‘Did you know that Bowie’s wife was called Sarah?’ I tell him, taking a rolled joint from a metal box.

‘Sarah? Princess of the tribe of Israel.’

‘Really? I’d just thought of Abraham’s wife…’ I reach for a candle.

Light, puff, exhale.

Repeat.

I pick up my monitor and check my levels. Jaime watches my every movement. His face looks a little more mature in the dim light, although his large, curious eyes give him away.

‘Skankin’ Sweet’ comes on in Chronixx’s voice. ‘Everybody wanna feel irie’ – I sing along to the chorus – ‘forget your troubles and rock with me.’ Another thunderclap shatters against the house, the magnet, the little white cube that starts spinning in my mind.

‘That’s what the name means. Besides, lots of the people who were kidnapped in Africa were princes, princesses or warriors of their tribes’. I hand the joint to Jaime. ‘Did you know that the Ashanti sold people from the Fante tribe and so on,’ he says, and exhales a mouthful of white smoke.

‘Yes, the princes were the best equipped to survive the journey, it makes sense.’

I think of the movies I’ve seen about those men and women, their skin covered with natural dyes and piercings, their regal gazes, other epic details that remind me of my own weakness. All stereotypes, at the end of the day.

‘Maybe it was that back-and-forth, all those sales between cousins and siblings, that led to the creation of “crab antics”. You know, the myth that we islanders are like crabs in a pail and all that stuff’ – I’m rambling – ‘that some won’t help the others climb up, so no one gets out, and all that…’

Jaime lets out a short laugh as he exhales and leans farther back in the wicker chair. It creaks.

‘I don’t know about that, but the stories of Anansi the spider are some of the ones your ancestors brought over. They come from those clans. Maybe Sarah’ – he speaks her name with reverence – ‘told some of those stories here.’

I think it’s interesting that he’s talking about the ‘trickster’: Anansi, the opportunistic joker who sets traps to survive – or to have a laugh. Pirate! I look at him, drinking delicately from his cup. He returns the smouldering joint to me.

‘Right, but those stories didn’t make their way to me. Not by blood, anyway. Someone erased them.’

I perch the joint in the pink ashtray, pull my knees to my chest, lean back, hug a cushion to myself. The rain is starting to soothe me, to wash my mind clean.

‘Well, that’s what the history of the colonies is all about. Receiving just a piece of it.’

‘The history of everywhere, Jaime.’