15 min read
By MIKE AWOYINFA
Today, Jamaica is on my mind. I was flying from Trinidad and Tobago on my way to Atlanta and had to make a brief stopover in Jamaica—the land I had heard so much about through the powerful medium of music. Reggae music.
From the air, you could see the iridescent island sparkling, like a queen, a Caribbean queen bejeweled in a splash of sun, sea and reggae. I wanted to see everything: the sights of Jamaica. I wanted to hear everything: the voices of Jamaica. Men and women in dreadlocks, speaking their patois and reggae music blasting in my ears from ubiquitous loudspeakers such as we have in Lagos. Is this not another Africa? Africans must be Africans everywhere they are. I wanted to smell everything: the smell of ganja, marijuana or whatever name you call it. The ganja that Peter Tosh sang about and campaigned for its legalization because of what he claimed as an all-purpose medicine that can cure asthma, tuberculosis and what have you.