I was born under the clock between Mandela Park and Cross Roads on the wrong side of the road. We were poor yet I had no sense of disadvantage; callaloo, okra, stew peas; lettuce, cucumber sandwiches, a little animal protein, lots of freedom. My Mom said: “Boy eat your carrots, rabbits do not wear glasses.” Our diet was necessity, what I did not know at meal time was drama. Meat on Sunday was not special as we boys ate bush birds.

Then, war ended. There was hardship, we still ate. I was a privileged son of “Mass Jack” — big on life, toil his passion. He loved God and avoided the dark side. His word was his bond. He spoke of “others” who took the family land, but did not complain. I never saw his charity until the funeral. We were the minority of those he sent to school. I saw his Party book and the leader’s picture; the regalia of a Mechanic’s Order, Marcus Garvey broad, and a share certificate. I saw Dad’s writing in the American press; he uplifted the negro and encouraged the white man to be his better self.

Later, in Africa, I was asked about my tribe, language. And puzzlingly, “Boy, you ever had an African thought?” What? Looking back I know I had no thoughts of Africa. Mackerel run-down, banana fig with coconut cream, yes; dream of Africa, never! My world was #59 — the big yard to #63, Miss Chin’s with the TV; #61 was my palette. I knew every mango, coolie plum, red coat, jimbilin, and bird nest. “Boy check the hens for egg today?” Me, hen poker! The bread cart, postman, milk bottles; scissors, knife sharpener, rag and bone man — “Freeesh Fiisshhh…Boy, stop the fish lady!”

A trade union boss came calling on my aunt — I rode his bicycle — the mosquito inspector and condense can holder; “Boy, open the gate, lock it, hold dog!” — the world had come to see us. Dad spoke of Garvey proudly, and I read his comic-type books with pictures of powerful black men, but never had one African thought.

Baby school was a recall of stout dowagers — my small face lost in big bosoms and men with limps. Mom read to me so I was wise. We were a mixed family; our Jamaica brown dog had a stray lock of hair and some of my cousin’s hair flopped over their faces like his — Bowser was family too. A daguerreotype of Mom’s ancestors in white robes crouched in the railway station was on the dresser. Their locks touched the station floor as they smoked herb of the seeds they brought from a far land to the St Mary banana walk. Smoke shafted the morning air as the railcar screamed to the siding for them to load banana; long-haired girls had a big Thermos of tea — two fi one. A United Fruit man took the photo. My father had ancestors and his silence was Paradise Lost. His family was dead to him or vice versa.

At junior school they came to teach, I to mischief. Both victims of our zeal and I came out worse. A Garvey man hung out at the school gate. — “we are princes and kings and we own Africa.” To cut class was my joy, as Mr Black on White (Mr BW) dilated on Africa. I did not know blacks were not to like whites because of slavery — off with cousin’s heads! Mr BW grippingly dilated on my royal family in Africa. Our police wore white helmets and black boots; police cars had white tops and black sides; as here, white had to be above black at all times. And with these convincing proofs Boy activist was born. In Africa, black was on top. Mr BW wore a black shirt and white pants. The police ran him from the school gate, but as his advocate it was reform school or a caning. I became a reluctant freedom fighter.

In the sweep of history one man rarely counts, but I dreamt of resurrecting Garvey’s ships and read many books on ships. In Africa people shared; Aunt Tensie in New York had candy cane and gum and Uncle B who left on the Windrush grip in hand, straight from the banana field never looked back. But Africa had buildings like their Empire State and Big Ben; many crowned heads, fertile land and King Solomon’s mines. Mr BW told me so and had pictures of negroes dressed like Pharoah; African doctors in mufti; pilots of African made planes, merchant ships, gun boats, spacemen; African fridges, TVs were bigger; no more Tarzan! African armies with white shoes crushed in the dirt and black uniforms flirting with the breeze. Africa was as great as Europe, and with Garvey’s ships we would replace theirs with African technology, cars, TVs, films, the works.

It was in big school that I heard of an Africa of poverty, disease and backwardness; cruel dictators, despot kings, wars, presidents for life, most dangerous diseases; pictures of “bang belly” people with eyes like “Bulbie” in big yard, their ribs sticking out. We collected money for Biafra babies — culture shock. See small Boy in denial; Africa is a place of plenty, my father’s father’s country, Garvey’s, Mr BW’s country. Garbage men, maids, bus conductors, higglers, beggars, handcart men were white; and blacks ran banks, business, played cricket, lolling in the hotels with white shoes. African schools did not teach “the cow jumped over the moon”, but used books written in African languages. Mr BW said slavery was the lot of all men, so we slaved for Europeans here. They slaved for Africans in Africa. Nothing to be ashamed of as the world was balanced. No one was better than anyone. Africa had a black African God not a pale blonde phantasm.

Boy’s young brain was full of imaginings. Reality intruded; lies, all lies and deceit! Are we not everybody’s slaves everywhere? Is Africa’s God also Europe’s? There was no counselling or trauma unit to help a broken Boy. Chaos reigned; why is this boy so bad? Reality was cruel and oppressive; truth grudgingly replaced miseducation; their schools were like ours, or worse. The cow jumped over Africa’s moon too. Africa used all Europe’s things and made none. My father ennobled Garvey and Mr BW’s tales fired the imagination. Now Boy was in tears. Never saw my mentor again; some said check Bellevue. He was a poor chancer called Akemanpha; living on lunch money and weaving tales to pique a poor black boy’s nascent consciousness. He made Africa in his own image and caught one small boy in a web of lies. Oh cruel rogue! Boy survived, many suffered. Stay conscious, my friend!

Dr Franklin Johnston is a strategist, project manager and advises the minister of education. franklinjohnstontoo@gmail.com