“Mi pic up, mi gaan.” I’ve picked her up. We’re on our way. That was the whole conversation when my driver’s phone rang. And something in me – some tightly wound, overthought, over-planned part of me that had been bracing for this trip for weeks – just let go. I sank back into that seat and I thought, that’s it. I’m here. I’ve actually arrived.
Before I could process anything further, the driver pulled over to his mate on the side of the dual carriageway and I was handed a fresh coconut, machete-cracked open right there on the side of the road – warm from the sun, sweet and utterly perfect. The reggae on his radio didn’t pause. The Kingston air didn’t wait.
