Di Food Dem Fi Yuh Soul
A poem ‘bout whisper, ready fi be rooted
The whisper landed on the horizon one night, tucked inside a crescent moonbeam. Nobody saw it arrive, but by morning the whisper was there—small, silent, and with eyes like black seeds. It didn’t cry or babble; it simply watched, as if memorizing the sway of breadfruit trees and the shimmer of sunlight on yam vines.
This was no ordinary presence. By the time it could toddle, it spent hours tracing the jagged edges of ackee tree leaves and poking the waxy skins of green bananas. While others played, this one whispered to ackee pods, asking them secrets about opening at the right time. The presence’s curiosity grew as tangled as the veil’s bush. One day, it declared to no one in particular, “Mi want fi be a fruit.”
The breeze paused, as if even the wind couldn’t believe what it heard. The whisper’s voice was quiet but sure. “Not just one fruit, but all ah dem. Mi want fi feel di sun ripen mi skin like plantain, an di earth hold mi roots like yam. Mi want fi sweet like fried plantain, bold like ackee, and simple like banana.”
The veil listened. It always did. Beneath its lush surface, the veil wasn’t just soil and stone—it was alive, a keep of ancient magic. That night, it sent the whisper a dream. The voice in the dream was deep and warm, like the sea at night. “Yuh waan be a fruit? Fruit nuh jus’ grow di demself. When yuh ripen, di world will eat yuh. Yuh ready fi dat?”
The whisper nodded in its sleep, lips curling into a soft smile. “Let dem eat,” it murmured.
When the whisper woke, its body felt strange. Skin turned tough and speckled like breadfruit, arms stretched long and curved like plantain. Roots sprouted from its feet, sinking into the soil. It felt the pulse of the earth, the sway of leaves above, the weight of fruit hanging heavy with sweetness.
The creatures of the veil came—birds, lizards, people. They feasted on the fruits the whisper had become, each bite filling them with warmth and wonder. Whispers spread across the veil, a whisper unfolding in every home. “Yuh hear bout di fruit dat nuh normal? Yuh eat it yet? Mi swear mi hear it talk.”
And so, the whisper became legend, a tree that was more than a tree, a fruit, that held the soul of something greater. The veil sighed, pleased with its handiwork, cradling the memory of the presence who chose to give itself away, one bite at a time.
