Brother Man
CHORUS OF THE PEOPLE IN THE LANE
The tongues in the lane clack-clack almost continuously, going up and down the full scale of human emotions, human folly, ignorance, suffering, viciousness, magnanimity, weakness, greatness, littleness, insufficiency, frailty, strength.
They clack on the street corners, where the ice shop hangs out a triangular red flag, under the shadow of overhanging building that lean precariously, teetering across the dingy chasm of the narrow lane.
Around the yam-seller’s barrow, and the tripe-seller’s basket, the coal-vendor’s crazy push-cart drawn up against the seamy sidewalk, they clack, interspersing the hawking and the bargaining, and what –goes-on in the casual, earnest, noisy, meaningless business of buying and selling; and where the mango-seller sets down her country-load.
They clack where the neighbours meet in the Chinese grocery shop on the corner, leaning elbows against the counter with its saltfish odour and the spilled rice grains and brown sugar grains, and amid the dustings of cornmeal and flour under the smirking two-faced scale, waiting for change.
- Mis’ Brody’s clubfootbwoy get run over...
- You hear wha’ Bra’ Ambo say? Say we is gwine get nodder breeze-blow dis year yet...
- Cho Missis, no mind Bra’ Ambo, after him no eena Big Massa council...
- Coal-price gone up since todder day...
- Ee-ee Ma, him do an’ get run over...
- Oonu lissen hear wha’ Bra’ Ambo say...
Behind the pocked visage and the toothless grin, behind the wrinkled skin gathered and seamed around the lips and under the eyes, behind the facade of the haltness and haleness and cursing and laughter, slander lurks in ambush to take the weakest and the hindmost, and the tongues clack upon every chance.
- Cordy’s man get tek-up fo’ ganga...
- Bra’ Man show de gospel way...
- Me-gal still wi’ hold wid Bra’ Ambo...
- Coal-price gone
The tongues in the lane clack-clack almost continuously, going up and down the full scale of human emotions, human folly, ignorance, suffering, viciousness, magnanimity, weakness, greatness, littleness, insufficiency, frailty, strength.
They clack on the street corners, where the ice shop hangs out a triangular red flag, under the shadow of overhanging building that lean precariously, teetering across the dingy chasm of the narrow lane.
Around the yam-seller’s barrow, and the tripe-seller’s basket, the coal-vendor’s crazy push-cart drawn up against the seamy sidewalk, they clack, interspersing the hawking and the bargaining, and what –goes-on in the casual, earnest, noisy, meaningless business of buying and selling; and where the mango-seller sets down her country-load.
They clack where the neighbours meet in the Chinese grocery shop on the corner, leaning elbows against the counter with its saltfish odour and the spilled rice grains and brown sugar grains, and amid the dustings of cornmeal and flour under the smirking two-faced scale, waiting for change.
- Mis’ Brody’s clubfootbwoy get run over...
- You hear wha’ Bra’ Ambo say? Say we is gwine get nodder breeze-blow dis year yet...
- Cho Missis, no mind Bra’ Ambo, after him no eena Big Massa council...
- Coal-price gone up since todder day...
- Ee-ee Ma, him do an’ get run over...
- Oonu lissen hear wha’ Bra’ Ambo say...
Behind the pocked visage and the toothless grin, behind the wrinkled skin gathered and seamed around the lips and under the eyes, behind the facade of the haltness and haleness and cursing and laughter, slander lurks in ambush to take the weakest and the hindmost, and the tongues clack upon every chance.
- Cordy’s man get tek-up fo’ ganga...
- Bra’ Man show de gospel way...
- Me-gal still wi’ hold wid Bra’ Ambo...
- Coal-price gone