Before I turned back to run into the chattering yard, I observed the Rasta sistren. All their faces were drawn and exhausted, their hands burned and calloused from housework like my mother’s were. Almost every sistren held a baby and a toddler on her arms; some were pregnant like my mother. Some were so busy minding children that they could barely talk among themselves. Unlike the bredren’s circle, there were no wails of ‘Jah Rastafari!’ erupting from their midst. There were no spiritual revelations here. Only women taking turns running back to the kitchen, diligently attending to their
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