Summary

The web content is a reflective and creatively written piece discussing the impact of city construction and development on daily life, as seen from a Jamaican perspective, interwoven with personal anecdotes and societal observations.

Abstract

The article "Bug Trafficking | A Poem of the Times" presents a narrative that combines personal experiences with broader societal commentary, using a blend of English and Jamaican Patois. The author, who identifies as Jamaican, shares insights into the challenges of navigating a city undergoing constant construction and development, likening the experience to being stuck in traffic jams. The piece, which has been revised with input from a university professor, is divided into two parts to distinguish between different thematic elements. It touches on themes of change, nostalgia, and the struggle to maintain personal connections amidst urban transformation. The author also reflects on the distractions of modern life and the tendency to focus on trivial matters, such as celebrity appearances on television, while larger issues remain unaddressed. The article concludes with an invitation for reader engagement and a plug for the author's book, "Collect Call," which contains similar stories and poems.

Opinions

The author expresses a sense of frustration and resignation about the constant disruptions caused by city development, which they refer to as "bug trafficking."
There is a nostalgic longing for simpler times and a critique of the modern preoccupation with superficial entertainment and consumerism.
The piece suggests a disconnect between the authorities' promises of progress and the actual experiences of the city's residents, who face inconveniences and obstacles.
The author uses humor and wordplay to convey a sense of absurdity in the way life is affected by the city's transformation, such as the mention of "building up the city... shiny and new, like... little Genie."
There is a subtle commentary on the impact of urban development on the poor and working class, who are depicted as the ones most affected by the changes, yet their voices are not heard in the decision-making process.
The author seems to question the true beneficiaries of the city's progress, hinting at a possible disparity between the public good and private interests.

Bug Trafficking | A Poem of the Times

Told from a Carib-Jamericanadian perspective. In richly blended language mix of; nonsense talk, sensational spelling, double entendre, poetry, and Jamaican Patois. Yes, wordplay is the order of the day around here. Yeah — man, a Jamaica yaad mi come fram, sorry, I meant to say; I’m Jamaican born and bred, okay? So.

After having been subjected to some proper talking-to from my good friend at the university, I decided to rewrite this piece that was previously published elsewhere around here. At the same time, I also took the opportunity to split the piece in two to properly consolidate the two prevailing schools of thought into separate pieces. Thanks again to Professor D. Here’s the result of that, in 2 parts. pt. 1

Bug Trafficking

Meanwhile, as a baby daddy wannabe, on one leg of my journey. Spent way too many wasted hours in traffic jams eeh! Yes, they were all around me, across the city, town, and country.

“Construction work” was what they said to me that day. Yes, it’s what’s going on out there on the motorway, even now.

“We’re building up the city and remaking it; shiny and new, like…”

“Like what, like, oh, little Genie?”

“Yes, because they’re so in love with me, and you too, yes. Then they go off polishing my shoe with what was dropping from above my kid’s knee. And you?

The greater truth behind all of this, though, my youth man pickney, is; you and I never got to see it through, to the end of the quiz. We’re always too busy worrying about the next cup of tea Leigh, and about when next our favorite artist will be featured on TV. Like, while doing a super gig, somewhere over there in Tell a V. Yes, cousin Vivienne, go tell that guy named Vivian; he’s making mischief with me, and he needs to stop it.

So, the streets all across this town remained in lockdown. With orange cones, heavy-duty machinery, and concrete blocks all around. So you were forced to turn around and go back home and stay in lockdown. Behind the doorstop, and listen to rock and roll.

Rocking your nerve, yes, whilst rolling over the ancestors’ graves to yet more craps on which to get them sold, on the sale. Selling them on all the virtues of getting them saved, you know. Whilst reminiscing about the good ole daze. Those that other folks liked to call, days, in those days.

“Well!”

“We’ll move these obstacles around and out of the way a tiny bit,” so they say. Like, off to one side of the freeway. “To free up your pathway for 5 working days a week, okay.” So that you May be able to squeeze your way and go through, or come in again, in June. Bringing your labor like the real wonderful blessings that they are, to us, them, and yes, him also. Not you, though, no — my friends, won’t do so.

But to those who are ‘ours.’ Our realest of friends walking bare, (footed) towards the cowards (squared, and crooked.) But as soon as you’re done doing that. Be sure to go back, home, and sit down. We don’t want to have you driving around out here in any of your beautiful automobiles. do you hear me, O’Neil?

“Yes. I guess!”

“Well,” certainly, not whilst having any of your many wonderful babies beside you, at the wheel. “Oh dear.”

Not even if you were trying to go and see the others with whom you have already made a pledge and signed the deal, no. These concrete blocks and piles of hard-boiled cushions will be piling it up on your boneless horse at the bottom for us. While we stand aside and look, Woo, some days it’s just the smarts among us who’re left gazing at you there whining and cursing out our guts. Tough luck. You’d said, but.

The poet has spoken. Over to you to like, share, and comment. We would certainly appreciate it if you would subscribe and follow us somewhere too. Thank you.

An excerpt from my book called “Collect Call.” A collection of short stories and poems of the times, available wherever books are sold. If you don’t see it, ask for it, they’ll get it for you.