Peeling Back the Top Layer 🇯🇲

24| #MeToo

It's already 2:40 pm and the three of us are stuck in traffic just outside the church. Yeah... We are very late!

Marsha sent us the wrong date for Professor Shitup's funeral. It's a Saturday instead of Sunday like she told us before. She called us at the last minute to get ready and made an impromptu decision for us to spend the night at a resort in St Ann to make it up to us.

Luckily we had nothing planned for tonight or tomorrow and her links worked out because I don't know how she arranged everything so quickly.

With all the boxing and thinking I did this morning in addition to the sleepless night I had, I was fast asleep when she phoned at midday. It took her five tries to finally get through to me. I don't usually drink coffee but I had to beg Gillian to bring me a mug to give me an extra boost to start feeling like my usual self.

Marsha carefully navigates through the bumper-to-bumper cars on the jam-packed roadway and follows a few drivers onto the soft shoulder and down the road.

"Mine yuh mek police stop we enuh Marsha," Gillian warns from the back seat. She has been complaining the whole journey that she's uncomfortable with the speed at which Marsha drives and that her bobbing and weaving around traffic is going to get us killed.

"Mi nuh have time fi di granny driving right now. And we are already late," she says.

"Yuh too unruly! Yuh a behave like one a dem Coaster bus or taxi driver deh," Gillian protests.

"Desperate times calls for desperate measures. After mi nuh hear Kelsie a complain," Marsha retorts. I roll my eyes at the mention of my name because I know very well what Gillian is going to say next.

"She not saying anything cause she nuh better. Is di same way she drive. Di two of oonu a di same thing," she huffs.

Predictable.

"Alright. Di two a oonu stop now we almost reach anyways," I shush them with a wave.

We did not anticipate such a huge turnout for Professor Shitup's funeral and everyone is trying to squeeze into a nearby open lot for parking. Marsha snags a spot along the sidewalk where a number of other cars are parked.

"Yuh better hope dem nuh clamp di car and ticket yuh," warns Gillian or maybe I should just call her Negative Nancy today.

"Why yuh think that out of all di car dem out here police woulda choose mine fi clamp? Stop yuh noise man," Marsha hisses her teeth, marching off with me in tow towards the church.

A poster, bordered with wreaths and bearing the image of Raymond Omar Smith, greets mourners at the church entrance.

"Died leaving mother, wife, two daughters, three sons, other relatives, and friends. He was a loving father, devoted husband, and a cornerstone in his community," is written in a stylish font at the bottom.

It would look so much better if child molester was plastered in red right across it. That way people would know the true character of the man being mourned. Given the nature of his death and the carvings on his face, the family opted for a closed casket funeral.

The service is in full swing when we get onto the premises and the sanctuary is bursting at the seams. Even the extra chairs placed under tents on the surrounding lawn are not sufficient to accommodate the massive number of "mourners" present.

By the looks of things, more than half the school population for the year groups he taught are in attendance. His heavy involvement in athletics and the church must have also contributed to the large numbers.

Unable to find seats, we settle into a cool spot under a tree at the front of the property, close enough to hear the sermon.

Being late is a lifesaver. Otherwise, we too would be crammed into the tightly-packed space and struggling to breathe the limited supply of fresh air passing overhead. I can imagine how funky it must smell with the combination of various body odors.

One woman even passes out from the intense heat and we watch as three men carry her from the building to another section of the property where some offices are located.

A few of our former classmates spot us by the tree and come over to exchange pleasantries. Most of them end up staying, eventually attracting others and turning the space into a gathering spot for the women from our year group.

Funnily enough, none of us are actually mourning and bright colors seem to be the order of the day for the past students. Marsha is wearing a canary yellow dress, Gillian is wearing purple floral and I'm wearing a coral dress.

A few mourners deliver tearful tributes before the reading of an embellishing eulogy summarizing his hard work as an educator, commitment to his family, and dedication to the church. They also mention his participation in athletics but no one dares say anything about the accusation that has been etched into his face — the one that took him to the grave.

They skirt around the topic and instead, offer prayers that "the killers are arrested and punished so that the grieving family may get justice and find healing".

But who is praying for his victims and their healing?

The sea of women disburses from under our tree at the end of the ceremony. Majority of the ladies say their goodbyes, telling us that they wouldn't be going to the burial ground. Gillian and I would happily skip that part too. But, being Marsha's best friends, or sisters according to her, means sticking by her as she follows the procession from Kingston to Meadowrest Memorial Gardens in St Catherine.

While we're changing into flats to walk to the graveside, Marsha scribbles a note. "I shed all my tears when you violated me 15 years ago. Today, I have none. I forgive you, not because you deserve it, but because I no longer want to carry the burden of this hurt in my heart. This is the last time that your wickedness will affect Marsha Wright," it says.

Only about half the number of the people at the church make it to the burial site and Marsha makes sure that she is standing at the graveside, bumping and pushing aside whoever is in her way so that she can secure that spot.

We soon see why.

After the casket is lowered into the ground and the buriers ready themselves to put on the covers, Marsha spits into the grave and drops her note into the hole.

Saliva and whatever other bodily fluid she hoicks from the depth of her insides ejects from her mouth like a missile, much to the disgust of everyone in view. Loud gasps are heard among the wide-eyed and O-mouthed mourners but the pastor is the only one who attempts to reprimand her.

"Woman! Have some decency. What sort of— "

Before he can utter another word, a young woman pushes forward and shoots a gob of phlegm into the hole as Marsha did. It sets a series of spitters in motion as the women around us – some older, some younger — start replicating the action.

The grief-stricken wife, who is standing opposite Marsha at the graveside, is flabbergasted. "What is the meaning of this?" she wails, as two women by her side do their best to console her.

A deathly silence falls over the crowd. People start looking at others around them in disbelief as if searching for clues to some sort of explanation about the events unfolding before their eyes.

"Pray that the sins of the father don't fall on your children. I'm choosing today to bury with him the pain and suffering he caused me," Marsha says scornfully to the wife and everyone else within earshot. She walks into our embrace and we turn to leave but stop in our tracks when we hear another female speak.

"Your husband was a serial rapist and a child molester. I was a victim," she tells the wife, triggering echoes of "Me Too" throughout the crowd.

Marsha leads the way as the throng of women who she emboldens leave the scene.

This is their closure.

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