My nickname should be Lucky. I never win de lottery though I hear yuh need a ticket to win. Truth is, I mek some bad decisions in muh life dat cost me dearly, so maybe my nickname should be Unlucky.
I wanted to be a gentleman farmer – a Market Vendor integrated into farming. I get brek trying to raise pigs, cows, goats, sheep and rabbits. Strike one fuh Unlucky.
Not learning my lesson, I buy land and wuk it. Newcastle, St John, here I come, farming bananas wid coconuts as a quick cash crop. Some brethren decide to help me out, reaping ’bout $3 000 worth of coconuts weekly. I shoulda been happy but dem forget to advise dem was coming and forget to leave de cheque when leaving. Another strike fuh Unlucky.
I sell de land and get back de original investment five years later. Call me Lucky!
We ain’t gine talk ’bout relationships; de luck does run both ways. So why me nickname should be Lucky? Simple, I never win nuh big money, nobody left me nuh inheritance – nothing so. But I know I should be called Lucky.
First story: Kingston, Jamaica, one Saturday night. Vendor and respected Bajan journalist J.C. Proute and he son Carlton in a place called Chelsea Jerk Centre, not exactly Sandy Lane.
I put me pouch wid my documents, money, passport and hotel key pun de ground under de table. After all, we couldn’t waste table space since we only had room fuh jerk pork. We eat, get up and gone back to de Pegasus hotel. When I was walking through de lobby is when I realize.
“Proute, I left me travel pouch in Chelsea Jerk Centre,” I said.
J.C. did well advanced in age by then, driving flat out at 15 miles per hour; Carlton was hollering: “Faster, daddy, faster,” and diarrhoea was setting in for me. Dis is Kingston, Jamaica! I t’ought I woulda never see dat money again.
De car did still rolling when de Vendor fly out, walking pun air like a man from Nazareth pun water. Bolt woulda never catch me. Sliding under de table like Dwayne Smith in a T20 cricket match, I grab de pouch, open it and everything was still in tack. Call me Lucky!
De next time, I was gine to Geneva wid muh buddy Pat Cheltenham who invite muh into British Airways (BA)?Heathrow lounge. I did so excited I left de same pouch – again wid all de money – in de toilet. I arrive in Geneva only to realize when I land dat it missing.
A few nervous hours later I hear dat it was found, handed in to airport security and by nightfall BA send it with a flight crew and I got it back. Call me Lucky, Lucky!
Years later, at Adams Airport, de madam pick me up. I gone home, bathe, eat, sleep and wake up looking fuh de attaché case wid de money and documents. Missing! Dis time I had left it pun de sidewalk outside de airport. Nearly four hours later I rush back to de airport and I got it back. Call me Lucky, Lucky, Lucky!
Four weeks ago while leaving Antigua, I tek out de laptop fuh security, board de LIAT plane, fly to Bubbadus and de next day I looking to do some wuk – no laptop! Thanks to Oliver Haywood and LIAT, I was reunited wid de laptop by noon of de same day.
Call me Lucky, Lucky, Lucky, Lucky! Either dat or I got de “oldtimers desease”.
One of dese days de luck gine run out.
I, Market Vendor, gone fuh now.
You have a blessed and a wonderful day, yuh hear?
