When I first arrived in Montego Bay, the energy was electric — the streets alive with music and movement. There were several clubs, including the well-known 2727, a Margaritaville nearby, and a few casinos open around the clock.
As I wandered, I came across a man selling Campari and rum on the street. His name was Troy.
“Wah gwaan, boss? Mi have di best ting ya need,” he said — tone sharp and inviting as he held up bottles.
Troy was a hustler — the kind who could get you anything: women, drugs, drinks, you name it. “Anything yuh waan, mi sort it out.”
We started talking, and soon we were throwing back shots — Wray & Nephew, Appleton, even Campari mixed with rum — a bitter concoction Troy swore by. The drink itself wasn’t great, but the moment made it unforgettable.
He asked about America; I asked about Jamaica. His view of my country made me reflect on my own sense of identity — or lack thereof. Being Black in America feels different, like the culture is fragmented. But in places like Jamaica or Brazil, there’s a deep sense of belonging I envied.
After a while, Troy offered to take me to Club 2727. “Mi know di owner. Mi get yuh in easy,” he said. True to his word, he hooked me up with a table and drinks. The club was packed, the music pounding — Spice was there, not performing but vibing with friends in VIP. Thanks to Troy, I was close enough to feel the bass in my bones.
When I left the club, Troy was still outside, shouting, “Jefe! Big boss!” And that’s when I saw her.
A woman stood nearby, eyes locked on me. She didn’t look away. After a moment, I called out: “Why you lookin’ at me like that?”
“Yuh look like somebody worth lookin’ at.”
And just like that, I met Jovel.
She was from a small mountain town near Kingston but had moved to Montego Bay to work. After fifteen minutes of talking, we crossed the street to a casino, then a corner shop for rum, chasers, and beer. This wasn’t a tourist spot — it was raw, real. Locals watched curious, but welcoming.
Jovel opened up about her life — leaving her son in the countryside, losing his father to violence, fighting to support her family. “Mi haffi do weh mi can fi mek it work.” She’d been suspended from her call-center job that day, which explained her guarded tone. But as the rum flowed, so did her smiles — each one bright enough to light the night.
Then four pickup trucks rolled up, loaded with armed police. “Jus’ cool,” Jovel whispered. “Dem deh jus’ do di checks.” I raised my hands as an officer approached. “Yuh American?” he asked. I nodded. He glanced at my passport and waved us off.
“Yuh good now,” Jovel said calmly. “Dem always deh round yah.” It was clear this wasn’t her first time dealing with it.
That night stayed with me — the street-light glow, her laugh, the feeling of being seen in a place that wasn’t mine yet felt like home.
To be continued in Jah-Bliss.