No Woman No Cry Page 20

  Dear Aunty. Eventually I made sure that she had everything she had ever wanted, though at one point she was determined to drive. I kept saying, “No—you have a car and a driver, why must you drive?” But she was insistent that she didn’t want this person, Mr. Andy, who the hell he thinks he is, she’s gonna drive herself! And one day I was amazed to see her, barely visible behind the wheel, coming up the hill! I could not believe my eyes, I went crazy, I almost sacked the driver. I said, “How dare you let her drive!”

  And the poor man said, “But Mrs. Marley, I couldn’t stop her! Because if Aunty feels she can do it, she’s gonna do it!”

  And she did fine—she drove herself home down our winding mountain road and subsequently announced to me, “I can take the kids to school now!” She was just irrepressible, yes, that’s the word for her. Even though age was coming and she wasn’t able to do her dressmaking anymore, she still would advise me about my costumes: not to wear this or that, or how something should be made, and how she would do it in the days when she was sewing. And she always won.

  Aunty was the next of my family to pass away, taking another, large piece of me with her. But when she went to rest, she did it gracefully and peacefully. The doctor called us one morning to say that she had gone to sleep the night before and never woke up. She hadn’t been feeling well but wasn’t particularly sick. I was five months pregnant with Serita, and I remember screaming my heart out till I thought I was going to have the baby right then. We rushed to the hospital, where Aunty was lying in bed as if she were fast asleep; Cedella even tried to give her mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. But that didn’t work, so we brushed her hair and told her good-bye. That was very very hard on me, losing my tootoos, my Vie Vie. But surely she must rest in peace, because so many people loved her.

  Steve had been her pet, and the night before she died she told him how she’d been feeling lately. “Aunty said she don’t mind if she die now,” he told us afterward, “because she can’t take the politics, the pressures that you are having with people, everybody coming at you, wanting this thing or that thing Daddy left, wanting money …” She thought, Steve said, that if she died she’d look over us better, protect us more, she was getting too old to keep up.

  Poor Aunty, I thought. Marley wasn’t an easy name to carry or be associated with during those times, though there were always good and bad sides and the situation subsequently improved. When, in the late nineties, I was awarded Jamaica’s Order of Distinction, I remember thinking, oh Aunty should be here to see this, this is what she would go crazy over, something is happening where the government is involved! But I know she’s around in spirit, working her wings off.

  She didn’t live to see Serita born, but Serita looks a lot like her, and all the others knew her for all their growing-up years. They remember how Aunty and her pal Miss Collins would sit with them evenings and fold their socks. With five kids (it grew to ten sometimes) and each with a few pairs, you can imagine the task. But that was Viola Anderson Britton. They don’t come like her every day. She was, as we would say, a sample. And I was lucky to have her for as long as I did.

  I guess it was because I felt so lucky to have had Aunty, and was so aware of the importance of family guidance, that I felt I really had to care for Bob, because I thought there was something he lacked when growing up that he was trying to catch up with—that mother time which is so important. The effect a mother has on her son. Plus, when you hear “like father like son,” and you don’t have a father around, you try to cling even more to what Mommy or Grandma has to offer. But sometimes Mommy has to leave, and often not because she wants to. Who can blame any mother, stuck there in Trench Town with kids. Bob’s mother didn’t want to end up a nobody, so as a young striving girl she had to escape. I can imagine her thinking, what am I supposed to do? And there she had her son and a little baby. In this situation poor Bob became a victim, losing that period when he still needed his mother’s protection but instead had to be on his own, earning his keep by tying up goats and working for this one and that one. But Mommy was a victim too, had to go fight life to find a life. So if you go back and look into her life, mine is like … the next step.

  Not long after Aunty went to rest, my father passed. I was so bereft I kept thinking, where do I turn now? I thought I could never live without Pops and Aunty. How would I make it without their love and support? But I lived through the losses and learned to lean on my friends more and treasure their advice. Dahima, an American, turned out to be one of the best sisters I ever had. Bob had met her in California on one of our tours—she was working for Margaret Nash in Los Angeles—and I think they started out as “friends.” She moved to Jamaica with her children after he invited her to come and work for him, but when she and I were introduced she made it clear that she’d found out it wasn’t going to be what she thought it would be. (She hadn’t known Bob was married to me until she came to Jamaica and saw my family.) Nevertheless, she stayed in Jamaica and raised her kids for a period of time here, and we became good friends. It was Dahima who got me started wearing lipstick. One day she said, “Girl, you’ve got those sexy lips, use them!”

  I said, “Are you crazy? No, Bob would kill me!”

  “No, Rita,” she said, “all you have to do is add a little vitamin E oil. I’ll bring you some from America, and you must use it! It’ll bring out your beautiful smile!”

  I progressed from vitamin E oil to lip gloss to color. And I’ve really enjoyed it ever since. After Bob’s passing, Dahima thought I was being abused and stayed by my side to encourage me and help me to carry on. She was skilled in the publishing aspect of the music business and was especially supportive of my business ability and had a way of making me feel special. “Listen, girl,” she’d say, “you can do it. Let’s form a company.” So I believe she, too, took her sour and made lemonade. For a woman, inner strength and self-reliance are all-important: You really have to be the best driver at the wheel, especially when you’re steering and changing gears at the same time. Just make sure you don’t have a head-on collision!

  In Jamaica, where violence can rear up at any time, I’ve learned to be especially careful. I’ve had the wackiest things happen. Recently a guy came to my office to say he was the reincarnated Bob and that he needed to see me, and then walked the road several times, watching my vehicle go up and down. I’ve been stalked by people who have a vision that I belong to them. People sneak! I’ve had to put up extra security gates because they would lie in wait for me on the road, just to see me driving from the museum back to my house. But Jamaica is a place where you’re loved today and hated tomorrow. It’s one thing being Rita Marley but another thing being a Rasta. People like me for being Rita, but then they turn around and dislike me for being a Rasta.

  These days, everyone tries to copy what we were promoting back then as the Rasta lifestyle—vegetarianism, organic food, exercise. I suppose that does, or doesn’t, include the smoking of herb. As we see it, it’s a God-made plant, just like all the other herbs in the garden. And there are of course the much-publicized medical uses—for glaucoma and pain relief. As for me, I’ve always used marijuana as a sacramental food. Whenever I’ve felt as if I wanted to do the right thing the right way, or say the right thing at the right time, I have a puff or a cup of tea. It’s good for my meditation, it has its use, but of course anything that you overdo can be harmful. I prefer to use it as just another plant from the garden that has its good purposes, and go for the good purposes.

  When I looked into myself to try to separate needs from wants, to come to terms with the next stage of my life, I realized soon enough that I had enough material stuff, that I could do something besides have more. If at a certain point in your life you have all you need, it’s time for you to figure out what’s important. What else can you do? If now you’re able to give, then it’s time to pass on something. As I’ve said, it was always our way to be giving. This idea has guided me into the next part of my life, by leading me to Africa, where I n
ow spend part of my time in a mountain village, helping the people who live there in whatever way I can. Africa has come like a new life to me, with an ancient background, because it’s so black; and because of this I feel at home—that fight you face against your blackness in other places does not exist there. I want the freedom to be what I am, and what I’m supposed to be, without having to fight anybody to be that.

  I feel free to embark on this life because the kids are now mature and standing on their own two feet. They know where we’re coming from and where we’re going today. Going to Africa was part of Bob’s philosophy, too—his dream, it wasn’t mine alone. So even though he’s not here physically, his physical share is making sense, filling others’ needs because ours have been fulfilled.

  chapter fifteen

  SUNSHINE AFTER RAIN

  MY FIRST TRIP to Africa was with Bob, to celebrate Zimbabwe’s independence. Then we went to Gabon, where he met Pascalene. After Bob passed, I traveled to Ethiopia, which for me was very special, a dream come true, like putting a foot in heaven’s door. I was even able to leave a piece of his locks there. But when it came time for me to find a place to settle in Africa, where I might have a home and a purpose, Ghana was the country that opened its heart and its arms. Its stable government was attractive, as well as its embrace of development. The Rita Marley Foundation was registered there as a nongovernmental organization in the year 2000. Though having that sanction makes things easier, we had begun giving there some years before. Caring for infants and protecting the aged are our main goals.

  I believe that nothing happens by accident. When someone or something is in the right place at the right time, the answers to your questions come alive. My concern for Ghana came about when I went to look at a house that I eventually bought near a village called Konkonuru, in the mountains of Aburi, outside the capital city of Accra. I guess I could have chosen to live anywhere, but I liked the people in that area and those soft mountains, which reminded me of Jamaica. The track that led to this house passed by the village school and reminded me of Trench Town, and as I drove past, I noticed the children sitting on the dirt floor. They had no desks, no seats; the teacher had a chair and a little table. The image stuck in my mind. Years and years ago, trying to follow in Aunty’s footsteps, I used to teach in a Sunday school next door to our house in Trench Town, and of course I’ve always been interested not only in religious instruction from the Bible but in the value of education in general. In Ghana, I went back and forth a few more times to see this house, and each time those children were right in front of me with eyes like angels. Because I didn’t have to live in that particular location and situation, I realized that my being there must have been for a reason, and now I could see it. After I put down a deposit on the house I got in touch with the headmaster of the school, and the village chief, and the next time I arrived there I had benches for the school with me. Not long afterward, we were pulling down windows and doors from a building in Jamaica and I kept flashing on the school in Konkonuru, which was completely without such amenities. So I found myself calling my secretary to say, “Get me a shipping container, I’m gonna take all that lumber and whatever else is useful from that building to Africa.”

  She said, “But Mrs. Marley …”

  I said, “No ‘buts,’ let’s do it!” I just knew that it had to be done. And it was a blessing! Every time I pass by the school it just thrills me to see those doors and windows, because I think, wow, look at that, all this wood was almost burned in Jamaica or thrown away, and here it is keeping out drafts and dew from the classrooms. So this is what we—and when I say “we” I’m talking about my family and friends—are doing. (I remember Dahima pulling down a shack over a hole that was all they had for a toilet; we corrected that.) We don’t think there’s any “contentment.” Yes, we’re living a certain way that we can afford to, we’re driving cars, and all that. But there’s never a moment that we forget the people who can’t. And how we can help, not just by giving but by teaching.

  I still love to shop, although I’ve stopped doing that so much now, because I can’t build a big enough closet! Whenever I can’t find anything to wear because I have too many clothes, I pack barrels to send to Ghana and Ethiopia. In the village we give away some and put others in a thrift store so people can learn to be self-sufficient. We show them how this can work: You get donations, then sell things and use the money for school lunches. Because our purpose isn’t all about giving, it’s about achievement and self-sufficiency. Recently I had a letter of thanks from the headmaster of the school, who informed me that the bus we had donated is being used as transport from the village into the city, as a way of earning money so they can take care of their own expenses. It’s very satisfying to know that not only money but knowledge is being given. To me that’s most important. Because coming from zero and being able to own a thirty-seat bus, something must have happened, and you didn’t win the Lotto? Then you must have worked extremely hard and you must have had some kind of ambition. Which is a very good example to provide.

  Recently Cedella had a barrel of stuff from her “Catch a Fire” clothing collection after the season changed. When she said, “Mommy, take this to your people in Ghana,” I was thrilled. And then she looked at me and said, “Mommy, don’t sell them, give them away, please.” I guess she knows her Mommy likes to recycle!

  I suppose a lot of people wouldn’t do all this; maybe they’d just build another house for themselves, or buy another diamond. I’ve seen people do that. Well, diamonds and pearls are great, but I’ve never seen myself buying them. Wealth and fame are things that I see as added, not given. What is given is life, and for whatever is added, give thanks. If sometimes it seems as if more is added, I give more. And then it seems as if when you give, you get. It’s a blessing when you find that you’re allowed to make other people happy in whatever way you can. And I have a feeling that just by doing good I’ve grown to understand the value of doing good.

  For example, every year since Bob went to rest, when his birthday comes around we do things, organize events in his honor or some such, not only in Jamaica and Ghana but elsewhere if possible. I get excited, and his presence seems everywhere again. I’m very sure why I’m doing this after more than twenty years, because something spectacular invariably happens shortly afterward, like I’ll get something in the mail or a phone call that really makes me feel terrific.

  Something else we’re doing up there in the mountains of Aburi is building a recording studio, which will also house a radio station, where professional engineers will be available to train young people who have the talent and ambition to work in the field of music. (There’s a lot of music in Ghana; it feels like a music capital that hasn’t been touched.) A studio like this—another of our dreams come true—will provide sound for movies, videos, overdubs, sound effects, and much more, adding to the development Africa so needs. We will also offer accommodations and food from our organic farm, right there in the mountains, where the air is fresh and clean!

  All these ideas about giving to Africa simply follow what we have been doing in Jamaica. Bob set the pace, because giving was his style. But then he would give money, mainly, and we realized, no, that’s not the best sometimes; you give money and it’s done and the same person comes back to you as if you’ve never given to them. So the Bob Marley Foundation in Jamaica went after other things: We’ve helped families to start businesses, for example, small enterprises such as cold supper shops like the one Aunty ran for a while in Trench Town. We’ve adopted orphans. We also give equipment and medicines, donated by other charities, to the Children’s Hospital; we help support the Maxfield Park Children’s Home; and we’ve brought doctors into Jamaica just to check on sick people. We found doctors who volunteered their services; Ziggy brought them in through the Melody Makers’ organization URGE.

  The Melody Makers also have a foundation. Adidas sometimes supports their tour and gives them boxes of shoes and sports gear, which they give away. S
ometimes I see things I like, that I would wear, but it’s hard for me to get even a pair of sneakers! “Oh, no, Mommy, just tell us, we’ll buy you some because these are for the needy!” They give every one away!

  In Jamaica, however, when you give too much you become a threat to the system, which is something I’ve experienced. Maybe that really motivated my turning toward Africa, because once you’re a giver, you’re always going to want to give, even when you find that what you’re giving can be held against you, and that you have to be careful how you give and who you give to.

  It’s a concern, and you always have to have it in the back of your mind—although given my history, I have to put it up front. I’m forced to keep my guard up, to keep my grit up, spiritually and physically. Be prepared. It’s important, especially as a black woman. As Bob said in one of his songs—and he said this years ago!—“You give your more to receive your less/now think about that.” I remember saying to him, “Why do you say that?” What I’m realizing as life and time reveal themselves is that Bob Marley’s words fall into place. I often find myself saying, “Oh, that’s what he felt (or meant),” or “Oh, that’s what he saw coming.” Because of his advanced political sense, and his being able to sing about what he couldn’t even talk about, a lot of people think of him as a prophet. Of course some people dismiss the idea—“Oh a prophet!” They’re thinking of an Old Testament god with long white hair and flowing robes. But Bob was just tuned into the reality of the system, and how it needed to change to strengthen the weak. He was simply prophetic—he didn’t have to wear a robe. Anyway, all he ever wanted to wear was his old blue work shirt, his jeans, and the boots he loved.