Chasing the Chronicles of Childhood.

By R. N. Berry

In the rural regions of Greenland Manchester, a clergyman decided to send Melinda, his favorite daughter away to the city to obtain better education. However, with the swelling of her glory came Allan, a partner whom she fell for. Their paradoxical background was buried in unfathomed history but soon after getting married the taunting mystery insisted on sleeping no more.
Allan was as cold as the dead walking from the morgue but unless you were personally touched, that side was veiled. Melinda's heart was broken the moment she learned he had given their twin girls away. She gave up fighting after recognizing it was his propensity to act with cruelty.
After giving birth to Reggie - their fourth child - she watched as he grappled with the worst of Allan's evil nature. Reggie eventually broke the bars to freedom but no sooner discovered he was classed among the social outcast. Now his first step to true liberation began when he started Chasing the Chronicles of Childhood. Emerging evidence proved the disturbing elements to be that which followed the bloodline and Reggie was determined to detach himself, even if it was named the last attempt he made.
Smiles were veils for hidden scars but how far would they take him? And with death being a neighbourly companion, would it secure him sure escape? He concluded there had to be another way but with much effort, transforming pain into pleasure meant consciously creating darker days. Closing his eyes to the woeful world and its demands, he opened his mind to the prohibitions that were patiently waiting to pattern a path for his steps. Life boils down to a series of moments and in those moments are choices; decision that could affect life forever but destination remains his only gratification.

Life is given in black and white, this book really added unexpected shades to it - Dianne Russell.
I believe every young person should read this book, whether they have been through, going through or feel manipulated by life's forecast ahead - A.R Lee
Exceptional lessons carved by rich poetic lines and bloody truth that will take anyone to another level of vision - Victor Moore.

• Language: English
• Publisher: R. N. Berry
• Release date: Mar 30, 2018
• ISBN: 9781370584529

R. N. Berry

Rodger was born a natural thinker, unearthing some of the deepest reality forming our society. Yonder years molded a meal of circumstances that left him Chasing the Chronicles of Childhood, and after detecting The Cost of Freedom, he admitted it was his unwavering mission to unveil The Invisible Mask. Despite embarking on that trilogy - with the first being an autobiography - all three books are heavily based on the real world.In his spare time, he's reading a book, listening to music or surfing the world. Rodger remains a work in progress; the carving of a masterpiece that creates peace of mind for those who come in contact with him or his work of Art.His free-spirited, fun-loving approach to life is one that encourages others to be bold; be brave and trust God because those are the formulas to discovering one's full potential.

Book preview

CHASING the CHRONICLES of CHILDHOOD

Rodger Berry

Dedication

Dedicated to all the readers who can identify in one way or another with the sceneries of this literature, and ‘importantly’ to those who are in the reformation process to prevent another successive stolen childhood.

Edited by: Dr. Francine Taylor Campbell

Copyright © 2018 by Rodger Berry

All rights reserved.

More about The Stolen Childhood Trilogy by Rodger Berry:

Volume I. Chasing the Chronicles of Childhood

Over the last nine months of conceiving the thought and putting this informative work together, I have come to recognize how much I’ve unfolded lifelong experiences, shared by many persons. I cannot imagine a more suitable eye-opener to unveil The Stolen Childhood’s first, of three volumes. These lives are highly contributed to by some of the most surreptitious activities among today’s generation.

I have strategically carried the details as real as they were with events all chronologically aligned. And with the assonances you’ll come across, it’s sure an educative tool that everyone will desire to have as their possession. The shattering developments will no doubt leave you wondering where the line is between fiction and nonfiction. However, apart from the fictitious names that bear no identity of anyone in my world; the breathtaking tension that each step provides is solely nonfictional and stems from my personal encounters.

Release yourself and have a seat in Reggie’s chair as these epic discoveries take your imagination for a spin and back.

Volume II. The Cost of Freedom

The world was never a level playground and it didn’t guarantee... ...blood and fire is demanded in sacrificial atonements for obscured sins. The dark world is brought to the big screen, shaking the very earth beneath feet as gunners clash and cold steel collides. ...were always demonstrated in the name of freedom and warlord met on different battlefield to sow their own seeds and harvest personal rewards.

For the meek, it was going breathlessly in search of... And for the seditious, the desires were twisted to recompense... Death was a neighbouring enemy for all. ...those who made acquaintance, while the redeemed were still searching for freedom.

In stores soon

Volume III. The Invisible Mask

In this luminous literature, Britanie a sparkling lass, is forced to accept an unearthing that would change her forever. But just before that moment… Gradually Reggie got hooked unto both girls, and felt tied to their unique... And in the process, discovered the repression of spoiled happiness and gross grief... Fascinated by Reggie’s un-assumed advancement, Britanie found herself locked between his charm and a love that was forbidden. Forced to accept her fate, she opened her soul to...

In stores soon

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1 The Bloodline

Chapter 2 A Fountain of Sweet and Bitter Water

Chapter 3 A sudden Disappearance

Chapter 4 The settlement

Chapter 5 A Rocky Ride

Chapter 6 In the Midst of the Heat

Chapter 7 A Night in Hell

Chapter 8 The Excommunicated Period

Chapter 9 Depression Creating Decisive Decisions

Chapter 10 The Outside World

Chapter 11 A New Environment

Chapter 12 Dark Awakening

Chapter 13 Shallow Grounds

Chapter 14 Death Plots

Chapter 15 A Short Visitation

Chapter 16 The Recovery Process

Chapter 17 Moving Pass the Past

Chapter 18 At the End of the Tunnel

Chapter 19 Re-routing the Path

Epilogue: Reforming Tomorrow Today

Prelude

I was different… from the beginning.

I didn’t understand why it was so hard to label the likeness among my siblings and I. Gosh! My driving force, will-power and the desperate desire for change must have been the main elements that separated us. Many persons told me I was the epitome of my father, Allan. Sad to say, I couldn’t deny it, I had most of his charade. Yet, each day I hoped it was the only thing we had in common for there was a wretched confrontation within that had almost convinced me it was not by genetic material.

Allan was a true prosecutor of liberal freedom. His medium built physique was a disguising house for the iron muscles beneath his skin. When he was angry it seemed his entire body became stone, hard and cruel, smashing to fragments just about anything that was in his way. Oftentimes when this gross anger got the best of him, his arms and legs gave us the appetizer, before he found an appropriate weapon to unleash his full-force wrath.

Growing up with Allan, my mother Melinda and three siblings, Keshena, Anna and Reno, I had big dreams and grand achievements that had not arrived as yet. By the time I was five years old, I met the doom of existence from the hands of cruelty and thereafter, dejection became a companion as I fought the element of unbearable rejection. My childlike attributes would not be a nature to treasure. Somehow, it had come to an abrupt end before I could actually detect its commencement. I knew then that it would have been a long and rocky ride to adolescence, and without strong determination, I could forget about seeing adulthood.

When the lack of education unveiled my shattered dreams, the awful discovery led me through years of tough decisions and I developed an image that no longer cared how the world perceived me. Life demanded sturdiness of the mind and I was prepared to give it. Though I had never seen the need to say I needed help, the humility was there, covered with pride that choose rather to expose shame and despair. Life had many roads. I knew it then, and began searching for the more palatable ones. I needed to find me, to accept me and to love me for being me.

I often thought life was a gaffe; that the gift of reproduction was mistakenly given to some persons. After observing suitable personalities yearning after this reward, yet couldn’t receive the endowment, I realized it was a reasonable conclusion. But soon I would be taken to another level of consciousness where I had to accept that there is no such thing as ‘a mistake.’ Everything that was is indeed a part of what is suppose to fit into destiny.

There were many missing parts that I needed to find, neglected elements that were essential in order to fill emptiness. My search to fill that vacuum started with a desire to find love, a healthy environment and then proper education. I had to get out of the box; to think a little further than moral conduct. Here, I discovered that detachment was the best defence against life’s pain and disappointments.

By the time I was fifteen years old, I had developed my own identity, forming my own philosophy. There were unavoidable ditches ahead waiting to facilitate my fall but I was determined nonetheless to stick to the forbidden path; to start a search that would one day lead to wholesomeness. In the interim, the only thing that kept me sane was knowing; believing inevitably that the day would come when I would be able to find complete freedom.

Who you were can fashion who you are,

But who you are doesn’t determine who you’ll become.

Acknowledgement

Special thanks to Odaro who unreservedly lent me his laptop to finish this book when my machine crashed. To Annika, who kept pushing for its completion by asking continually for her copy. And to Rohan who is still bent on making this book a bestseller.

1

The Bloodline

Dinner had just been served and everyone was retiring from the table. Mr. Wallis remained around the mahogany dining set, now clamped by thoughts as he watched his daughter clearing the table. She was indeed a prospective helpmate, dedicating herself to all those chores her siblings fought to evade. He turned to the side of his chair and stared across at the sofas. Everything was decorated in rich mahogany red; a sight that pleasured him, especially when his thoughts got the best of him.

Gone are the days when information had little circulation in our society; the era when technology was not crowned with gratification, he thought deeply to himself, those were the epoch when machineries regarded Mother Nature as the prime producer; back then modernization was a priced commodity most of us didn’t bother to chase, and still the finders were few among seekers.

He was right. His youthful years proved how yokel persons were. They were careful to sustain a rustic mentality with the few adjusting to gradual changes considered heretic. He spotted his daughter leaving the dining room with the last set of utensils when his thoughts climaxed and he cleared his throat. Melinda, he called hesitantly.

Yes daddy, she turned slowly to answer with steady arms. What can I do for you?

When you’re through I would like to have a word with you, he rose from the chair and walked over to the settee. And by the way, please inform your mother we’re going to wrap up that conversation we were having the other day, so she should come along also.

As soon as I’m through Dad, she smiled and redirected her steps.

Melinda was the third child of the union, a glowing figure with flowing beauty. Many believed she was the one among her sisters to possess that unavoidable admiration. But she was simply a humble young lady with a willing heart to serve. When her siblings gave mean attention to their cut-out chores, she would hurry on with hers then mingle with her mother. Embracing the idea of sticking around Cynthia must have been one of the main attributes that earned her that special place in her father’s heart. He knew it was lessons taught without teaching. That it would make her a fine mother one day to come.

The family resided in a rural area called Greenland. The dwellers of this little district were affable and of a pleasant nature. Their wilful personality went above and beyond the call of duty. This industrious mentality was somewhat scattered right across the little Island they dwelt on and it was often needled into the honourable recognitions they received from neighbouring countries. Emerging nations and developing countries all built their strength on their agricultural economy. And here in the West Indies, their art culture and agricultural sector were superior to most countries in the western hemisphere.

Mr. and Mrs. Wallis’ house was located on the lower skirts of Manchester, in the little district of Greenland. Their ancestral history was also buried there. It was a ravishing district, while day prevailed, especially at the latter part of summer when most of the fruits were preparing themselves for harvesters. Seas of trees stretched across acres of lands. Some so heavy, fruits hanged in oppressive opulence on limbs that branches were narrowly to the ground. You didn’t have to walk through the fields to garner a satisfactory number of produce. A first step in the grounds was enough to satisfy desires.

Pleasant freshness swept the landscapes and greeted nostrils with pleasure. When it was fall, spring pencilled nature to decorate the surrounding with colourful emblems like a painter’s perfect piece.

But when the day failed in its strength and the evening tides mopped the sun completely from the sky, it was ghastly. Darkness competed with the semblance of a bottomless pit. The clustered trees gathered the shadows that were sure to intimidate those who failed a manful courage. It was without dispute, civilization was still in its immature stage. For personal streetlights blazed from kerosene torches and water pipes were panel catchments from the roof of each house.

Their closest neighbour was distant relatives and they were hundreds of meters away. This isolation was further beefed up by the trees and shrubberies that barred the visibility of most of these houses. As far and wide as one could visualize, it was pure greenness. When it wasn’t the clustered trees, it was the plies of prairies. Everything marked greenness. Apart from the farmer’s fields that were beautifully sown and busily reaped, there was no development in the district that contributed to mass employment. Still, in their eyes their spacious environment did not steal from their neighbourly encounter.

I often wondered how these people muddled through such habitation, but I had to conclude they were the generation of courage. Growing in the environment must have created much room for embracement.

Living in the quiet district of Greenland, Mr. Wallis maintained a happy family. One good thing about this district is the fact that it was furnished with knitted relations; family members who were always at each other’s doorway without a specific cause. He loved it there, loved his family dearly and dispensed to all his care.

Melinda walked from the kitchen to her bedroom wearing a contented expression on her face. The cleaning up was behind her now and she was happy with that. She was about to attend to something else when she remembered her father’s words. She twirled and hurried through the passage to find her mother. When she passed the living room entrance and spotted her, already seated beside Mr. Wallis, she stopped in her track.

I was just coming to you, she whispered softly.

Come on, have a seat, Cynthia replied. Your presence is needed.

She walked into the room and sat on the single-seat sofa. Gazing at Mr. Wallis, she recognized the strong concern in his eyes but it was impossible to make them out. He motioned his body to face her as soon as she was seated.

We have decided on sending you to Kingston. What do you think about it? he asked.

Kingston..., she paused for words. ...I’m not sure what to say about that.

Your secondary education has come to an end and there’s not much around here to do. I want you to future yourself, go out into the world and see what it’s like. Then you can choose what is best for you.

That’s a good idea, Cynthia approved. You’ll be open to greater opportunities and a brighter future.

The thought connected but it was bouncing from her mind. Thrilled yet without joy, it was the separation that took focal point. Yeah I think you’re both correct, she sighed.

You don’t seem to be pleased with the idea, Mr. Wallis detected. Is that the case?

No, it’s not, she fished for the better choice. You have said right. Being here, there’s not much to think about.

"As you know, your brother is with the Francis family. A wonderful set of friends they are. I have already spoken with them about your possible arrival so there’s nothing to worry about, his smile dusted her jitters. We were only waiting on this moment to get your opinion. And now that you’ve chosen to go, I’m sure all is settled."

The Francis family was widely known for their extended love and hospitality. A number of youngsters would testify how they were nestled into their care, after leaving rural communities to the urbanized area to develop their lives. Mr. Wallis had known Mr. Francis over the years. They were both clergymen and met on different occasions to discuss personal and administrative dealings.

You are going to love it down there, Cynthia added with a measure of pride. Your brother will now have you closer. He’s doing really well on that side and you will too.

I bet I will, Melinda returned a retiring smile. It’s getting real dark. Excuse me a minute, I’m going to get the lamps lit.

She rose and stepped from the room. Passing her youngest sister in the second room, she made her way to her parents’ room. Her eldest brother was somewhere outside, attending his own interest. He was next to her but still at a distant from her qualities. Such a promising girl, her mother often whispered and her father would appraise the muttering without direct words. She knew her father’s decision was right, it was always right. Greenland lassies were almost as antiquated as their mothers. Except for their fine ribbons and effort in language, which gave symptoms of city innovation, they grew in the likes of ‘gender distinction’. Most of the women in the district were seamstresses. Others were higglers, heading to the market after midweek to meet customers who bought and transported goods to other parishes. Some of them had their spots in the market and slept over the two nights, before returning home on Saturday night.

The image of a formally dressed individual heading out in the mornings to work was not a prevalent one. Men left their houses in the morning for the bush, to attend their plantations, and returned soiled with red soil and stained with excreted salt. A wife was her own charwoman, and mothers their own caretakers.

Mr. Wallis hired other workmen on his larger plantations. Unlike most of the farmers around him, he had many acres of land in various locations. But his prominence was meshed into the devoted sacrifices he made to religious service. Most persons knew him to be the pastor who had the little church at the brim of Nash Hill.

After leaving Mandeville and heading towards Mile Gully, there were tens of districts from Shurhamton right down to Medina. Some of which were much smaller than Greenland. Most of the dwellers in these districts were Nazarenes and Sabbath worshipers. It was more pleasing to attend these nominal assemblies because they exempted most of the prohibitions that were enforced by denominations such as the Pentecostals or Apostolic Ministries. Others took preference to the holy quietness and peaceful quietness that manifested itself throughout their worship secessions.

Evidently, Christianity had different walks, it carried diverse interpretations.

Approximately eight miles from Greenland lay a small district by the name of Barbro Pen. It was one of the quietest places in the world. The occasional whistle of a quail or tapping of a wood-pecker was almost the only sound that ever breaks out upon the uniformed tranquillity of its surrounding. This district was much smaller than Greenland; among the smaller ones, it seemed. Buried in the midst of steep hills, the little locality was a narrow village, safely walled by nature’s structure. A few tracks were cut from constant trampling which ran across its province, meeting the three entrances, with less distinct trails fading off to the few houses on its terrain.

Here a community stalwart by the name of Mr. Barley lived with his wife and her niece. The few houses that made the district may have been less than one dozen but the tracks were kept busy by persons who used the region as a shortcut to get to their destinations.

Mr. Barley was a large producer of products such as corn, cane, orange, tangerine, mangerine, grapefruit, banana, potato, the various types of yams, and marijuana. His marijuana field was a secret cultivation that spread like a huge bed of green lawn at the back of his house. This property was shadowy, clustered with trees and protected by his mysterious personality. The house was enclosed in the midst of seclusion, burying his precious jewels from the sight of those who came along. Still, he relished no unannounced visitation or allowed anyone the privilege of penetrating anything around his domicile. Persona created its own security and its strength would determine the chances one took.

Unlike most men who went on bragging or grappling with family issues, Mr. Barley wasted no breath on discourses relating to his family members, except for Vin, his youngest brother. Him he spoke highly of especially when nature found his ‘roving composure.’ Occasionally, lawmen raided his marijuana field and groped through his house, cluttering for the sniffing substance. Those incursions accounted for two occasions when he was taken to the den. At which point, Vin was the only one he could count on to come and get him out of hell. He knew well that as long as Vin was in the country he was sure to show up; forget the previous caveat and pay the bail bill.

Many persons in this vicinity and surrounding districts looked up to Mr. Barley. For some it was the power he paraded as a fierce political activist while for others, an admiration for his artifice. His unfathomed affluence was a ‘bank for withdrawal,’ with very few respecting their obligation to repay. Thought his wealth was acquired through hard work, most of his borrowers thought it was accumulated from the greens and thus, he shouldn’t measure with such accuracy. But he rubbished all in one, growling day and night that a million dollars given was not expected back but a dollar loaned was due for return. His strict conduct inspired a small contingent of friends and provided no room for those who were nosy. This slivered friendship had soon become the cause for mounted enemies however that didn’t ravage his focus. He knew, soon they would be trampling on their own pride again, seeking his assistance in some matter of the sort.

The couple had lived for years with failed attempts to have a child. It was the only reason why Cicerah brought back one of her niece to live with them, a few years ago when she went to visited her family in Mountain. As for his wife Cicerah, she was one of the many market women in the district who ventured out on Thursday evenings, sleeping over two nights in the marketplace and returned home the Saturday night. Mattis was a significant help under these circumstances. Though Cicerah took her on several occasions to the market, most of the time she would leave her to assist Mr. Barley.

Nevertheless, shadowing their infertility did not calm the internal unrest adequately. When Mr. Barley participated in discourses that led to progeny and replenishment his arrogance was put on conspicuous display. A male child was his desire–one from his own bowels. The traditional concept of a male child in the family was an affirmation he wouldn’t cut loose from. Having none was disturbing enough but grappling with the thought of Cicerah being barren brought righteous devastation.

After eighteen years of unbearable sterility, Mr. Barley was bent on getting some fresh flesh. Baffled by his course of empty threats, Mattis was coerced into becoming the subject of replacement, giving birth to a baby boy whom they called Allan. When Cicerah discovered despair had ushered in infidelity her soul was greatly wounded. For months her heart resided in the bleak of desolation, her face contracting streaks of haggard strokes. Still, she remembered primary purpose, fulfilling the desire of serving and comforting her partner, which somehow shepherded timely forgiveness. Though perfidy weaned Mr. Barley from his untamed blether, it had caused to commence an inner wail that would echo for years to come.

In a matter of two years, treachery replayed, resulting into a baby girl they called Odessa. With that, everything became chaotic, transforming into different degrees of madness.

As time elapse, Mr. Barley’s attention shifted. Mattis had become his new focus. Despite open resentment, ridicule and humiliation were the only servings on the table. Verbal exchange scorched faces and eventually created a sweltering environment for all. The house was seemingly always on fire but at the end, the perpetrator would always emerge the victor. At this point, all signals were glaring the green light. To Mrs. Barley, Mattis was occupying too much space now, territory she wouldn’t sit by and allow her niece to inhabit so long as there was still breath in her body to fight her cause.

With mounting misery shaping unmovable mountains, Mattis asked if she could pay her mother back home a visit. She had a fiancée by the name of Mr. Bruce, in a neighbouring district and despite the situation; he was ready to take her in permanently. If the stratagem worked, it would be her ticket out. When she laid her cards on the table Mr. Barley shut it down instantly but Cicerah insisted the weekend break was deserving. That very evening she parcelled out some goodies wittily for her sister, asking Mattis to deliver it in good spirit. Though Mr. Barley was no fool to the slyness of women, their ploy afforded enough sympathy for him to regress on his decision.

In spite of the green light, Mattis was drilled to fear, now dreadfully terrified by the thought of being pursued but a chance seen was one worth taking, she decided nonetheless.

The following morning, while the dew glinted heavily from the grass and the frosty fog still hovering over the earth, Mattis rose with the brush of dusk. Odessa was still on the breast, but she had no chance having Allan. Jittery wouldn’t allow her to as much, attempt the request. To avoid wanting all and getting none, she bided them goodbye and was never to return as a resident.

Allan grew up in Barbro Pen. He had mustered the will to accept the absence of Mattis. Over the years his parents had groomed him into the Nazarene faith. They were aged members, and made it their obligatory duty to send him to the temple even if they were not in attendance.

Barbro Pen was a fertile terrain, decorated with stretches of orchard and surrounding hills. With very little slopes on the land, this helped to maintain the fat in the soil even after a heavy washing of rain. Inhabitants were surrounded by their own demesne, which also made it easy to leave homes and attend the fields.

After Mattis left Barbro Pen, Mr. Barley’s misplayed disloyalty transformed into grimness. Furiously he would bellow at things going contrary to his desire as emotions expressed in savage cadence continued to boil for simple affronts. The developing year of Allan’s life had been bleak. In the past Mr. Barley sore strictness had dished out some of the most vicious attack upon him. Yet, family wouldn’t venture much into talking about it, even with the clear visibility of hell kicking in Barbro Pen. His complex personality was an equation Cicerah could forever attempt working out. In the end, it brought her right back to where she had started. Over the years she grappled with his dourness, the prickly traits that depicted an unpredictable beast. Now savagery and brutality was Allan’s only companion, especially when she was not around to stand as his guardian angel, his salvation.

By the time Allan was close to closing the door to his teenage years, he left Barbro Pen and went to John’s Hall, spending a few months with Mattis. The institute he attended was located in Mandeville, subsequently availing alternate visits between Mattis and Mr. Vin, who was living just outside the city.

Unlike the others in the district, Mattis lived on the peak of a crest, engulfed by beautiful lime and marble stones. The house was built upon rocks, the spot crafting a good lookout. But the houses below were much closer than those in Greenland or Barbro Pen, creating a more neighbourly environment.

Beyond her house was an expanse of higher planes of rocks; huge white bodies shooting their heads in the air. Some were taller than a human and huger than an elephant. While other were thin and carried razor-edge as though sharpened by time. Though fitting for a perfect hideout, they depicted bliss and phantom in one capture, a prohibition for the weak-hearted.

Though it required much vigour to get up to Mattis house, after arriving, the splendour from that position was worth the trial. It was also an advantage to be in that location for they could detect persons coming and going, especially those heading directly towards the house. Just in case there was something to put in place, this advantage become pretty handy, giving ample time to set things in order before such a one actually arrived at the doorstep.

Mattis had married her fiancée a few years after leaving Barbro Pen, the union producing three children, Clint, Shirley and Dalia. They were grown children, all at this point, enrolled into a primary institute.

Mr. Bruce was a professional planter. He spent six to nine months of each year off the Island, working with the farm-work program. Going on the overseas program was an esteemed opportunity for farmers and individuals who embarked on this venture learnt more efficiently how to handle themselves more resourcefully when they returned to their plantations back home.

Mr. Wallis was a true family man, a devoted father and a loving husband. Cynthia had captured his heart at first sight, melting souls into one. In his eyes, she denoted beauty in its entirety and with the untainted love and care they displayed towards each other, there was no doubt they were the epitome of a perfect family. Thus letting their children grow to know and appreciate what family really meant.

He was keen in preventing priority from colliding, manoeuvring pastoral duties and religious tenets without allowing either to rob his service to the household. Many gravitated to him because they considered him a sage, one they could rely on for good counsel on any matter. One Sunday morning while he was conducting religious duties, the service was in session and the testimony segment was running when a fellow stood in the midst of the congregation to share his testimony.

Last night when I went to bed I had a funny, maybe strange dream, he paused to explain aptly. In my dream I found myself in a little fiery church. Everyone kept their heads up, attentive as he continued talking. "I attend the huge Nazarene assembly in Maid Stone and it was obviously not that assemble because we have nothing to do with the wave of exuberance I saw. There I stood in the unconsciousness of my spirit and was puzzled. Then I heard a voice saying this is where you will be attending hereafter, the young man declared empathetically with another brief instinctive pause. When I woke it seemed so... real. By patching the images, I realized it was this little church so I decided I would pay here a visit this morning." Everyone’s face lit up at his articulation, his deliberation, instantly giving him a resounding round of applause.

After his first visit, the young man returned the following Sundays and placed a commitment to accept full membership with Mr. Wallis’ assembly. The doctrine was outlined in his hearing and he held firmly to his decision, accepting the Pentecostal faith with baptism. Among the prohibitions, this denomination required its members to practise asceticism. Unlike most of the others, total abstinence from worldly pleasures was a proclamation. With true revelations being brought to light from time to time, some persons thought they were divinely connected while others condemned them with preferences placed on the diverse path of religion. Numerous testimonies went abroad of incidents in which demons were exorcized from persons who at first, came with great unrest. This fumed occasional visits, persons who stopped by out of mere curiosity in quest of seeing the extraordinary. For others, it was a bizarre act from a distance that drew them closer.

Allan, as he was rightly called, became an enthusiast of this tenet. His influence impacted his family circle in John’s Hall and shortly after, they also became Pentecostals. Miss Mattis, as she was widely called, was now a fine industrious woman. As the years advanced the hand of blessing upon her life became more and more evidential to all. Her kindness towards others was also cutting the boundaries of partiality, and being a multi-talented individual, her desire to achieve more continued to evolve. She became an asset in many ways to Mr. Wallis assembly. And as for Mr. Bruce, he also plugged himself into the congress, playing major roles in supervisory areas.

Shortly after this development, Allan moved to Mandeville to reside with Mr. Vin. He had a beautiful house off the busy main, in Hot Field. Everyone called him ‘Uncle’ because he was amiable and never cease to display a warm personality. Even a stranger could relate to him like a family or close friend, and although not the loquacious type, you were sure to get a balanced conversation on just about any topic.

While in Mandeville, Allan made trips back home on weekends, still attending the Pentecostal assembly when possible. After finishing college, his attention would be set on migration, better elevation.

In the process, Mr. Wallis came to love the spirit he observed in Allan. His dedication was evidence of future prolificness, which he emphasized notably at Allan’s departure. He believed Allan would become a useful servant in the ministry one day, and told him all he needed to do was make sure to keep focus and don’t lose the path upon which he was call to tread.

Teachers were well respected persons in the society. Some saw them as a treasure box from which they could pick knowledge, while others believed they were the educators of the world who alleviated home-parenting. Whichever it was, one thing was sure, those who held the profession where treated impeccable. Allan had found himself in the arena and with the three years experience beneath his belt, he was gliding comfortably well.

It was the emerging era, the age in which a lot of shuffling would rock the world. History has proven the last two decades of every century to be a phenomenon, foretelling untold metamorphosis. It was considered the greatest yet most devastated period of mankind, with persons becoming more liberal and further bounded by their own self-driven action. That phase would also diminish the status of teacher by constructing diverse avenues from which one could garner knowledge and harvest information. The transformation in the educational system would no doubt lead to some of the most unbelievable decadence the society has ever come across. Truth be told; the technological era would unavoidably pronounce destruction in the world of works. But most didn’t realize it was a wrapped gift, about to burst in our faces like a bomb upon opening. However, the revolutionized days would give us enough assurance to find comfort in the things that once rouse our concerns and left us grappling with curiosity.

As time sucks in our desires and vaporizes on the wings of the wind, our consciousness is becoming more and more enlightened with the fact that we’re putting aside some of our once most valuable possessions, choosing rather to cling to the immediacies that pops up in sight as replacements.

The idea of being in Kingston was a wild excitement for most young rustic. It was also a great help in acquainting them with different societies which in turn, helped to improve social and mental development. Though the country was the first in the western world to construct a railway–eighteen years after England–most parish were not mobilized or contemporarily equipped. They didn’t have the numerous edifices that were mounting in Kingston, the large corporations or shopping centres. For the rustic, Kingston was a different country. It had the fastest moving economy and the transportation system was far more efficient, which widened their vision and lengthened their terrain of knowledge.

Nevertheless, it was easy to identify the resourceful spirit of the rusticity. The contribution from those regions was significantly aiding the country’s ability to feed itself, and maintain a profitable market on the international scale. While others were concentrating the physical paper, they had the art of turning natural riches into tangible wealth. Agricultural exports accounted for most of the foreign exchange earnings and those who wore the occupation of a cultivator would forever be respectable individuals in the society. While some where plain peasants and acted moronic, they were conscious enough to place the emphasis on producing for the family, the community and extensionally the country.

Matter of fact, Jamaica was the most influential exporter of its region; the first Caribbean country to sell banana and rum internationally on a commercial base. Our sugar was a demand every cup craved, and as for the Blue Mountain Coffee, there was no match anywhere in the world. With ideal commodities such as these, and the bauxite industry spinning twenty-four hours per day, we were readily placed on the Commodity Markets. These markets were set up in major cities throughout the world, availing merchants the opportunity to buy and sell raw material. It was where leaders set prices and traded in a wide variety of commodities; which in turn, reflected on the economy–the very outcome of an individual’s lifestyle. Only a few major countries conducted this type of market. However, London was superior to the many underdogs around them and a powerhouse for merchandise collectively, which made them the world centre for Commodity Markets.

The understanding of where we’re coming from helps us to identify where we’re going. It is the compass that defines for us whether we’re making progress in our lives or just going around a roundabout repeatedly.

With her agility, Melinda had long acquired the position of daddy’s girl. However, that wouldn’t carry any weight at the moment. A new environment meant a new start, different people and fresh perspectives to deal with.

Her life in the city begun as a kindergarten teacher after which she moved into the area of secretarial duties. Growing among her peers, it was obvious that her quick lanky fingers would possibly pave the path to her profession. And it did. Over the last three years she had acquired a reputation for being a renowned stenographer. With no electronic gadget to store vast amount of data, legs were busy in offices, stocking away sheaves on shelves and inside filing cabinets, all in black and white. Secretaries were always in demand and as for Melinda, she was on her way to the top of the ladder, making strides that commanded admiration from all those around her.

It was no surprise that Melinda and Allan ended up in the same environment in Kingston. Mr. Wallis had sent him right into the hands of Mr. Francis, advising him they were wonderful company to share. Although Allan wasn’t living at the Francis’ residence, he was now attending the tabernacle Mr. Francis directed.

Their amity would soon reveal special interest each found in the other, knitting the budding of an affectionate relationship. With age just a year apart, the young birds were slowly becoming love-birds. However, the subject of marriage was insufficient without that of dating, and their religion didn’t give much leniency to such clemency. While some believed real love had the power to purify prospective indifferences, others were of the opinion, that love in and of itself was a sacrificial pursuit of pureness–a work forever in progress. Albeit, the alternatives strongly believed that without first dating, marriage was a rushing with the gushing to incriminate self–a self-inflected wound.

Marriage is the whole package of partnership like two persons taking on a business venture. However, this undertaking was not about who is bigger, brighter or possess more suppleness; it was about seeing