The Writer’s Room
“My father, who is now in heaven,
Just like Jamaica, you’re in a place that’s better,
Even though I’m sad, my heart can now settle,
As you lay in peace, in your eternal sleep,
Though I stand as a man, I’m still your child,
With tears yet to cry, from the grief of your life,
You was, you are and will always be,
The most important man any boy can dream,
That any boy could have as his personal guide,
in this world of sin, of greed and lies,
in a world where most black kids don’t know fathers,
and if they do, don’t get love from their fathers
I was not one of them, always had my back,
whenever I strayed, to pull me right back,
put me on track, encouraged me to stand,
get up like the wailers, when they knock me down,
Heart so golden, talents contagious,
That will live forever, amongst friends and strangers,
From woodwork, to cars, to electronics,
I’ve seen it all for every year I’ve grown,
I promise, everyday, I will do my best,
to be nothing less than the man you expect,
the man you nurtured, the child you loved,
the man i became from my fatherly love,
The child you held, you fed, you changed,
gave me a name uniquely not the same,
I will stand in unison with your soul and spirit,
with our heavenly creator, above all nations,
along with your daughter, both your grand daughters,
and my mother too, as you expect her too,
you’re my genius, my life, my one half of me,
but most importantly, you are my father.”
These words I wrote are for my father Mr W.A. Clarke who dedicated his life to ensuring he was right there for me when I needed him. There wasn’t a lot I got to show him or do for him when he was alive so this was the very least I could do to keep his memory alive.
It is not a rap or a poem but a prayer which was meant to be read at his funeral. My prayer to him. I found it so hard to speak these words that even to this day I have never spoke them out fully. I can only hope that I can read the for him before I die.
2017 C. Buffong Clarke / Playaz Cliq Recordings
It was a chilly night, 22nd of December.
This is one night every man shall remember,
3 n****s; Weed Master, Smoke a bud,
I’m a nuttah, decides to camp out in a dark forest.
In their pockets, each having an ounce of weed.
Strongly believe, this is blackman’s heaven.
Chilling by the camp fire, these “bad boys”
until Weedmaster heard a noise.
‘I taught I just hear sumtum’ *
‘It ain’t nothing, probably your brains buzzin’, too much weed,
ease off the sensi’ $
‘Naaaahhh man! It could be anyting’ *
but from the distance, a figurine ran up,
got them on their knees and told them all to ‘…shut up,
what you doing in these territories,
no man, has ever left to tell stories’ ++.
They couldn’t talk, shocked by electrocution,
weren’t moving, bodies felt paralytics.
Real hectic, spirits started appearing
disappearing, reappearing in split seconds.
I reckon, they’re souls of dead rappers.
This figurine, worker of the grim reaper.
A soul searcher; ready to hurt ya,
take away your lifeline,
Creates clones, turn your temple to stone.
Turf you our like bailiff to homes,
Temperature falls, vultures eat your body meat,
Word on the street, their death was just a mystery.
By dawn place crawling with Police,
FBI, trying to find the evidence,
The circumstance, motive for homicide,
it’s common sense, no man will ever find out why.
2003 C. Buffong Clarke / Playaz Cliq Recordings
Written by Madman the Greatest for Playaz Cliq Recordings.
Originally recorded with Mr FX