A prophet is never recognized in his own country, especially when that country has fallen into the mouths of dragons. Bob waves to a woman in a BMW across the street. It’s his lawyer, Christine. “Is me, Bob!” She closes the tinted windows and weaves through traffic. There was a time when BMW stood for Bob Marley and the Wailers. He thinks of the foolishness of that now.
He returns to the park, searching for the boy from the night before. He wants to shine his shoes again, to see the light in his eyes from Africa reflected there. In the daylight, the park is different from how he remembered it, but the boy’s tree still leans, and there’s a man selling peanuts and asham.
“You see the little youth that sleep inna the park?"
"Which one?"
“The one with the play-play guitar."
“Oh, me remember him. Him in juvenile detention! Is a bad youth.”
“No. Me see him last night.”
“Him kill a Chinie man in August town. Man-slaughter."
It doesn’t make sense. Bob has a feeling that he has stepped into the middle of someone’s dream. The fall-down skin itches and there is a dull pain behind his eyes. An idea comes to him.
“You know Bob Marley?”
“Yeah?”
“What if me tell you him come back?”
