My favourite start to the day is waking up to the sound of dawn birdsong outside my window; or to the gentle sound of the waves lapping the seashore. My least favourite it transpires, is to wake up with a possessed sounding Regan MacNeil wannabe, performing a variation of the Haka at the end of my bed. A feel the devil in ya, tormenting ya,playing wit ya, the female voice screams from giant speakers somewhere in Kingston. The same voice deepens to almost baritone depths and shouts again, I love ya, I need ya, I want ya…have you ever drunk Baileys from a shoe? I hope it continues but it doesn’t.
It’s not the devil, it’s Old Gregg, I sleepily tell my husband before I realise he’s missing. As I wander downstairs, to the accompanied chants of Hallelujahs, and chorus of: devil be gone wit ya, I contemplate what I’ll have for breakfast. Some ackee and salt-fish or toast and Marmite perhaps, I think as someone screams, the devil he torments ya, he’s feeding on ya. I protectively eat my breakfast, there is after all something very satisfying about Marmite on a piece of toast oozing with butter.
Then I head to the upstairs terrace were I locate my husband, pacing up and down in his dressing gown on the phone to the local police. He’s not so much complaining as threatening to unplug the stadium speakers and shove them somewhere. Our house sits high above town and whilst we have spectacular views over Kingston we hear every fart and laser that gets mic time. From up here I can tell the exorcism is being performed at the National Stadium which is about a mile and a half away. It must be a good show as the place looks pretty packed down there, I tell my angry looking husband.
Pretty soon though, there is only cheering coming from the stadium and every now again someone gets the mic who really can’t sing and insists on belting out evangelical songs. By 8am, it seems the devil has been banished for another day and everyone can head home for some well earned bammy and eggs. Hallelujah.