Several voices are shouting that we have lost the battle against organised crime, and that, if you could afford it, the best move is to leave this crazy country. But I am not leaving. No, a thousand times no! One night, I went to Morvant with a dedicated team of Friends Forever ambassadors. Listen, it was a very dangerous area and we were searching for a young woman. She had left the comfort of her parent's home to engage in a wasted, sexual encounter with a concrete-faced beast-who could have been her grandfather. Because of the precipitous nature of the area where the house was located, we had to park the car in a lonely, dark spot. Not one member of that Friends Forever team is irresponsible or indisciplined. In other words, we parked the car in the only area that was available. We had observed a few guys gambling and smoking. Well you did not have to see the smoke, you just had to float to the top of the hill as the ganja aroma greeted your nostrils.
After a very traumatic intervention that created quite a lot of stress, we returned to the car. Imagine this, it is about 9.30 pm, in a criminal infested den and we are trying to help. We did not intend to invade any gang leader's turf. But up comes this man, dreadlocked and stoned. He took casual leave from his gambling to declare to us that we have no right to park in his block. Now if you see this character, if you could only check the personna. He would qualify instantly for a condominium in Jurassic Park. The ganja had insulted his personality and inflicted the wild, wild west look in his eyes. He did not have a charm to disarm, he had a firearm to destroy your charm. He proceeded in our direction menacingly with an evil look. He was the mayor of that town, with Commissioner of Police authority. Listen to his lyrics: "Not because people in this village poor it means that you could come here and take advantage. We have a way of dealing with crazy baldheads. I could make allyuh pay for coming up here and blocking traffic."
Blocking traffic? What a joke! Because of people like this dinosaur, the vehicles are few and far between. Perhaps the occasional white Almera, the preferred choice of the bandits. But let us reflect on the many reasons why he did not want us in the area:
He had a teenager trapped in his zoo.
He was the watchman on the walls of the drug-distribution castle.
He had a penchant for monopoly-he is large and in charge.
After three minutes trying to reason with this mafiatic element, we left, while he was still growling and engaging in violent, self-talk. Tell me, how encouraged would you be to return to the area after hearing his final warning: "Anytime allyuh come back here is death to the roaches. Dead! Dead! Dead! You not welcome here." We have made all types of excuses to explain the unacceptable behaviour of these sadistic bloodhounds. The experts claim that they are barrel children, abandoned by parents and that they are good boys and people always interfering with their children. Irrational connections get involved in crude psychoanalysis claiming that their self-esteem is low and they following bad company. They suggest that from birth all the cards were stacked against them and that they never got a fair chance in life. The proponents of these theories have one basic belief: don't hold these creeps accountable, somebody else is to be blamed. In summary, they believe that the real reason is that these bandits were not born with a golden spoon. My reason is that they could take the wooden spoon and paint it gold.
What about the barrel-children syndrome? Of course, there are fathers who should be in a prison cell, adjacent to their son's habitat. Of course, there are mothers who believe that shipping brand name clothes is an adequate substitute for visible parenting. But listen, there are children who have climbed out of the barrel and rejected the temptation to develop iron fists of fury while purchasing golden teeth with their assassins' blood money. I repeat, there are youth who have climbed out of the barrel. I am not suggesting that it is easy, but there is amazing evidence that it is possible. Leaders, social workers and counsellors must talk to parents, utilising the straightforward approach even while they are grieving. Listen, tough love is required here. If the truth be told, the boy was not the best thing since sliced bread, he was a time-bomb, a home-grown terrorist just waiting to explode. He engaged in high-risk activities.
He tormented the neighbours, he was a bully in school; he brandished weapons when he felt he was under pressure. He tormented innocent people whom he robbed. In fact, even granny went to her grave because of his high TQ-tormenting quotient. So cry mothers, but talk the truth. Because your younger son is watching and waiting his turn. He hears your defence of his brother and he knows that you are painting a false picture. Then in the night, he observes the elaborate wake, the multiplicity of candles. He sees people celebrating their hero. He is becoming convinced that a life of crime brings rewards, applause, congratulations, even a declaration from the priest that his soul is in Heaven. Perhaps he has gone there to threaten the angels, including Gabriel. Worse yet, perhaps he has gone to receive an Oscar Award in the corridors of divinity for his criminality.
These oversized mosquitoes are tormenting us. Thousand of homes have more iron bars than the prison in Golden Grove. They are not just snatching handbags, they are snatching cars and grabbing chains, watches, your children-any number of things with their toxic, crocodilian touch. Like the rest of us, all these haters need to hear the sermon before they are killed. The title of this sermon must be "Called to Account." They must know that all must appear before the judgment bar of God. The Chief Justice, Ivor Archie, will not be the judge but the Lion of the Tribe of Judah, Jesus Christ.
That night in Morvant, the Holy Ghost and my friend tempered my approach. I wanted to tell him where to get on, and where to get off. I wanted to tell him that people with that kind of attitude die prematurely. After a few minutes, my friends advised me to get out of the area.
Ambassadors walk certain streets because they have one major weapon: the sword of the Spirit which is the word of God. What this nation and others like it require is not fear or paranoia, or even draconian laws but the will to implement existing legislation and thereby shake the pillars of organised crime. We need the will, the passion, the courage, the fortitude to torment organised and disorganised crime. And of course, we must stop the hypocrisy. I listen while I am driving to some of the talk shows and, brother, there is the stench of denial mixed with deliberate error-lies, lies, and more lies. Offshore patrol vessels will become white elephants on top of a hill until we develop and display the will to make life unbearable and downright impossible for the tormentors. There is no quick-fix, no extra-strength Tylenol providing relief from these pre-Cambrian monsters. Commissioners Gibbs could come, and a Russian could replace him, not much will change until we are prepared to rescue our children and the nation from these dinosauric skunks.