Melinotep - Andrew buildeth his house upon the rock
"Therefore whosoever heareth these sayings of mine, and doeth them, I will liken him unto a wise man, which built his house upon a rock:
And the rain descended, and the floods came, and the winds blew, and beat upon that house; and it fell not: for it was founded upon a rock."
- Mathew 7, 24 - 25, King James Version
And after many a front veranda kangaroo trial, conviction and crosses, pictures by drone on high spread out on newspaper front pages and snide questioning of propriety of proprietorship of prime property, Andrew of the Big House's cup was filled to the brim and overfloweth.
Damn them, said he, as his dam bursteth under the weight of notices those of the orange clan placed in the newspapers, asking in advertisement, sized proportionately to said dwelling, insinuating questions about faraway places like St Lucia and matters close to home like family.
Enough is enough, Andrew said, fulminating in the flesh before his brethren of the green cloth and on paper against the clan of orange, testing the calibre of the dwelling of Peter, son of Phillips, with nine questions. For, reasoned Andrew, if this Peter liveth in a glass house, let him not toss a pebble in the direction of my fortress; let him answer all queries and not give a six for a nine.
How, Andrew wanted to know, did this former follower of Selassie and the red, gold and green brethrens' teachings of humility-turned minister of finance acquire his palatial dwelling, though we be weighted equally on the salary scale? Did this Peter ever trod with brooms of lanky length and stiff bristles, to know that while the new sweepeth clean the old knoweth every corner, and I, Andrew, though I not be grey of hair or plump of jaw line, am a well-worn political broom?
And Peter answered forthwith, denying all personally and shunning knowledge of any transgressing members of the clan of the clenched fist before the cock could even draw breath, much lest crow once.
All along, in his heart, Andrew chuckled and asked J if dem really tek big man fi eediat. Like my pal, Dwayne, of the family Vaz from the fiefdom of Central Westmoreland, I am up to the time with Adidja Palmer, for did I not tell them last year that I adore my Desert Clarks, dawdi? And as it is written in the chronicles of Kartel, 2009 AD, my place a my place and it must stand firm.
Yea, I build my house upon the said rock I diggeth out to make its foundation, for when the wind of political change blows it shall not fall, but stand firm over J and the boys in whose name it shall be forevermore.
Yea though I fight for Gordon House, if I win it is still not mine for I cannot pass it on to my seed, and even Michael, he of the house of Manley, had a torrid time though he be son of Norman, bedrock of the orange clan. Worse, Andrew considered, if I lose - and even if I win - members of my own chlorophyll crew will be after my head, for though they be green now they can - and do - change colour in a minute like croaking lizard in house top.
What they did unto my father, Eddie, they will surely try to do unto I also, these said brethren who so quickly turn showers of blessing into squalls of acid droplets.
So he reasoned, let Gordon's house be Gordon's and Andrew's house be Andrew's, and if it bun them belly, let them imbibe my namesake Andrews (which I declare I do not own), Peptobismol or grate ginger to brew hot tea, buss the gas and belch I name off their chest.
I make my house big enough to put in my own Parliament, so late at night I can walk in and make speeches from either side, as Prime Minister or Leader of the Opposition, with J and a few faithful friends beating surfaces in support.
CURBING THE TONGUE
In that Parliament inside my mansion, I tell who I want to tell what I want to tell them without a speaker who, like Bounty Killer, is adroit with the hammer, or a Town and Communities Act against calamitous language, to curb my tongue.
Two of my brethren who must be present to slap surfaces on both sides of my personal Parliament are Karl, he of the House of Samuda, and Bruce, he of the house of Golding, for they know well how to switch and chop cleanly two ways like a machete sharpeneth back and front sliceth green grass in double time.
Like my brethren, Chronixx, I art from Spanish Town and know that every land is capture land. So art Beverly Hills and I drive peg in my piece, so let the few that also already hold theirs upon that high hill like the mountains around Jerusalem shush.
And those who have not yet done so hold their peace, work hard, and don't forget to register their business in St Lucia, for Jah seeth and knoweth, estate tax rough even on to the next generation.