The Songs of My People

I remember the songs
B. Waine Kong

As a Freemason, I can always count on a big smile on my face and my mood picking up when we gather to toast our benefactors and to sing. There is nothing like a room full of men singing the old songs. These experiences cause me to reminisce about my early years in St. Elizabeth where songs are important elements of our culture. We used every occasion to express ourselves in song.

My Granny (Rosella McKenzie, who raised me) prayed aloud when she greeted the day each morning, prayed again before each meal as well as before bedtime. She sang hymns all day long while doing her chores and never missed attending church where she was more delighted with the music from the old pipe organ pumped by Mr. Mears and played by Teacher Chang, than the sermons, responsive readings and even prayer time. There was a gentleman at Springfield Moravian Church whose voice made everyone wince. He sounded like a bullfrog. No amount of gentle urging could get him to understand that the Bible said: “Make a joyful noise unto the Lord” not a dreadful noise. As he refused to be silent during the singing of hymns, we just laughed, grinned and bared it.

The men sang when they worked. Women sang and make wonderful rhythms with their coconut brushes as they put a honey wax shine on the wooden floors as well delighted me with squeaky noises when they washed cloths. There was always a song in our hearts and a rhythm to all activities of daily living. We sang non-stop for nine nights when someone died. In the old days, the men got together to plow the fields, children brought the water, the women cooked the food and served the rum and a song leader kept the men singing and working all day long and no one got tired. There was nothing like a song and camaraderie to motivate men to work without being paid. Neighbors just did it for each other. The joke was to box someone in a corner by a group of men swinging hoes because the rule was you couldn’t stop even to save a man’s life as long as the song continued. You could not break the rhythm. When they took a break for food, it was hard corn meal dumplings the size of cart wheels,yam, coco, dashine as well as fried up salt fish and salt pork with onions, scallions and tomatoes and the drink was “waters” (white rum and water) as well as lemonade made with sour orange and wet sugar. Whenever a man drank rum, he was expected to do four things, throw a little to the ground for the ancestors, drink it with one gulp, make a loud grunt and put down the glass as if he just bowed out in dominoes. The rum we served was called “Jan crow Batty”. It was so named because it was stolen from the rum factory by workers who filled their water boots, wear it out and emptied their boots in a pan when they got home to later share with friends. The over proof alcohol cured his athlete’s foot and added flavor to the run.

We started and ended every meeting with a song. At school, we had a song for every occasion. When a new teacher came to school, we greeted them with a welcome song: “Hello, we are so happy to meet you”. Those leaving heard: “Good bye, Farewell”. We had a good morning song, a good evening song: “Now the Day is Over, Night is drawing Neigh” and when we graced our food: “Be present at our table Lord; be here and everywhere adored.”

My favorite song at “Nine Night “was:

Mi sa my old man dead
And he no lef no will
He lef a little piece a land
Fi feed the whole a wi
But wi bigger breda
Tief it way from wi
Glory Be to God
Glory be to God
Fi di whole a wi

Whenever our cricket team went to play another town (New Market, Darlistown, Black River, and Middle Quarters) we tried to big up the team by singing and waving to those we passed from the time we left and especially when we arrived and was in the presence of the opposing team. If we lost, the truck was quiet on our way back but if we prevailed, we sang all the way back: “You were wrong to send and call us, you were wrong.”

Nothing like a song to pick up our spirits.