Story:
Photographic Evidence of the Rastaman in ‘91
captured in Edmonton, Alberta

You are softer in this photograph, staring at the eggshell coat of the Millwoods basement—shelter to the downtrodden brethren brought to keel by wagging tongues of black and gold and gluttony. Your fingers still twitch in sync with the ghostly choir of St. Augustine’s Cathedral, its stained glass, wet to the touch with Biafran blood watering what remains of severed ube trees lining the deserted market. Your mane is an untamed beast, scattered against Babylon’s will. I remember being told in the early days how each dreadlock stores a memory too heavy to hold within a healing head. By the time I was seven, your memories had grown into hands for me to hold as we crossed prairie streets. By then, your roar had stifled into a transient presence, courted as immigrant submission tied to becoming the father lost far too early for far too little. Yet, in this photograph, you are still a contemplating servant to the rule of Jah, cap-toothed in indigo as you sway to the lion’s walk to answer the Wailers call for the lost men to assemble, assemble and fight.

Creative Field: Poetry

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