The Super Jamaicans; Rise of the Cannabis Nation

The Super Jamaicans

Rise of the Cannabis Nation

Darren Braithwaite

Copyright © 2016 by Darren Braithwaite. All Rights Reserved.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

This book is for entertainment purposes only. The author does not advocate the breaking of any laws in your state or country.

This book is not intended as a substitute for the medical advice of physicians. The reader should regularly consult a physician in matters relating to his/her health and particularly with respect to any symptoms that may require diagnosis or medical attention.

Dedication

This book is dedicated to all my family and friends that have died from cancer and are still fighting cancer and those who will fight cancer: my grandfathers on both sides of the family, Karl Braithwaite and Horace Delevante; my great grandmother Olive Delevante; my cousin Cecil; Aunty Pinky; Aunt Edna; Uncle Joe; and Andrew’s father Lester Gayle.

This is also dedicated to the men, women, and children of the world still fighting cancer today, and those doing research and supporting the legalization of cannabis and the growth of the medical marijuana industry.

Never give up. God bless you all.

Acknowledgment

Thank you to everyone that made this book possible.

To my good friends Andrew Gayle and Shereka Thompson for their input and to Kerry Perry for your excellent work on the cover. To Ruth Howard my editor. To Collie Budz for his great song that gave me the idea for this book. To Wellesley Gayle the founder of My-Island-Jamaica.com for his great book filled with information.

Table of Contents

Chapter One- First Flight

Chapter Two- The healing of the nation

Chapter Three- The business model

Chapter Four – The break out

Chapter Five- Africa

Chapter Six- Hurricane Matthew

Chapter Seven- The Revelation

Chapter Eight- The New Island

Chapter Nine- The Opposition

Chapter Ten -The Great Disaster

Chapter Eleven- Deus Ex Machina

Chapter Twelve- Kyiv

Chapter Thirteen- Pirates

Chapter Fourteen- Coming Clean

Chapter Fifteen- Miami becomes Pont-Saint-Esprit

Chapter Sixteen -Return to Zombie City

Chapter Seventeen -The Aftermath

Author’s Note

Patois

Acronyms

Glossary of terms

Chapter One- First Flight

It’s funny how life works and the paths that it can take you on. I am here in sweet, sweet Jamaica lying in a hammock on a beach in Portland. I have not a care in this world. I am free, and almost everyone in this generation is free in a way that no other generation in human history has been free. How is this possible? All because of the efforts of one man who, in a generation, changed the world, ended hunger, cured cancer and truly gave men freedom in life. A friend of mine asked me to write about this man, Moses Magnus, the first and most powerful of the super Jamaicans. I wrote this in English, the language of commerce, and Jamaican patios, a language of emotion that was never meant to be written, only spoken. As such, the spelling of patois is largely subjective. I was with Moses from the beginning ... and this is my story.

I myself missed the Half-Way Tree introduction by mere minutes. This was the first demonstration of the power of Moses Magnus. For those reading this who have never been to our little island, Half-Way Tree is the center of the parish of St. Andrew. No one really thinks of it like that. We all just think of it as part of Kingston. It is a busy metropolis with taxis and buses causing noise and confusion, and loader men shouting and threatening each other to get you into a particular bus or taxi. Vendors abound trying to sell their wares. It is always filled with blaring horns and the shuffle of humanity. In one minute, all went silent.

July 14, 2015

Moses had walked into the center of Half-Way Tree, right at the corner of the Jamaica National Building Society building, smoking the biggest spliff that anyone had ever seen. Well, anyone in that crowd anyway. Stories say it was six feet long. That was probably an exaggeration but, knowing Moses, one could never tell. Naturally, he lit up not ten feet away from police officers working with the Transport Authority in the middle of one of the busiest places in Jamaica. They were there to check that the buses and taxis were following the rules and nothing more. Now, at this time in history, marijuana was still illegal, but it was decriminalized, thanks largely to the efforts of a politician named Raymond Price. That subtle difference means a lot to those of us that use the herb, but at that time, it didn't seem to mean a lot to the members of the Jamaica Constabulary Force.

What a bumboclaat bwoy bright! Officer Kenny said to his college.

A really jail da Rasta bwoy waan go tiday, Officer Morgan said.

The two officers approached him slowly, no rush. Neither could be bothered on a hot day like this. The man paid them no mind, puffing away at the absurdly large spliff in his mouth. He did not even look like he was holding it in his lungs, just puffing to make as much smoke as possible.

Yow Rasta! shouted Officer Morgan.

Wha a gwaan squaddie? the man said.

Out de fucking spliff, cursed the officer. The man looked at them for a second. His eyes moving rapidly up and down, as if sizing up the officers in front of him.

Cho, easy youself no squaddie, yuh no see man a try reach di higher heights, he responded.

The man then proceeded to take a large puff and blow it into the faces of the two police officers. They glanced at each other for a second and then the cops did what police all over the world do when confronted with a belligerent law breaker showing arrogance and lack of respect. They attacked, except the man was no longer in front of them but above them, floating ten feet in the air in the middle of the hot Half-Way Tree square. The Rasta man floated above them, still smoking his spliff. If it had been night time, and no one was around, both officers would have run away and not looked back. Instead, they just stood there watching the man smoke. They looked at the man and they looked at each other, neither daring to say anything. Then the man began to speak.

Dis herb is above di Babylon system and no Babylon can come to di higher heights. He paused then, looking down at the officers, with a look of contemplation, But it no hurt fi try. Saying so, he took out two tiny bags of ganja and dropped them at the feet of the two stunned police officers. A silence had now come over the entire square as people stopped and stared at the levitating Rasta and the two officers. The man floated over the buses and when he was directly above a large crowd, said in a loud voice, Ganja is di salvation of di nation, di inspiration of creativity, key to divine meditation. But not all ganja created equally. He then threw twenty small bags in the air to fall amidst the people.

Then he said in perfect English with no trace of patois: My name is Moses Magnus. Smoke Moses Magnus weed to reach the highest of heights. Then he flew like superman - up, up and away. I wasn’t there at the time, but my friend Yorick King was. He picked up one of the tiny bags and what was written on it was ‘Moses Magnus weed, the higher heights’. Yorick took home that small bag, and though not normally a smoker, he did smoke it. He called me that night.

Yo Roy.

Wha gwaan King?

Yo, mi inna wan situation. Yuh can pick me up roun a Alwil?

Pick yuh up? Whey yuh car deh?

Bossy, when mi see yuh me tell yuh.

Alright, bout half hour.

Alwil was a gas station in Portmore. We were both sales reps with a prominent company and King had taken over his current route from me. The name stood for the two men that owned the gas station, Mr. Allen and Mr. Williams. When I drove in, I saw King waiting on the outside. He was in his undershirt, boxers, and no shoes or socks. King was my good friend; level-headed and goal-oriented. He had come up through the hardships of poverty and was determined never to go back. He never let anything get in his way and almost never needed help with anything. I had trained him and mentored for him for the past two years or so since he had come into the company. He was one of the best reps I had ever trained. He ran into the car and I could barely contain my curiosity.

Whey yuh clothes?

Deh a mi yard.

Yuh lef yuh yard inna yuh undapants?

Long story my yout. When we reach a yard, me gi yuh di full hundred. This I had to hear.

Whey yuh phone?

Beg mi did beg a call inside.

Inna yuh underwear?

That’s why me go a Alwil. De people dem know me good.

This story ought to be good, I thought.

We reached to King’s house within a half hour. He put on clothes and we sat down at his dinner table and he related the tale of how he was in Half-Way Tree that day and had taken up one of the small bags of weed that Moses Magnus had dropped. I had heard rumors of the Facebook video but had not yet seen it myself. To have someone I knew and trusted actually telling me what happened convinced me it was real, despite how fantastic it sounded. King had reached home later that evening and had decided to try the weed from the mysterious flying man. The result was not what he had expected.

So I reach home an’ pull out a rizzler, light up a spliff, everyting jiggy. All of a sudden, I start float! King exclaimed.

Float? I asked.

Float inna de air, he replied.

De weed make yuh feel like yuh a fly? I said with my eyebrows raised.

No feel like, me did fly.

I looked at him skeptically.

What exactly do you mean, sir? I asked slowly, paying keen attention to whatever King was going to say next.

Yuh no believe me?

That, sir, is some awesome weed. I must, however, have proof before I can give an informed opinion. In other words, sir, yuh is a raasclaat madman! I exclaimed.

Alright, boss. King left the room and came back shortly with his cell phone. He tapped it for a minute and then handed me the device. It was a selfie of him with a spliff in his mouth. The background was of his bedroom from the point of view of the ceiling looking down. The picture was convincing, but it did not explain why he was in the gas station in his underwear.

Alright. So you started to float. Then what?

Me float out a de room and really start fi go high.

OK, cool. Then what?

Den de weed start run out, an’ me just start float lower and lower till me reach groun’ again.

Near Alwil? I asked.

Near Alwil, he answered.

If yuh tek selfie, wha happen to di phone?

Mi did drop it on di way out an’ mi couldn’t badda pick it up.

I leaned back and started to laugh. I laughed until I fell off the chair I was sitting in. King was not amused, but after a minute he started to laugh too.

Yo King, yuh ave any more a dat weed?

I did not try the magic herb that night but I promised myself that if I ever got the opportunity, I would. Later that night, I saw a cell phone video on the news of the flying incident that King told me about. That was the first time anyone had ever heard of Moses Magnus, but not the last. His second appearance was not as public as the first, but the implications of it were felt across the world.

Chapter Two- The healing of the nation

July 17, 2015

KPH stands for Kingston Public Hospital. It is one of the best places in the world for dealing with gunshot wounds, stabbings, and car accidents ... but horrible for everything else. The staff is overworked, underpaid and overstressed. It was opened December 14, 1776 and some parts of the building look exactly that ancient and outdated. The bedside manners of the doctors and nurses is horrible and, considering the state of the hospital, it is not surprising. The machines are old and run down and the staff is fed up. There was a story in the Jamaica Gleaner on July 22, 2012 titled, KPH emergency - Dirty, neglected 236-y-o hospital struggling on. It outlined the incredibly difficult conditions that the doctors work in, sometimes with two ward assistants taking care of thirty patients. The dedication of the staff is tremendous, as is generally the case with most health care workers in Jamaica, but their attitude sucks. The nurses are almost all on six-month contracts and so, in addition to the stress of the job, they must deal with the uncertainty of no job security. It is not all bad, I am sure, but when you hear so many bad stories and so few good ones, the bad ones tend to overwhelm everything else.

Moses Magnus gained access to a ward that housed mostly cancer patients. The ward was not officially a cancer ward but that was what it had turned out to be. No one really noticed his entrance, but I am sure everyone noticed his departure.

Edna Francis was one of those patients on the ward that day. She was a mother and grandmother suffering from stomach cancer. She was a fighter all her life and would fight to the end. She knew that it was a losing battle but she could not give in, could never give up. The same blight had claimed her mother and grandmother before her. She was determined not to let it get the better of her. She was weak and sick from the chemotherapy but still clung to life with every fiber of her being. Her eyes were closed but she was still awake and smelled a strong scent of ganja on the ward. She felt a presence over her bed, her eyes fluttered open with effort and she saw a tall Rasta man standing over her. He had the biggest spliff she had ever seen hanging from his lower lip. It seemed to defy gravity. Why did it not fall? she wondered. He looked like a cleaner-cut version of young Bob Marley. His locks reached down to his shoulders. He had the barest wisp of a beard and a faint mustache, his eyes seemed to sparkle with childlike glee as he looked down at her smiling. He wore a faded blue jeans and sandals with a marina colored red, green, and black.

Good evening Sista Edna, the tall man said. Edna’s lips were chapped and the man seemed to understand and put a cup of water that was lying next to her bed to her lips. She slowly drank it and then straightened in her bed.

Good evening, young man. Do I know you? she asked.

No, Sista, but I come to visit yuh. How yuh do?

Well, not so good mi son but the Lord still taking care of his servant. Praise God.

Praise God Sista. I tink de Lord sen me here today to help yuh.

How mi son? She smiled indulgently.

By showing his mercy. The man then crossed his legs lotus-style in mid-air and floated in front of the bedridden woman.

Jesus Christ! she gasped in shock and amazement.

Amen Sista. Would you like to be healed and whole once more to go out in the world as a living testimony to his mercy, power, and grace?

Yes, Yes. She heard herself with a voice that was a croak of desperation. The voice of a man in the desert being offered a drink of water.

Then inhale the true essence of Gods’ healing power. With that, the man lit up the large spliff and placed it to her lips and she inhaled long and deep.

When the news vans of CVM and TVJ (Television Jamaica) had arrived at the hospital two hours later, Edna Francis was walking, talking and floating along with the other patients that were in that ward. They floated up in the air, some of them up to fifteen feet high. They looked like they were swimming but using air instead of water - using hands and feet to push them in this direction or that, laughing and playing like little children. Edna Francis felt like a little girl again, standing in front of the cameras and telling her story. The story of the man that God had sent to heal her, Moses Magnus. The story made international headlines. Flying people were real, super powers were real, and a real Jamaican superhero existed. About two hours later, the cancer patients lost their ability to fly, but not their happiness and new found vitality. The story was a great curiosity on the international stage, but only just a curiosity, a passing fad, a momentary distraction from the mundane. It had no real significance on the psyche of the general public save those that had been touched by it directly.

Dr. Nichols’ shift started the next morning after the Moses Magnus incident. He was a light-skinned well-muscled man, part Indian, part black, and part white and tall. He was a dedicated doctor, a pragmatic man, yet he still had the ability to hope. When he had left yesterday, the place was a grim, grimy and cheerless institution. When he came this morning, everything had changed. People seemed to walk with a pep in their step. Everyone was talking about the cancer ward miracle. This incident had seemed to energize the entire staff. It was like being in the place where Jesus had healed ten lepers or fed the five thousand. There was a sense of wonder - one that was very contagious.

Dr. Nichols loved being a doctor but sometimes hated coming to work. If every day was like this though, he would get in early every day. He made his way to the cancer ward, and here the spirit of happiness was especially strong ... but it was more than that. The patients on average in this ward