My navel string bury in Guyana. Fuh true, my mother keep it and I see it, a dry-up dry-up twist of skin, but it didn’t come with us to New York. I frighten where it deh, under some Dutchman silk-cotton tree or in some water mumma river. My mother is a real fullaman Muslim lady, but she warn me about jumbie and ting since I small. In dem days not so long ago even the cocaine taking over the country was obeah.