Melinotep: Let she that hath tongue... hold it!
The late journalist Carl Wint wrote a column mainly on Jamaican political matters under the name Leminotep. As the 2016 general election heads to its climax, The Gleaner's Mel Cooke attempts to write in a similar style.
Lo, it came to pass in the year of our Lord 2016 the date draweth nearer and nearer for all so registered residents of the isle of Jamrock to mark their X, to say in one voice if the clan of green or the clan of orange should hold sway from Negril to Morant Point, Ocho Rios to Goat Island (maybe).
And the clan of green found itself trailing in all predictions of experts, floundering as surely as Justin Gatlin wilting behind Usain Bolt coming down the straight in the 200m at the Bird's Nest stadium. There seemeth one final roll of the dice for those of the chlorophyll crew to narrow the gap - send its leader, Andrew of the Oversized House, into personal battle against Portia the Huggy Huggy.
For, the greenies reasoned, Portia taketh the orange chant 'Step Up the Progress' literally, running hither and yon, but though she be fleet of foot, she not be quick of thought. Plus, they were confident, her tongue can be drawn as surely as an LA Lewis draweth his name on a wall, adding "the pore love you".
But try as the National Debates Commission would, the orange people of the clenched fist would not send out its champion to face Andrew of the Big House. Reasons flew thick and fast, threats of lawsuits and counter lawsuits were exchanged like a big-head spliff going back and forth amongst brethren, Portia disowned Andrew as her son just as Vybz Kartel's Gaza and Mavado's Gully were severed from Bounty Killer's Alliance.
For the boy passeth his place, Portia the Huggy Huggy reasoned, this stripling who was in cloth diapers with two big-head safety pins when she was a big woman in long skirt, trodding with Michael from the dynasty of Manley. And until Andrew taketh back his talk, let him speaketh to my back only.
And he art still fortunate, the orange crew mulled, for his transgression is such that whereas the green guys pusheth up two digits, he deserveth a single one in return.
So the clan of the colours of the setting sun called for town hall format, like when Obama came to Jamaica, a style and fashion they were sure would not work in Jamaica. But at all costs, they reasoned, let not Mama P face off with Andrew she one, without the masses present and howling, for anything can happen and probably will.
And who careth about debates anyway, save for the articulate minority, whose individual vote is neither more nor less than the gal dem who articulate volubly with voluminous gluteus maximus from bus windows in political motorcade? Yeah, it is booty clap that counts, not hand clap.
When Portia the Huggy Huggy was finally touched by the hand of the Lord and let the trumpet sound and the gate fly in Half-Way Tree, she promised the green guys a whipping, not a tongue lashing. She still feareth not no guy, gal, greenie nor ginegog, but Portia let her tongue not be drawn. For the one who huggeth, smileth and joggeth hath learnt, she who hath the powerful tongue must control it, lest it become a curse.