No Woman No Cry Page 19

  Often it was more of a great task than a happy one, a great overwhelming responsibility. One that by its very public nature frightened Aunty—dear Aunty, who had stood by me all this time—until she was saying things like, “They’re gonna kill you” and “Please, don’t have a boyfriend.” As if the course of my life was now to be determined by other people. But I said, oh no, I can’t let that happen, I can’t let other people rule my actions. I saw Bob lose himself to people and learned a lesson, and I’m not giving anyone that privilege. I mustn’t forget Rita, because I saw I was in danger of losing Rita. This wasn’t about Bob now, this was about other people trying to use me through Bob’s channel. And I’m saying, oh, if I give myself to this, I won’t have any of me left for me. I’ve got to save myself so that I can bring up my children, because these were my children now, and still so young—in 1985 Sharon was nineteen, and then like stair steps were Cedella, Ziggy, Stephen, on down to Stephanie, who was eleven—and psychologically they had been through much more than most children their age. (It’s not easy sometimes, being the children of a celebrity.) So I had to double up on myself, to stay strong against use and abuse. I had to sometimes remind myself that I’d been to school, that I’d been trained for this. There were things I would excuse Bob for because he didn’t get the training, but I knew enough to defend my rights.

  Still, I have not been in this alone. I’ve had good lawyers and accountants, a good staff and supporters, loyal to me as they had been to Bob. I’ve had friends who have stood by me and helped to make certain decisions. And I’ve had my faith.

  In the year 2000, Time magazine awarded the title “Song of the Century” to Bob’s song “One Love” and the title “Album of the Century” to our album Exodus. These honors, for which Bob worked so hard, were given to him by qualified people who treated his music with the dignity it deserved and ensured him a proper place in musical history.

  When I thought about keeping Bob’s memory and his work alive, the first thing that came to mind was to do something educational with the property at 56 Hope Road. This resulted in some controversy, because his mother wanted to keep it as a house she could come to and bring friends and family. But, after a meeting, a decision was made that we all agreed to, and the property became the Bob Marley Museum. I just felt he would have depended on me to do that. Then, too, I thought of the millions of people who were sharing his inspiration, which was so special. And I thought they would like to come and see where some of this music history happened.

  As I’ve mentioned, when Bob first began to use the place, Tuff Gong had to contend with the fact of its location. Not only was it a block away from the prime minister’s office, it was also near King’s House, where the Queen of England stays when she visits. The complaints that started then—“You can’t create such a thing on a road like this, and why are you doing it?”—were now directed at me: “Rita Marley is crazy, makin’ a shantytown scene in the uptown area!” But now we are able to fly our Rasta flag, and the flag of Jamaica flies also, along with flags from other countries. Bob himself wouldn’t have done that, he wouldn’t have thought it would be allowed. I can hear him saying it: “Rita, how could you do that, it’s not allowed! You crazy?”

  But some crucial things have changed in Jamaica, as in the rest of the world, since the 1970s. Back then, you’d never have seen a picture of Bob Marley on a billboard, or people with dreadlocks advertising Coca-Cola. If Bob had not been successful with them, if he hadn’t earned victory wearing that crown of the Rastaman, things wouldn’t be the same. Though certainly today the whole idea is different—you don’t have to read your Bible to wear locks. We had to read a chapter a day, and had to know why we were on this pathway. But now you can go to the hairdresser, sit in the chair, and come out looking like—you’re locked, you’re born this way, you’re made this way! Look at that! It seems a long way from the days when I was accused, abused, scorned, disrespected, even spit on. (“Look at she!—all the education her Aunty tried to give her and now look at she!”)

  Fifty-six Hope Road remains almost the same structure it was when Chris Blackwell bought it and gave it to Bob. It’s an old wooden house that has largely retained its look through our efforts to preserve it; some of the original wood is still around and some has been restored to keep the flavor. The museum is operated by the Bob Marley Foundation, a charitable organization, and hundreds of thousands of people from all over the world have visited. Over the years we’ve added different features, thanks especially to Neville Garrick, who has given us a lot of inspiration and much of his time to the upkeep of the project. Apart from the historical artifacts, writings, and photographs, there’s now an Exhibition Hall and an eighty-seat theater. There are guided tours and videos of Bob’s live concert performances. Different clips on Bob’s life as well as other features are shown at the end of each tour.

  The Marley family members are all part of the place in different ways. It’s always amazing when visitors see a member of the family on the grounds and rush to you for autographs, which we always pleasantly give. We have a gift shop and a boutique with African arts and crafts—Stephanie runs that—and recently we’ve added a little shop called “Bob’s Cream,” where we sell ice cream and other natural snacks. The Queen of Sheba Restaurant, which still functions as an integral part of the museum, serves fruit drinks and natural foods. We are able to get our seasonings directly from Ethiopia, and we serve doro wat, vegetables, stews, wine made from honey (called teg), and other things that you would get in an Ethiopian restaurant. And we burn Ethiopian incense there, so that when you walk in you feel like you’re on Ethiopian ground. We try to make it as authentic as possible. Our tables are made from Ethiopian straw, our stools are Ethiopian, and we’re trying to speak Amharic—tenalistilin means hello!

  At Universal Studios in Orlando, Florida, there’s now a section called the Bob Marley Tribute to Freedom, where a lot of our history can be seen, artifacts and memorabilia we’ve given to them. This is also our doing, in order to keep spreading the message and music of Bob Marley, another venture for which Chris Blackwell had to give his approval (Chris still helps with certain decisions about Bob). “Bob doesn’t need that, Bob is already high in the sky,” he said. But my position was, whatever can take him higher … Oh, I had a hard time with that one, but I just felt it was something that was going to make Bob even bigger, which is exactly what has happened. We have concerts there every February 6, for his birthday, featuring some of our children, Ziggy Marley and the Melody Makers, Kymani, Damian, and Julien Marley, myself, the I-Three. There’s a lot of punch still happening, and we have made it so there’s no gap. Bob keeps coming in from the cold, and I’m happy to be a part of that, and satisfied that we’ve done so well in maintaining his work. As he said, “Dem a go tired fe see me face, can’t get me out the race …”

  As for me, it’s not just about being his wife, it’s about being a person who is carrying on a legacy that means so much to the world. Because not only do people my age remain interested, but newer generations, a third and fourth generation, all come loving his message and still wearing his T-shirts and singing his songs at concerts.

  chapter fourteen

  THE BEAUTY OF GOD’S PLAN

  IF I GO back to every page in my life, almost every significant moment was something I hadn’t planned for or didn’t expect to happen. Because sometimes I ask myself, how did I get into this? Why did I get into this? Why me? When I analyze it all, I see that events didn’t happen for the sake of themselves, or only for the day they happened, but to propel a whole series of events, for a particular time to begin, for more purpose to be added. As for what I did to make this happen—I simply decided to live a certain way. Now, what I appreciate most about the life I chose is that the past hasn’t disappeared but is reflected in and flows into the present, and this seems important. Often I say to young people, I didn’t know a Rita Marley when I was like you, though sometimes I wish I had. But maybe I was just supposed to be t
he one to figure certain things out.

  Today I see this push toward independence becoming more common. In nearly every household—black, white, whatever—there’s one child with an intention to be conscious, to choose change: “Well my parents were that, but I am … I have decided to be this, or try that, or do this.”

  I guess it goes back to the idea I kept hold of, that Rita meant something, Rita came for a purpose, Rita had a life to live. Plus Rita now has children, and she’s living to be here for them. And I’m living to see my grandchildren, too. Thirty-eight so far! Of course I didn’t do it alone, there are other mothers. But then raising them …

  They were always treated as normal children and taught to expect no more or less than their friends and classmates. Still, in school or other public places they were faced with who they were, and so they were admired as the superstar’s children and criticized as Rastafarians. Limiting as those definitions might be, the kids dealt with them. When necessary, they fought to be considered on their own merits. The worst for them, I know, was being without Daddy after his passing, because he was the fun father who always loved, always provided. He loved to be there for them, and had been getting ready to do just that.

  The Melody Makers took their name from a British rock magazine, Melody Maker, after they happened to see a poster for an issue with a cover story about Bob Marley and the Wailers. Their first single, issued in 1979, was Children Playing in the Streets. The title comes from the only song Bob lived to write for them. At one point Stephanie and Karen, their little sisters, “managed” the group, when they weren’t yet professional, and everybody was still going to school. Though not among the singers and the youngest of them all, they would always be at the rehearsals, always mixed into everything and telling the older ones what to do.

  When the Melody Makers finished school and began professional musical careers that included touring, I felt I had to travel with them. They needed my support. Even if they were old enough to perform professionally, I felt I had to be chaperone and manager, to be able to say, when they started out, “Mommy’s here.” They were signed to EMI, and then went from EMI to Virgin and then to Electra. Nothing I did for them felt strange or burdensome, although I suppose you could say I went from background vocalist to backstage mother. But I have no regrets. I don’t ever think about what I might have missed out on—actually, it doesn’t seem like I’ve missed anything. Because I was able to guide them, they didn’t have to go out there and come back saying, “Oh, we had a bad experience.” For me, it was easy to sort out the good and the bad, and to show them this kind of good, that kind of bad. “This is how we do it, this is how Daddy would do it, this is how we’d do it when Daddy was going.” My being there made it all easier for them to understand. And they became winners! Four-time Grammy winners, and in the Top Ten of reggae entertainers. Whatever time and sacrifice on my part were certainly for good reasons, yes! And I still feel that way.

  Of course, when I started to ease out and to think about going back to my own career, I would hear: “Mommy, you’re not coming on tour? Mommy, you can’t do that!” In defense I had people actually trained on the road with them—Addis Gessesse and his brothers from Ethiopia, who are still with us—and then eventually I said, “You know what, I’m gonna leave you, and you’ll work next year by yourself.”

  Naturally their response was, “We can’t manage, they won’t listen to us!” But indeed they have managed, and very well. The best thing about these kids is that they’re so—what should I call them? Not only obedient, but they’re kids without any airs. They don’t have attitudes, I guess you might say. They’re just open. And friendly. Very natural, down to earth. They don’t feel that because their Daddy is so and so, then they must be so. No, they were taught to be themselves. And they were taught at an early age, humility is the first policy. And manners. Those things. We don’t have money, but we’re going to have good manners. Just that alone—if you say good morning, and thank you, you make a good impression. When they were in that teenage stage, you never found them in some of the situations other kids often get into because of inexperience. Not many problems back then, and now they are grown, with children of their own, and they haven’t forgotten what they were taught.

  During all the tears and trials after Bob passed, I would get home from work and find that I was still bugged. I felt as if I were becoming hard as a rock from all the abuse, from being continually accused and chastised, as if darts were being thrown at me. I was losing my natural self, my smile. I remember even doing a song with the lyric “My smile has gone away.” It took a while before I finally woke up to the fact that I was still alive and well. Though the children and I were able to manage without a father at home, there were times we did need a man to be there, just to take up some of the responsibility that it takes to make a family. Or just to help me—because there were times when I thought nobody was thinking about me—it was still all about Bob. And I needed those moments when someone would think about me. And love me!

  When I opened my eyes, I didn’t have far to look because I had an old friend, Owen Stewart, my good friend Tacky, who still cared for and checked on me. Between us we always had more than just sex, but love and caring. So I was able to open my heart, and we redeveloped our relationship. Because the kids knew him and were familiar with him as “Mommy’s friend,” it wasn’t as if I were bringing anyone new into their lives. And Tacky, as always, was a real friend, who supported me and gave me encouragement and strength not to pay the backbiters any mind. “Worry less and work less,” he always said, and “take a rest.”

  Serita, my last daughter, is Tacky’s child, and came almost when everything was about to be over, I thought. So as we say in Jamaica she was the “washbelly,” my final child. And that was it—that is it! Serita and I became very close because of my having had her after all the other kids were quite grown—after having five and it seemed as if I surely wasn’t going to have any others (although I know if Bob had still been around, we would have had a few more). But Serita came at a time when, ooh, I needed this. I needed something to slow me down from the hustle and the hassle, often from 9 A.M. to 10 P.M. Those nine months I really had time to relax—it was just me and the baby in my belly. And that was very good for a change, even though I still had to go to work. The other kids cherished those moments of seeing me pregnant and were thrilled at the prospect of a new baby in the family—the house needed that. Still, some asked, “Why?” Like Aunty. When I told her the news, she said, “Oh, no, what people are gonna say?” Even though this was five years after Bob’s passing, she said, “Oh, you shouldn’t have a baby, because people are gonna say this and say that …”

  I said, “Aunty, stop! To hell with other people, this is my life! Besides, I didn’t do this alone, someone else was involved! And if God wants it so, it makes me happy.”

  Even today, Serita is still my “purse,” as I call her, a name she acquired because I had to take her on tour—three months after she was born we had to hit the road. To help with her I took along Minnie’s mother, whose name is Rita Mazza and whom we called “Miss Rita.” Serita is Serita Mazza, and I’m Rita, so we had a Triple Rita thing going. As a baby Serita would give Miss Rita trouble sometimes—poor Miss Rita, though she never complained, keeping up with Serita was fun, but on the road it could be hard work!

  After my father came back to Jamaica for Bob’s funeral, he decided to stay. He was getting older and realized the importance of just being around us. By then Wesley was in Canada with his family, as was my brother Donovan, who had been raised by our mother. Papa’s other children, including Miss Alma’s Margaret and George and our Swedish sisters, had branched out, too.

  So Papa came home, where he graduated to “Pops.” When Pops assessed the responsibilities he might assume in the family business, he decided to make himself available musically for a session every now and then and to take over the maintenance department of Tuff Gong. His carpentry experience proved to be invalua
ble. He maintained chairs and desks and windows and doors, fixed leaks and anything else that needed attention. And oh, everyone loved Pops, he was a big favorite and very very helpful. He would say, “Rita, I’m watchin’ your back, you know.” And sometimes he’d call me in the evenings to fill me in on my staffing problems. He’d say, “Listen man, this guy jokin’, he’s not doin’ a hundred percent, he’s jokin’!” That was Pops, watching my back. In his last days, Pops was there for everything.

  And Aunty was there for her baby brother. Naturally, as big sister (small as she was), she maintained her usual bossy attitude, and at first there was a little rivalry going. Because Pops thought, why is she still running everything? He was astonished to find when he came back that Aunty continued to be in charge! Even after all these years and responsibilities, and grandchildren and all of that! Pops worried a bit that she still didn’t allow me to make my own decisions. But I was grateful to her by then, and knew what to allow and what not to. And I felt that her continuing abilities freed me to do more for myself.

  The competition between Pops and Aunty was sorted out when they each got their own apartment and became neighbors on Washington Drive, in the three-sister house where I had once lived. As always, though, Aunty made her daily trips up the hill to be sure everything was okay. She had a car then, and a driver, the same person who took the kids to school. Oh, she had to be in that car to make sure they got to school and make sure they went safely into their classrooms on time. And when school was over, the driver would have to pick her up first to go pick them up—she never gave anybody else a chance!