Ruin

90

LUCAS P.O.V.
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Friday: 7: 45 P.M.
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"Yuh see the fucka foot dem inna the piece a shorts? Like a first the Dawg a wear shorts eno. Foot dem tough yuh fuck!"

Laughter surrounds me.

I'm sitting on the last bench of the concrete bleachers, listening to the conversation between the three men, standing on the ball field before me, while absentmindedly scrolling on my phone.

For some reason, the topic of discussion had somehow drifted from the fucked up play Blem ——a chargie on my side —— made a few minutes ago, to a man pon the next side and the shorts wah him a wear.

Don't ask mi how we reach yasso...

Peas Head was the one to bring it up. See weh fi him attention deh?

"Yawh wah, bredda?" Nyama asks Peas Head, shaking his head and grinning.

"So a lie?" Peas Head pushes, using the hem of his marina to wipe his sweat.

I bring the bottle of water to my head and take one big gulp.

When I remove the bottle, I frown. "Uno a wah, man? Battyman or sum'n? A ball uno a play or a watch uno come fi watch man foot?"

Peas Head snorts. "Yo, go easy, man. Because from night a bare phone yuh deh pon. Every score yuh score a goal, yuh run go check yuh phone...'bout water break."

A real wasteman this eno. "At least mi a score goal, pussy. How much yuh score?"

From night a mi one a carry the game, him come a chat. If mi waan deh pon mi phone, a who fa own?

Big woman thing, how yuh fi nawh score nuh goal and have the heart fi a question the tactics of the star player? Make that mek sense.

Nyama laughs, pulling his shirt over his head in one swift motion.

Petrad, on the other hand, shakes his head, offering only a low chuckle to the conversation.

"Yawh styla eno, Indian. Yu!"

See how dem act when man tell the truth?

I sit upright. "Styla wid wah, bredda? Just a state facts. The time yawh focus pon man shorts and how him leg dem look inna it, yuh woulda help we score two goal. A lie?"

Peas Head is about to respond, but he's cut off...

"Yo, a wah gwaan? The game done or wah?" Blacks asks, walking over to the  bleachers with his arms wide open, emphasing his words. "The whole a the man dem group up yasso like sum'n a give weh to rass!"

I smirk, taking him in. "Yuh still waan play more ball, bredda? Yuh nuh embarrass yuhself enough?"

Man like dem yah mi 'fraid a. Determined yuh fuck!

From night the man dem a run up and dung pon the field and cyaa score one goal and still a ask 'bout ballgame.

Then all him nuh easy at all.

"So uno nawh give we the chance fi score a goal too, Indian?" he presses. "A so uno do things?"

Petrad laughs. "Score goal? A five-nil the game deh eno, Dawg? Wah one goal ago do fi uno?"

The man want him brownie points, how yuh mean?

I chuckle lowly.

"Ah. Big up unoself," he agrees, turning to dap up Nyama, Petrad, and Peas Head before turning to me and doing the same.