IN these troubled times, when we are trying to ward off chikungunya and Ebola, there is hardly any time to sit back and laugh at some of the good old-time Jamaican stories that we remember from our youth.

Everything we touch, whether at home, work, church, or at play, has the threat — real or imagined — of a virus that needs to be avoided. It’s a spectre that haunts us night and day as we stay awake thinking about relatives and friends, especially the older and more vulnerable, who can be seriously affected if stricken.

I had the chance one day last week to get together with some long-time friends and exchange stories from boyhood days when life was much simpler and all we had to worry about was which party or fun engagement to concentrate on for the weekend.

The laughter was good, the stress was eased, as for a good two hours we forgot about the epidemic, the cost of living, the crime, the IMF, and the other woes that consume our thought process during regular time.

The conversation turned to nicknames. As Charles Hyatt, Jamaica’s master storyteller of an era past, has said: “Everybody has had a nickname or a pet name.” One would more likely get a pet name from grandma or mommy, like Sweetie, Boysie, or My Son.

Nicknames were something else and less desirable. These were freely bestowed at school to describe physical peculiarities using names like Cow Head, Ugly Hammer, and Sledge Head. They also pinned you down with teaser names if you cried too much, didn’t bathe, brought mangoes for the teacher, or ‘liked off’ the wrong girl.

Nicknames often led to fights, especially if you returned the epithet with the words “stay like yuh madda”, or “don’t call me soh.” My father, who went by the name Toby Jug, had this time-honoured advice for us children on how to retaliate: “Just laugh at them,” he said, “and it will go away.”

But nicknames are amusing and usually fetch a good laugh when we reflect on the reasons for the name in the first place. For instance, can anyone tell us how Francis Kennedy got the name ‘Paco’? That should be a good story.

As for myself, out of the half-dozen names that followed me around during my youth, the one that stuck the longest was “Roas’ Rice”, earned because I submitted it as my favourite dish for a composition at elementary school. The burnt rice left at the bottom of the pot was a nice snack, but instead of smiles and chuckles, howls of delight greeted my new name.

By the time I reached boarding school in another part of the country I thought I was safe from the roast rice vibes, until John Plummer from Monymusk, close enough to home, announced to all and sundry: “Yuh see that boy Neita. They used to call him Roas’ Rice at Four Paths School.”

But my name, ‘Roas’ Rice’, was tame compared to the names given to the other boys at elementary school. ‘Shanghai’ suggested something sinister, ‘Little John’ was a typical outlaw type, ‘Sheggup’ had up all the girls, while ‘Kauchi’, because of his big mouth, was so named after the siren at the railway station which blew at 8:00 am, lunchtime, and 4:00 pm.

The girls got away lightly. They were largely known by their first names, although occasionally some errant behaviours on their part earned them an uncomplimentary name “from that lyad bwoy”.

Sometimes a nickname comes spontaneously, or it can come from an affinity to a certain item of food. When my mini league Under-14 cricket team was short by one man the other day, the captain suggested that I use “Chicken Back” as a backup bowler. Hiding a smile, I summoned Chicken Back who, believe it or not, answered proudly to his name. He went on to be the best bowler for the team that season.

Kingston has had its fair share of legendary street characters with the most outlandish nicknames. My friends and I shared a laugh as we recalled the antics of “Bun Down Cross Road,” and the outrageous behaviour of “Pearl Harbour”, who flaunted her wares quite unashamedly on the waterfront and downtown Kingston.

“Bag-a-Wire” was a regular personality in and around Parade Gardens. Then there was this eccentric gentleman whose name I can’t recall who would marshal and direct traffic at the corner of Barry and Harbour Streets to the delight of crowds of spectators enjoying his comedic antics.

The biggest crowd-pleaser was “Lenny” of Sabina Park, who entertained cricket fans before and during the Test match intervals with his animated solitary bowling and batting acts. Lenny was pure theatre, a class act that livened up the Park. At times he would take over the baton and conduct the Jamaica Military Band during the lunch and tea breaks. Oh, give us a Lenny today for some comic relief escape from what is now taking place in West Indies cricket.

You may wonder why I am leaving our politicians out of this round of name-calling, although former Governors General Sir Clifford Campbell and Sir Florizel Glasspole deserve special mention for their early days’ nicknames: “Sugar Foot Campbell” and Glasspole “the Brown Bomber”.

Sugar Foot stomped his way through the Westmoreland cane fields on his political campaigns and was known to enjoy the rich sugar cane products, while the Bomber earned his moniker for his no-holds barred approach to negotiations as a pioneer trade unionist in the 1930s.

But the members of parliament in today’s House of Representatives are a boring lot, as either they have managed to conceal their nicknames from us, or they did nothing outstanding in their youth to earn any such. Which gives rise to the question this Sunday morning, do Portia and Andrew have anything to hide? After all, as “Charley” said, everything and everybody at some time or other had to pass through a nickname.

A famous police inspector who was given the undignified name of “Mongoose Trap” was on a section tour of police stations in St Elizabeth. As he approached an outlying post, he was spotted by the sergeant-in-charge who hastily abandoned his office to make an unscheduled tour of the bar licence premises in the town. He returned as late as he could, bolstered by several rounds of Wray & Nephew, and hoping that his senior officer had inspected and gone.

“Constable,” he shouted as he mounted the front steps, “di ole Mongoose Trap bwoy gone yet?”

“No, he is still here,” replied the inspector, who was seated comfortably in the back room.

The sergeant paid the price for his indiscretion. Forever after he was known as Mongoose, caught in a trap, because he didn’t know when to use a nickname, and when to use a pet name.

Finally, the slaves had their nicknames, too, some of which were bundled up into what was known on the estates as the Jamaican Alphabet. It was a rhyme which, for centuries, was handed down from African mothers to their children, and sections of which I share with you, taken from an old 1898 journal, but which I would not recommend to Deacon Ronald Thwaites for his education curriculum:

“A is for ass, see how him ‘tan, B is for Backra, a very bad man. C is for Cattie, him name Maria, D is for Duppy, him yeye shine like fire.

“E is for Elli, him ketch in a di ferry, F is for Figler, him play sweet and merry, G is for Governor, him live at King’s House, H is for Dry Harbour, place poor as church mouse.

“I is for myself, when I sick I go to bed, J is for john crow, him have a peel head.

“O is for oliphant, him have a big mouth, P is for pattoo, when night come he go out,

“Q is for Quattie, beg yu one, massa, please, R is for ratta, him tiptoe pon cheese.”

Our Jamaican nicknames with their patois and African origins are traceable to songs and poetry and storytelling from our African heritage. And they all come with a good laugh.

Lance Neita is a public relations and communications specialist. Comments to the Observer or to lanceneita@hotmail.com