Friday night around 10:45 - Kingston, Jamaica - Many years ago

We were sitting on the wall that doubled as seating and a barrier between our dwelling and the street, the street that also served as a soccer field most Sunday afternoons to pass time.

Just hanging out, performing our nightly ritual when two police vehicles approached us at lightning speed. They drove down the street with great urgency as if to catch us in an illegal act. They briskly stopped a few feet from us. Jumped out in a perfectly rehearsed formation, gun in hands. M16's were the preferred rifles for such an operation.

We weren't strangers to that kind of harassment. So no one moved, no one said a word. Any of those "stupid" acts could result in a terrible, sometimes fatal outcome. So we sat in silence for a few very long seconds waiting for their usual commands.

"Get off the wall." One of the cops dictated in his loudest and most vicious tone.

"We complied in a hurry with all hands in the air.

"What you boys doing out here?" They asked.

No one answered. No answer would be correct.

We knew the shakedown rules that would ensure a beneficial outcome to all.

We faced the wall as they searched us from shoulders to shoes. No sudden movement was the way we knew it had to be. But tell that to our nerves.

After the spiteful search failed to turn up any contraband, we were ordered to turn around. Then one by one they asked all nine of us dumb questions in the most disrespectful manner.

"Where you work boy?" One of the cops asked Sid.

"I'm a mechanic, I work just up the street."

He answered, pointing across the street at the second building up from where the aged rusted zinc fence ended.

I was a student, Clive a teacher, Arthur a tailor, James worked at D&G, Mini a furniture builder, Krishna a Student...

The same question across to the last person in line. Our backs still against the wall and face to face with terror. The last person was Roots. It was Roots turn to talk about his chosen profession.

"Where you work boy?"

Was the question posed to Roots by the same unstable cop.

"At a bakery sir." Roots answered.

"So you're a baker." The cop concluded.

"Yes, I'm a baker." Roots replied.

"What ingredients do you use to bake bread?" Asked the mad cop in a miserable tone, a tone that revealed his disbelief in Roots chosen profession and his attempt to find a reason to kick the shit out of all of us. That was the last chance for him to find a "good" reason to do so.

But without hesitation Roots proceeded to name the ingredients...

Sugar, butter, yeast, salt.

Roots paused.

Each finger on his right hand slowly moved up, then slowly back down as he keenly glanced over the ingredients in his head, making sure he could convince the cop that he was in fact a baker.

We all stood in silence waiting and hoping that Roots knew what the f@#% he was talking about, because if he didn't, there would be hell to pay.

I mean there would be f@#%ing hell to pay.

Roots was very confident that the ingredients he named were sufficient to bake bread fit for the miserable misfit cop who posed the stupid questions.

But the already pissed-off cop was unsatisfied with the way this bread would turnout. He slowly turned on an angle, and with a smirk on his face, his rifle handle lifted to his chest. It came down swinging with all his might and stopped against Roots stomach. Roots curled into a ball and slowly tumbled to the ground in a fetal position, gasping for air like a goldfish outside his bowl. We could only look on, no words.

The irate cop asked Roots one final question while he struggled for air.

"Where is the f@#%ing flour?"

No one died that night.

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"The truth is, unless you let go, unless you forgive yourself, unless you forgive the situation, unless you realize that the situation is over, you cannot move forward." -Steve Maraboli .................................................

- Thomas - © March 15, 2015