When everybody ready, Calla stand tall, stand proud outside the hut. ‘Welcome, mourners, welcome,’ she say. ‘Come let us mourn the dead!’

After a lot of shuffling and pushing, the mourning women go stand round the bed, leave a space at the front where Calla stand. I try to enter, but Calla tell me to sit outside on a stump. Protect the entrance. Listen and watch from there.

When everybody settle down, Calla lay out a white cloth on a little altar she place at the foot of the bed. On it she put down a bottle of rum, a plate of boiled rice and fowl. Have some orange peppers she put on top. Them so hot, if the pepper touch you lip you must run drink plenty water to cool you mouth down.

‘Jonnie like him food hotter than hot,’ she call out, holding up one of the pepper them, swallow it whole, and me notice her face get bright red.

Next she pick up the bottle and shake it. ‘Jonnie like him rum dark and strong,’ before she take a long, long drink, put back the little bit what leave-over.

She lift up a calabash full up with water. Take a sip, spurt it out. Do it a few times, before she pour the water on the ground in front of the altar, calling out in a loud voice to the spirit of Jonnie.

‘Come Jonnie, come. Come for water. Come wash you hands. Come eat. Come drink.’

Then she leave things quiet so Jonnie spirit can enjoy him eating and drinking.

All of a sudden, Calla raise up her arms. Raise them up high. Stand over Jonnie body, looking down pon him for a long time, her voice lifting in mumbled prayers. She using words that only the dead can hear and she helping Jonnie spirit to make the crossing back to the Ancestors.

After a short while, she signal she want the mourners to join in, do some mourning. What a ruckus with the swaying, weeping and wailing as though Jonnie was them only son. And when Calla calling out in prayer, calling out the words of the dead, is the voice I remember from when I was a baby. A voice that roll and rumble, deep and strong like thunder.

Calla turn into mighty Obeah woman. I can see the strength pouring out of her. Her power fill up the whole hut and hover outside round the edges. Calla showing her true face. Uncovered, in the light of the sun, not hidden within the veil of night.

After that, Calla settle herself on a little stool before the altar. Start to beat out a rhythm on a piece of iron hoop with a stick. Clang. Clang. Clang. Clangity clang, the stick go. Clang. Clang. Clang. Clangity clang, the mourners go, clapping in time with her rhythm, before them take turns singing out to Jonnie spirit.

‘Walk in peace, old Jonnie,’ one of them say.