New life

Talk of the devil

Zenga Longmore

Since Mrs Starman, the Jamaican evangelist, has been attending art classes, her pictures have achieved an uncanny level of brilliance. The paintings she brought round to show me, depicting Pentecostalists possessed by the Holy ,Ghost, seemed inspired by the muse of Hieronymus Bosch. Even Omalara bab- bled in hushed tones. I'm not suggesting that Omalara is a budding art critic as yet:

her awe and admiration were directed at the imposing appearance of Mrs Starman herself. From her white turban down to the embroidered hem of her flowing robe, Mrs Starman's dress and demeanour would have done credit to an Eastern empress.

Our mood of art appreciation was shat- tered when a loud knock sounded at the door of my flat. In a moment Shaka Boom Boom (real name Clive Barnes) ambled jauntily into the room. Handing me a card, he breezily chimed, 'Hi, sis,' and with a cursory nod at Mrs Starman he mumbled a faint 'Whappen, granny'. Mrs Starman pursed her lips: The card read:

Get your pigfeet, beer and wine Chill out, folks, it's party time!

'What's this?'

'A mental rave! One hundred per cent nice-ness.'

'Oh, you mean a blues party. Sorry, I don't go to them any more since Omalara was born.'

'But I'm the MC — Master of Chat — and we got the Black Cat sounds system playing tonight. For the hard way, this is the hardest way they come.' With this, he swung Omalara into the air and danced round the room with her, singing, 'Come one come all; you better reach whether you walk or crawl!'

Mrs Starman packed her paintings away with dangerous deliberation. Then she rose imperiously. 'Young man. Sounds system is the devil's music box. The devil laugh when he hear that. Don't you know that reggae rhythm, for the ragamuffin dem, is Satan heartbeat?'

Shaka Boom Boom clutched Omalara to his breast and gaped. 'You must go to the same church as my mum.'

'Silence when the Lord's servant is speaking! Reggae music sends shivers and fires of lust searing through the human frame! Many a young girl led astray through this kind of music. The rhythms overpower the mind! It send you wild, dancing — dancing on a road to destruc- tion.'

So saying, Mrs Starman took a sip of tea and looked portentous.

`Cheeeese an' bread! That's the sound I been looking for the whole of my days! If I could only get a sound like that I'd make my fortune, man!' And with that, Shaka Boom Boom handed me the baby and politely took his leave. I could hear him practising turning Mrs Starman's words into rap music as he walked down the stairs:

You shiver and you shake with sensuality It send a flame shooting through your whole bod-dee.

Omalara began to cry. I think she missed Shaka Boom Boom. She had greatly en- joyed playing with his dreadlocks. Howev- er, after hearing Mrs Starman's sermon I doubt if I shall allow Omalara to attend a blues party for many years to come.