No Woman No Cry Read online

  So when I looked at all these others, I was aware that the respect was always still there for me. He himself still gave me the manners and the respect to a certain level. I didn’t think I should disrupt his relationships, though sometimes the situation was painful and I couldn’t understand what was going on. But I got tired of standing in the way, and as long as I was respected, given whatever I needed financially, and whatever the kids needed was there, I let him be. If it was just about who he had sex with, he could have sex with the whole world if that was what he wanted!

  I was always that type with him. I loved him as much as any of them, or more, and he knew he could count on me and depended on that loyalty, on my being his sister. But he also knew I wasn’t there for the glamour, the fantasy, or the fame. That I would bring him up to reality, because I was there from the beginning, from one underpants, and those were my hands, every night, washing them out.

  chapter ten

  BABYLON BY BUS

  SOME FOOTAGE OF me appears in one of the documentaries about Bob that have come out in recent years. You see it right after a shot of him in the back of the bus, surrounded by a group of people laughing and talking. Then there’s this cut to me—the sun shining on a small, black woman with a scarf around her hair, alone and leaning against a window. I think I look “cool,” in terms of my mood in an environment. Something must have been going on that I was thinking about, or more likely I was in a meditative, way-out state. I can be very quiet at times, and when you’re on the road—Babylon by Bus (that’s the name of one album)—sometimes you really need to just hold a meditation for positive guidance and protection, because the work that we had been doing with Bob, I know the Devil didn’t like it! It was like musical warfare—good against evil!

  For seven years we traveled like that. I sang backup for him because I loved him, and believed in his work and felt that what he was doing was—there’s no other word for it but great. It must be true, this greatness, that’s how I’ve analyzed it, it was more than the flesh, it was something more like fate. Still, like Marcia and Judy, I was, in a way, invisible. Typically of that time, background vocalists weren’t put on the billing, not mentioned in any promotions or publicity anywhere. The billing remained “Bob Marley and the Wailers,” and we were just there, although sometimes the publicists might say, “Oh, the voices of the I-Three are so good,” or something equally inconsequential. Though we always performed with Bob and the band, and even were featured later on as an opening act, our group never became “Bob Marley and the I-Three.”

  Still, if we didn’t go on, Bob wouldn’t go on, because we were part of the light for his stage, the icing on the cake for each night’s performance. And that had to happen, even though he and I might have quarreled beforehand. (As the song says, “One good thing about music, when it hits you you feel no pain.”) The I-Three were very important where Bob and his music were concerned, because his position was “This is the picture as is, this is what makes it sound this way, this is how we create character.” We were also dancing and creating inspiration for him, and he depended on that energy to boost his individuality just as it happened. Whatever we did, we did it naturally and often spontaneously. We didn’t rehearse steps, deciding, “We’re all gonna do this,” and so on. We might work on something, for example “turn left or right … you in the middle, you can do something there.” But our emphasis was not on dance moves, we focused on singing and making sure the harmonies worked or else we were in big trouble. I was the one in charge of that, always seen as the leader of the group, and if anything went wrong I was expected to know why or who was at fault. When it came to the I-Three it was showtime, and since Bob relied on me to make sure that aspect was taken care of, I was always there for it. Rita the responsible.

  So of course he would get on me at times when things went wrong. I would always get the blame. He’d say, “You didn’t hear? The harmony wasn’t right tonight. What happened?”

  “I don’t know, I sang right; you didn’t hear me?”

  “You, Rita … You should come to my room for rehearsal after the show, okay?”

  And that would start an argument, with the pressure on me. So we always tried to give him our best and work out the problem, and then he’d be satisfied. “Oh, it’s right,” or “That’s how it mus sound, that’s it, now it’s happening,” or “Oh you girls is nice …” But he was very keen on his stage work with sound. As I’ve said, everyone was led by his musical instincts. We all gave him that respect.

  Offstage, as time went on, I sometimes felt that Bob had begun to resent me, as if I might be telling him something he didn’t want to hear, or acting a certain way, out of revenge. He didn’t say things directly, but I could feel what was happening, because these other women came around and they’d stay up to talk or whatever. For a time he had Pascalene, a princess from Gabon, traveling with us. She followed the bus in her limousine, and sometimes he rode with her. And there I’d be in the bus. The things he did in private did less harm, but when everything was out in the open, that was really hurtful. Sometimes Pascalene and her entourage would arrive in Jamaica on her private jet and spend days. And I’d wonder, what is Bob doing with his life? What should I do? What can I do? I did what I could.

  As for Marcia and Judy, we were sisters, oh yes. Always ready with girlfriend talk, and not always about me, because we all had our problems as young women. As far as my situation went, they were always in sympathy. They were so sweet, they’d say, “Oh no, you don’t deserve some of this shit.” And “How you really stand this?” But then I was made for the job, I think.

  At the same time, my kids were home trying to understand why Mommy and Daddy had to go to work and leave them with Aunty, who was getting old. We had switched them to Vaz Prep, where Mrs. Ulet, the headmistress, was very helpful; unlike at other schools, it made no difference to her that Bob and the family were Rastas. Still, I’d get letters: “Oh Aunty’s getting miserable, Mommy, I can’t even watch the TV. Past eight o’clock she shuts it off!”

  The I-Three were seen as positive role models, with me always in the middle. Sometimes I stayed singing with tears in my eyes from certain situations I was faced with. I’d think, why keep it up? I’m gonna get off this road and go home and stay with my children. But then I’d think that if I did that, I’d be breaking up such a good thing that was positive to so many others all over the world. Take your troubles to the Lord and not to the people, I’d tell myself. So I did just that—I prayed. And I gave my part, I gave it honestly. I gave my part, from the heart, and I was paid for it. Paid every week, just like everybody else. So I could maintain myself, not just physically, but with a lot of spirit. And on good days, even though I wasn’t altogether happy, I felt so independent, thinking, well, now I can do whatever I want, now I can buy clothes and shoes that I like, I can be—whew—just what I wanna be!

  It was on one of our tours that I first met my sisters Diana and Jeanette, who were born in Stockholm. They had been news to me years before when we couldn’t find Papa for a while, and the next thing we saw was a letter coming from Sweden. I remember asking Aunty, “Now where’s Sweden?” And her reply: “Oh it’s way way past Germany.” By the time he and Bob met, Papa had these two beautiful daughters, and I imagine they followed Bob’s career closely after that. Their mother, even though she could barely speak English, would call me to ask when we were coming to Stockholm for a concert, because we usually performed there. So we developed a relationship, and whenever we were coming Diana and Jeanette were the excitement of Stockholm, because everybody knew they were going to the concert and were going to meet me at my hotel. They’d come with their friends, and it was fun to look at them, just saying wow, look at that! Sisters! You could see they had some Jamaican in them, you could see the mixture. They’re singers also, these days they’re one of the top pop groups in Stockholm, and we still communicate and see each other. They go by their mother’s name, Soderholm, and they sing facing each other, like twins.


  Those seven years spent touring Europe, Africa, and America alternated with studio work for albums and some peaceful times in Bull Bay and other times that no one could ever have anticipated. Though Bob and I had agreed to be friends, and I dealt well enough with his womanizing, I still had to deal with his possessive attitude toward me, which he never gave up no matter what I said or did. This put more pressure on me than I wanted. Even though he was carrying on right under my nose (mostly one-night stands), he remained very suspicious of my having an affair: “You can’t tell me you’re not doing this, you’re not doing that!”

  When we argued, my line was always, “Who cares? I’m your wife but I’m not your slave, you know? I’m not gonna be your call girl, when you want to have sex you call me to your room? Or we have a relationship when you feel like? No no no! And I’m not having a relationship with you going around with all these women—every city you have to hit on somebody? Miss Brussels? Miss Miami Beach? No no no!!”

  When we started touring, Tacky was still helping Aunty take care of the kids. Sometimes he’d call me to say everything’s fine and let me know what’s happening, or I’d call him and ask him to look in on everyone and call me afterward. As I’ve said, he was my very good friend. But then Bob would look at my phone bill when we were checking out of the hotels; he would always tell the promoter, “Get me Rita’s bill.” Yes, he was like that—you wouldn’t imagine that he could be so jealous of me, he was so jealous of me, even the guys in the band couldn’t believe it. To this day, Minnie shakes her head over how irrational this was.

  I remember a scene with Neville Garrick, Tuff Gong’s (the name of Bob’s recording company) lighting designer, that happened one evening during a U.S. tour. Bob had brought Yvette Anderson along on the tour. Earlier, when we had checked into the hotel, she had smiled at me and I’d smiled back, and then we all went to our rooms. Later on I’d wanted a smoke, so I called Neville and asked him to bring me some. When Bob came in, as he usually did, Neville was there, and when Bob saw him he had a fit, shouting, “What you doin’ in here?”

  Neville said, “Rita just asked me for a little spliff …”

  Without another word Bob just lifted me up out of the bed, yelling—“Raahh!”—and held me up in the air, and then dropped me down! And Neville was so frightened! After Bob left the room he said, “Oh, now he’s going to send me home!”

  I said, “Oh no, he wouldn’t …” But poor Neville! He was so humble, just bringing a little smoke to cool me—only for sympathy, knowing that Yvette was with Bob, and right in front of my eyes. But Bob had to go and create that big excitement, even though Neville, like all the band members, had always offered only love and respect for me. But Bob was nevertheless always very jealous and very watchful, very sneaky. I never understood how somebody could be like that.

  At home, though, he was busy with his business at Hope Road. And I had a chance to rest and get back into my family. Touring and performing can exhaust the strongest person, even if you’re young and enthusiastic about what you’re doing, even though you love it and know that it’s what you’re cut out to do. But there was much at home that interested me too. The farm in Clarendon was still in operation, and Minnie was around to help with that. Bob remained very supportive of it, and there were days when he’d drive us to the farm just to get the produce. Sometimes we’d go there and stay overnight with him. Bob loved farming and taught me a lot about planting food. It was so peaceful to be away from everyone and we had a building there to relax in, a three-bedroom house that had come with the farm. We also had a big outdoor kitchen, where he would do the cooking. Those times, when I’d get his undivided attention, were always special to me.

  I couldn’t have done any of this without Aunty there running the show with Miss Collins. Without Aunty, I could never have moved that well, if at all. Every way she was strict with the children I approved of, because she wasn’t going to see certain things happen. I could see her work in me, and wanted as much for them. And in Jamaica times were changing—slowly—for women. Despite their complaints when I was away, the children liked to see me work when I was home. My work enhanced their lives, I think: “This is what Mommy says, these are things that Mommy does.” They were growing big now; except for Stephanie, who was still a baby, they were all in school. I thought it was very important that they knew what Mommy did, and that they supported her. Sometimes they’d remind me, “Mommy, it’s Friday, aren’t you going to your farm today? Is Daddy going? Can we go with you?” We did things like that, so that we would have time together. Bob loved those weekends, as he loved his children. They were his true friends, he always said.

  When I wasn’t around, there were people who took care of the Queen of Sheba Restaurant for me. Minnie especially. When we were at home in Jamaica and working at the studio there, she’d come to rehearsals to keep us company and bring us juice or food, always offering opinions about the music: “This one is not going to be Number One, but that one is.” Because she and I were so close, and so militant, many rumors were spread about us. We’re both early morning persons, and back then we liked to go for a morning run together, so even if we woke up at four o’clock in the morning, we’d call each other. Our children used to get so angry at us because they knew why the phone was ringing—it was me calling Minnie or her calling me. Bob knew better than to believe the rumors (which mostly concerned our sexuality); still, he refused to believe that I actually did go running with Minnie at 5 A.M. around the local reservoir (which is about four miles in circumference, and we sometimes did two or three laps). One morning Bob paid a surprise visit and of course found us there. But at least he demonstrated his goodwill and fitness by running along with us—though he only made one lap and couldn’t believe we were able to do three easily!

  People often took Minnie for Bob’s sister, because they had similar complexions, and he always said they had the same foreheads and cheekbones. Anywhere we went together they would just pick her out and ask, is that his sister, and he’d say, “Yeah, mon.” He admitted to me that “some brethren come tell me a lot of things about you and Minnie,” but to her he said, “I know you more than that, I know you’re my sister, and you a Rasta.”

  Most people were scared of Bob when he got mad, because, as Minnie says, he could get very rough, very tough. I remember someone asking Minnie, “Is that your brother?” She just didn’t want to say right out, “Yes, he’s my brother,” because she felt that he was a big star and she was just there in the supportive group. So she said, instead, “He’s my brother in Rastafari.” And he looked around and said to her, good and loud, “What the bloodclaat is this ‘brother in Rastafari’! The man ask if you’s my sister, say yes or no!”

  Minnie defended and comforted me, was always the friend I could tell certain things to, one of those who would say to me, “Oh don’t worry …” Through her I met Angela Melhado, another runner. The three of us have been running around Jamaica for almost thirty years now. Angie and Minnie grew up on opposite sides of the same uptown road in Kingston—Minnie says Angie’s wealthy parents were like her Santa Claus. Years later they remet on the track at the reservoir, and then the three of us began running together. We swim, too. To this day, we love the river; anywhere there’s water on the island of Jamaica—in the bush, in the mountains—we three find it and go swimming. We go all about in this country, because we know it’s beautiful and special. And we love the same things—we love to pray, we love helping people out. Angie and Minnie paint drug rehab centers and things like that.

  Back then, Angie was living outside the city on her property in the mountains. Like me, she loved to grow things. The day Minnie brought her to Hope Road to meet Bob, she came with a beautiful straw hamper packed with every little thing from her garden. She had put the basket on the ground when Bob came out of the house, and in the course of the introductions she said, “Well, I brought this basket.” He looked down at it and said, “What’s in it?” And Angie said, “Well, I’ve
been growing these vegetables and I wanted you to have them.” Bob just kind of looked off at her, with his head cocked to one side. He appreciated that so much, because he was always giving to people, and people hardly ever gave him things. So he was a little taken aback, I think, and just stood there, with his head to the side, eyeing her, and saying, “Nice, nice. Give thanks, man.”

  Whenever Minnie came on tour with us, she’d help with my clothes and stuff, but more often she helped with the food, and from that experience, in the mid-seventies she opened Minnie’s Health Food Restaurant, also on Hope Road, with cuisine derived from the ideas we’d been trying to present at the Queen of Sheba. Everyone would find themselves there at lunchtime, gossiping over some of the most wonderful dishes, from food in coconut milk to rundown (coconut milk boiled down to gravy), made with all the best fresh things you can think of, because as always Minnie got up early and was first at the market. Neither of us was in this food business just for the money; we were trying to make poor people see a lifestyle, a way of living that was simple but healthy. It didn’t take much, but it took the best. And that’s what we did. In Jamaica we have a saying, that a person should take the sour and turn it into sweet. We took the sour and we made lemonade!

  In 1975, Minnie helped me make Bob’s first-ever birthday party. We put together a big spread at the Queen of Sheba. In all his life—all his thirty years!—he had never before had a birthday party. He cried a little at that party—even though there were plenty of babies to do the crying, Minnie’s kids and mine, all his other children. Judy Mowatt came with her kids, some band members were there too. Bob told everyone that this was his first birthday ever. We had a great time, and in Jamaica since 1981 we continue to celebrate February 6 as Bob Marley Day.