesss but it’s been so long.” She squeezes me tight, rocking us. “Miss yuh bad bad mi likkle Indian,” her eyes finds my hair and I can already hear her famous line.
“Yuh have pretty hair and ever inna wig, why yuh nuh wear yuh real hair more gyal?” she asks and I laugh.
“Mi nuh know mi just love wig,” I say softly. She chuckles and shake her head then she looks at Mama.
