Plays 1 Page 2
Standing behind the counter is Deli (thirty-four), a happy spirit. He is a born struggler and optimist, but today he is a little restless. Although slightly overweight, we can see that he once possessed a fit, athletic body. His personality is slightly soft at the core. He has his head buried deep in a letter while mouthing the words to the song being played on the TV. ‘Born as a sufferer, grow up as a sufferer, struggle as a sufferer, fe mek it as a sufferer, fight as a sufferer, survive as a sufferer, move amongst the ghetto ah most ah dem ah sufferer ah!’, etc., etc.
When he raises his head we see that he has a big bruise above his eye and a few cuts on his forehead.
Sitting on a stool close to the counter is Digger (mid-thirties). He is very powerfully built and looks every bit the ‘bad man’ that he is. His hair is plaited in two neat sets of cane rows which meet each other at the top of his head. At the ends of the cane rows are multicoloured ribbons, the kind traditionally seen in young girls’ hair. Digger is from Grenada but came to England aged fourteen. His clothes are not flash but are brand-name street clothes. The Chopper bicycle that we see chained outside the restaurant is his. Digger’s accent swings from his native Grenadian to hard-core Jamaican to authentic black London. He has his hands-free adapter permanently plugged into his ear. He is busy reading the Daily Mirror.
Digger (to himself but loud) You mudder arse!
Deli glances up at Digger and then to the picture of his mother.
Deli (as if on autopilot) How many times I got to tell you about language like that in here, Digger?
He returns to the letter. Digger raises his head from his paper momentarily and gently kisses his teeth in Deli’s direction. He’s got to get back to the article. Deli finishes reading the letter, screws it up and throws it in the bin. Suddenly Digger shouts out.
Digger (in disbelief) Blood CLATT.
Deli (irritated) Digger!
Digger What?
Deli Ah you me ah talk too yuh na!
Digger (vexed) You can’t see dat I reading som’ting?
He ignores Deli and carries on reading.
Deli Man, you’re ignorant!
Digger doesn’t like being called ignorant.
Digger (half playful) Char! You only lucky I don’t want eat wid dem drug-selling niggas down Yum Yums, why I don’t boo you down and tek my business dere. Gimme fritter an a Ginness punch.
Deli Please!
Digger What’s wrong wid you today?
Deli Cos I ask you to say please something must be wrong with me? See my point? You’re ignorant.
He brings the fritter and the punch he has poured out over to Digger.
Deli Two pound twenty-five. Please.
Digger (checking his pockets) Give me a squeeze na?
Deli (almost laughing) Squeeze? You own more money than anyone I know.
Digger But dat’s my business, Deli.
Deli Just gimme me fucking money.
Digger See you. You coming jus’ like your cousin Sofie, a rhated Englishman.
Deli pauses for a moment, confused.
Deli Please explain to me how my female cousin, can be a white male?
Digger You know what I mean, she love too much blasted Englishman. (Shaking his head.) You British blacks, boy.
He shows him a picture of her in the paper.
Every time she dey in the paper, she have a rhated white man on she hand. Wha’ appen! Ghetto willy too big fe her or what?
Deli What the hell that has to do with putting your mean hand in your pocket to pay for your fritters? It’s low-life dregs like you that probably send her dere.
Digger (taking umbrage) Low what? See me and you, we go fall out one day, you know! I not no low nothin’. I’s a legitimate businessman!
Deli You forget I know where the butcher knife is!
Digger pulls out his gun and points it at Deli.
Digger Yeah, but what’s that gonna do against my tech nine, motherfucker?
Deli (vexed) Don’t fuck about, Digger, how you gonna be pulling that ting out in here? . . .
Digger Sorry! Sorry! . . .
The phone rings.
Deli What happen if a customer walk in now? I done told you about that x amount a times. Damn. Hello! Elmina’s Kitchen, takeaway and delivery, how can I help you? . . . Chicken? We have jerk chicken, curried chicken, fried chicken, brown chicken, stew chicken and our new vibe is sweet and sour chicken. Yeah, West Indian style . . . Yeah, yeah . . . Where’d you live, bra? Berringham Road, seen, gonna be forty-five minutes, you alright wid dat? . . . What’s your name? Badder youth? Seen, Badder, that’ll be five pounds fifty cash handed over to my delivery boy before he takes the food out of the heated rear box, yeah? Nice.
Digger who has returned to the paper, looks up at Deli and shakes his head.
Digger Da’is why you nigger people go fail every time. How you go tell a hungry man he have to wait forty-five minutes for he food?
Deli (shouting from the kitchen) You can’t run a business on lies.
Digger You think a Indian man would do that? That’s why the black man will always be down. He don’t know how to analyse his environment.
Deli What graffiti wall did you get that from, Digger?
Digger Your mudder’s. Sorry!
He bites into his fritter. He grimaces.
Bombo! Deli, your cooking is shit! How can a man fuck up a fritter?
Deli (smiling) Don’t watch that, Dougie reach and you know his cooking is baddd!
Digger What! He’s gonna sit down in the kitchen and cook? Ha ha!
The phone rings.
Deli Elmina’s Kitchen, takeaway and delivery, how can I help you? . . . Sweet and sour chicken? . . . Where’d you live, bra? . . .
He looks up at Digger and hesitates for a moment.
Deli Well, that’ll be . . . that’ll be the next one out. Yeah, yeah, respect.
Digger laughs at him.
Digger See, I told yu you was coming like dem English man. Fork-tongued motherfucker.
Deli (feigning ignorance) What? Man, since I’ve put that sweet and sour shit on the menu the phone’s been off the hook.
Digger I don’t mean to be disrespectful but your shop is never, has never and I doubt will ever be, off the hook.
Deli Some things shouldn’t be measured in financial terms.
Digger A business is one of those thing that should!
Deli (kisses his teeth) Digger, fuck off.
Digger Oh, it’s alright for you to use all manner of Viking exple, exples, swear word, but as soon as a motherfucker uses language of our heritage you start to cuss. Dat is what I talking about when I cuss you British blacks.
Deli kisses his teeth and ignores Digger. Digger’s phone rings. He takes out three. He finds the right one. He switches his accent to hard-core Jamaican.
Digger Yeah, yeah? Tricky wha you say, rude bwoy? . . . Seen . . . Seen . . . Na!!! Wha you ah say? . . . Alright . . . usual tings ah go run . . . seen . . . tie him up wait for me . . . Tricky, don’t be a pussy and get trigger happy, wait for me, you hear? Alright, what is it, three now? I’ll see you ’bout four thirty. Later . . .
He ends the call.
I gotta get myself some new blood. Tricky stewpid!
Deli Thought you was a lone operator?
Digger I subcontract on a job-by-job basis. Eh, you know who I had business with de odder day? Spikey!
Deli (not really interested) Spikey who?
Digger Spikey, who own the hair shop down by Stamford Hill lights.
Deli (suddenly interested) What Roy’s from across the road big mouth friend with the hair? You lie?
Digger Oh ho! You interested now?
Deli Who Spikey did owe money?
Digger Me!
Deli Before you, fool?
Digger Matic posse.
Deli I knew that motherfucker had to be dealing. How else could he move from one fucking blow-dryer and Sat’day girl to employing twelve fit woman in under nine months?
Deli Shut up. How much was he down for?
Digger Nothin’ real big. Twenty.
Deli Twenty?
Digger Well, he owe Matic dem fifteen and once I put my fee pon top . . .
Deli . . . Twenty? Damn.
Digger When I put de gun by he head, you know what he do?
Deli What?
Digger He offer me him fifteen-year-old daughter?
Deli To do what wid?
Digger To fuck of course.
Deli (outraged) You lie?
Digger I buck him with me pistol. Who the hell you take me for, Rodent?
Deli Rodent?
Digger The Yardie bwoy that rape all them people dem pickney when he was collecting. Motherfucker gave the trade a bad name.
Deli Ras! He pay yuh you money yet?
Digger I told him I’d kill his family across the whole world. He had my money to me in five days.
Deli So that’s why the shop’s closed!
Digger I give him an extra lick cos me did hear he was an informer.
Deli Yeah? Fucking bitch. Should’a give him two.
The men sing together.
Deli/Digger Man fe dead lick a shot inna informer man hend.
Enter Ashley, Deli’s son (nineteen), hooded street clothes, headphones. He has his hair in two bunches. Trousers falling off the arse. Has no respect for anyone older than himself except for Digger. He walks in slowly talking on the phone.
Deli Yo! Ashley, what took you so long? How you let the man cut up your head so? Look like Zorro.
The men laugh together. Ashley kisses his teeth, grabs the TV remote off the counter, changes the channel to MTV base and attempts to sit down.
Deli What you sitting down for? Can’t you see there’s ting waiting here to get delivered?
Ashley looks at his dad’s cut head.
Ashley (nonchalantly) It’s raining out there, you know! Give me a second to catch my breath.
Deli You wanna catch you arse out street and deliver the people dem food.
Ashley Nigger needs to chill, boy!
Deli Hey, I ain’t no nigger with you.
Ashley (to himself almost) No you’re not, what they calling you on street now? Deli the sissy punk.
Deli What?
Ashley How am I supposed to walk the street an look my bredrens in the eye when mans all grip up my dad by his throat and you didn’t deal wid it?
Digger (still confused) What?
Deli doesn’t answer. Ashley does.
Ashley Roy from over dere coarse up my dad . . .
Deli Coarse up who? . . .
Ashley . . . and he didn’t even lift a finger to defence. Can you believe that?
Digger You let Roy da coolie coarse you up?
Ashley (under breath but loud enough to be heard) It’s a good thing uncle Dougie’s coming home that’s my word . . .
Deli He never coarse me nothin’. We had a little someting . . . and I decided not to deal wid it THERE and THEN.
The guys stare at him in amazement.
Digger Rasclaat!
Deli (to Ashley) Me will deal wid him right! What?! I can’t see me fucking brodder! Is pass me must pass him in the jail van? (Beat.) Did you buy the banner ting for your uncle?
Deli’s explanation has meant nothing to him. Ashley slams a big roll of banner tape on counter and pushes it towards his father.
Deli Thank you.
Ashley looks at the address he has to deliver to.
Ashley Berrington Road? I ain’t delivering no cold food there. Trust me. You better heat it up dread or no can do!
Deli (sharp and fast) Who you talking to like that? Don’t mek me have to lick you down you know! Your mouth too quick these days.
Ashley pushes out his chest. Deli catches himself, pulls back and takes the container back into the kitchen, kissing his teeth. Ashley nods his head to Digger who just about acknowledges him. Ashley pauses for a moment then approaches Digger.
Ashley So, yes my don, what a gwan?
Digger (back to reading his paper) Just cool ya.
Ashley You still busting the TT?
Digger (short) Yep.
Ashley Sweet but when I get my dollars, mine’s a BM boy. You done know!
Digger does not reply.
Ashley (checking to see that his dad can’t hear) Listen, I kinda wanna talk some tings through wid you, you na mean?
Digger No, I don’t know what you mean.
Ashley (taken aback but bounces back) Seen, seen. You’re hooked up and dat, and mans needs to get hold of proper tings, not no air pistols runnings, you get me? So I wondered if . . .
Digger (firmly) No.
Ashley No what?
Digger No.
Ashley (with attitude) What what? Mans ain’t looking a free tings, you know!
Digger Yes you is. Don’t ever be forward enough to ask me about tings like that again, seen?
Ashley Seen.
Enter Deli. Hands food to Ashley.
Deli Take it na! And hurry come back. You gotta to help me sort the room for your uncle.
Ashley does but he’s staring at Digger as he exits. Digger takes the remote and puts it back on to the old school music channel.
Digger Dem blasted young children duh’ have no respect. You know, some parts ah de country fucking big man like you and me ’fraid to come out dey yard because young punks like him wanna shot dem down to get stripes? Not me a rass!
Deli stares at the door that Ashley just exited with great concern in his eyes.
Deli What! . . .
Enter Baygee, a hyper lively old Bajan man in his sixties who often speaks at a hundred miles an hour. He’s the last of West Indian door-to-door salesmen. Defying logic he is carrying about twenty different designer bags. He is wearing a three-piece suit with trilby hat to match that have all seen better days. We can see his long grey hair sticking out of the sides. He rushes into the restaurant.
Baygee Hey, Delroy, give me a quick shot of Clark’s and have one you yourself, I win ten pounds on the lottery today. What James Brown say? (Sings.) I feel good, dadadada, I knew that I would now.
Deli You still playing that stupidness?
Baygee Be happy for a fella na! You know how many years I giving them people me money and never get fart back?
Deli Congratulations, Baygee.
Baygee Thank you. I have some niceeeeeeee new clothes for the children this week, you know, Deli. (He searches to find the right bag.) Tracksuits, jeans, baggy trouser that show dey underpants, nice tings, boy. I even have a Donna Karen Los Angeles dress for the wife . . .
Deli New York.
Baygee She on holiday?
Deli Donna Karen New Y . . . Forget it. And it’s the ex-wife, Baygee.
Baygee (smiles) Even more reason why you should buy it. Anyway take a look through, I coming back. Just popping to see Ms Mary on Abbots Road.
He decks the shot of rum in one.
Deli (knowing full well) She have something for you?
Baygee (trying to front) She owe me twenty pound.
Digger (teasing him) I’ll buy that debt off you for fifteen pound.
Baygee White boy, I wouldn’t sell you my stepmodder piss, and she been dead twenty years, God bless her soul. Give me one more, Deli.
He selects the bags he’s going to walk with and makes for the door. He looks at the picture of Elmina and turns back to Deli.
Baygee Oh God, how many times I have to tell you? I love that you have you modder up there but you need to have one of yourself too. You could have been one of the greatest, boy. Clifton took me to see him fight once and I said, Cliff, he could be one of the greats, you know. He smiled and said, I know. Put up the picture, boy.
Deli Soon, Baygee. Soon. Your usual curry goat and rice?
Baygee Who cook?
Deli Me!
Baygee Na, just line me up a patty and a Guinness punch. In fact, make that t
wo Guinness punch. I go need a little energy when I leave Ms Mary’s. I gone.
He’s gone.
Digger You British blacks, boy.
Deli And I don’t know why you gots to be dissing us all the time, you been here since you was blasted fourteen, you’re as ‘British’ as the rest of us.
Digger (shoots out) Never! I was born in Grenada and I’ve lived in jailhouse all over the world. I know who the fuck I am, don’t you ever include me in all you stupidness.
Deli Five years in a New York jail don’t make you a citizen of the world, motherfucker.
Deli starts to tidy up. Digger takes the remote control for the TV and points it towards the screen attempting to change the channel. It doesn’t work.
Digger How you get this thing on the news again?
Deli You got to watch the news every time it’s on? Square then tick.
Digger What happens up there today, happens on the streets tomorrow.
The news channel is on. Digger is really concentrating.
We hear the chime that accompanies the opening of the shop’s door. The boys look up. Enter Anastasia (forty-two). Although dressed soberly, we can see that she has the kind of body that most men of colour fantasise about. Big hips and butt, slim waist and full, full breasts. There is something incredibly sexual about her presence. Beneath the very well applied ‘make-up’ we can see that she must once have been a real beauty. There is an insecurity, a soft sadness about her even though she attempts to hide this with a veneer of coarse West Indian confidence. Although black British, she too swings into authentic, full-attitude Jamaican at the drop of a hat. She speaks with confidence if not a little attitude.