No Woman No Cry (20 page)

The I-Three were seen as positive role models, with me always in the middle. Sometimes I stayed singing with tears in my eyes from certain situations I was faced with. I'd think, why keep it up? I'm gonna get off this road and go home and stay with my children. But then I'd think that if I did that, I'd be breaking up such a
good
thing that was positive to so many others all over the world. Take your troubles to the Lord and not to the people, I'd tell myself. So I did just that—I prayed. And I gave my part, I gave it honestly. I gave my part, from the heart, and I was paid for it. Paid every week, just like everybody else. So I could maintain myself, not just physically, but with a lot of spirit. And on good days, even though I wasn't altogether happy, I felt
so
independent, thinking, well, now I can do whatever I want, now I can buy clothes and shoes that I like, I can be—
whew
—just what I wanna be!

It was on one of our tours that I first met my sisters Diana and Jeanette, who were born in Stockholm. They had been news to me years before when we couldn't find Papa for a while, and the next thing we saw was a letter coming from Sweden. I remember asking Aunty, “Now where's Sweden?” And her reply: “Oh it's way
way
past Germany.” By the time he and Bob met, Papa had these two beautiful daughters, and I imagine they followed Bob's career closely after that. Their mother, even though she could barely speak English, would call me to ask when we were coming to Stockholm for a concert, because we usually performed there. So we developed a relationship, and whenever we were coming Diana and Jeanette were the excitement of Stockholm, because everybody knew they were going to the concert and were going to meet me at my hotel. They'd come with their friends, and it was fun to look at them, just saying wow, look at that! Sisters! You could see they had some Jamaican in them, you could see the mixture. They're singers also, these days they're one of the top pop groups in Stockholm, and we still communicate and see each other. They go by their mother's name, Soderholm, and they sing facing each other, like twins.

Those seven years spent touring Europe, Africa, and America alternated with studio work for albums and some peaceful times in Bull Bay and other times that no one could ever have anticipated. Though Bob and I had agreed to be friends, and I dealt well enough with his womanizing, I still had to deal with his possessive attitude toward me, which he never gave up no matter what I said or did. This put more pressure on me than I wanted. Even though he was carrying on right under my nose (mostly one-night stands), he remained very suspicious of my having an affair: “You can't tell me you're not doing this, you're not doing that!”

When we argued, my line was always, “Who cares? I'm your wife but I'm not your slave, you know? I'm not gonna be your call girl, when you want to have sex you call me to your room? Or we have a relationship
when you feel like?
No no no! And I'm not having a relationship with you going around with all these women—every city you have to hit on somebody? Miss Brussels? Miss Miami Beach? No no no!!”

When we started touring, Tacky was still helping Aunty take care of the kids. Sometimes he'd call me to say everything's fine and let me know what's happening, or I'd call him and ask him to look in on everyone and call me afterward. As I've said, he was my very good friend. But then Bob would look at my phone bill when we were checking out of the hotels; he would always tell the promoter, “Get me Rita's bill.” Yes, he was like that—you wouldn't imagine that he could be so jealous of me, he was
so
jealous of me, even the guys in the band couldn't believe it. To this day, Minnie shakes her head over how irrational this was.

I remember a scene with Neville Garrick, Tuff Gong's (the name of Bob's recording company) lighting designer, that happened one evening during a U.S. tour. Bob had brought Yvette Anderson along on the tour. Earlier, when we had checked into the hotel, she had smiled at me and I'd smiled back, and then we all went to our rooms. Later on I'd wanted a smoke, so I called Neville and asked him to bring me some. When Bob came in, as he usually did, Neville was there, and when Bob saw him he had a fit, shouting, “What you doin' in here?”

Neville said, “Rita just asked me for a little spliff …”

Without another word Bob just lifted me up out of the bed, yelling—
“Raahh!”
—and held me up in the air, and then dropped me down! And Neville was so frightened! After Bob left the room he said, “Oh, now he's going to send me home!”

I said, “Oh no, he wouldn't …” But poor Neville! He was so humble, just bringing a little smoke to cool me—only for sympathy, knowing that Yvette was with Bob, and right in front of my eyes. But Bob had to go and create that big excitement, even though Neville, like all the band members, had always offered only love and respect for me. But Bob was nevertheless always very jealous and very watchful, very
sneaky
. I never understood how somebody could be like that.

At home, though, he was busy with his business at Hope Road. And I had a chance to rest and get back into my family. Touring and performing can exhaust the strongest person, even if you're young and enthusiastic about what you're doing, even though you love it and know that it's what you're cut out to do. But there was much at home that interested me too. The farm in Clarendon was still in operation, and Minnie was around to help with that. Bob remained very supportive of it, and there were days when he'd drive us to the farm just to get the produce. Sometimes we'd go there and stay overnight with him. Bob loved farming and taught me a lot about planting food. It was so peaceful to be away from everyone and we had a building there to relax in, a three-bedroom house that had come with the farm. We also had a big outdoor kitchen, where he would do the cooking. Those times, when I'd get his undivided attention, were always special to me.

I couldn't have done any of this without Aunty there running the show with Miss Collins. Without Aunty, I could never have moved that well, if at all. Every way she was strict with the children I approved of, because she wasn't going to see certain things happen. I could see her work in me, and wanted as much for them. And in Jamaica times were changing—slowly—for women. Despite their complaints when I was away, the children liked to see me work when I was home. My work enhanced their lives, I think: “This is what Mommy says, these are things that Mommy does.” They were growing big now; except for Stephanie, who was still a baby, they were all in school. I thought it was very important that they knew what Mommy did, and that they supported her. Sometimes they'd remind me, “Mommy, it's Friday, aren't you going to your farm today? Is Daddy going? Can we go with you?” We did things like that, so that we would have time together. Bob loved those weekends, as he loved his children. They were his true friends, he always said.

When I wasn't around, there were people who took care of the Queen of Sheba Restaurant for me. Minnie especially. When we were at home in Jamaica and working at the studio there, she'd come to rehearsals to keep us company and bring us juice or food, always offering opinions about the music: “This one is not going to be Number One, but that one is.” Because she and I were so close, and so militant, many rumors were spread about us. We're both early morning persons, and back then we liked to go for a morning run together, so even if we woke up at four o'clock in the morning, we'd call each other. Our children used to get so angry at us because they knew why the phone was ringing—it was me calling Minnie or her calling me. Bob knew better than to believe the rumors (which mostly concerned our sexuality); still, he refused to believe that I actually
did
go running with Minnie at 5
A.M.
around the local reservoir (which is about four miles in circumference, and we sometimes did two or three laps). One morning Bob paid a surprise visit and of course found us there. But at least he demonstrated his goodwill and fitness by running along with us—though he only made one lap and couldn't believe we were able to do three easily!

People often took Minnie for Bob's sister, because they had similar complexions, and he always said they had the same foreheads and cheekbones. Anywhere we went together they would just pick her out and ask, is that his sister, and he'd say, “Yeah, mon.” He admitted to me that “some brethren come tell me a lot of things about you and Minnie,” but to her he said, “I know you more than that, I know you're my sister, and you a Rasta.”

Most people were scared of Bob when he got mad, because, as Minnie says, he could get very rough, very tough. I remember someone asking Minnie, “Is that your brother?” She just didn't want to say right out, “Yes, he's my brother,” because she felt that he was a big star and she was just there in the supportive group. So she said, instead, “He's my brother in Rastafari.” And he looked around and said to her, good and loud, “What the bloodclaat is this ‘brother in Rastafari'! The man ask if you's my sister, say yes or no!”

Minnie defended and comforted me, was always the friend I could tell certain things to, one of those who would say to me, “Oh don't worry …” Through her I met Angela Melhado, another runner. The three of us have been running around Jamaica for almost thirty years now. Angie and Minnie grew up on opposite sides of the same uptown road in Kingston—Minnie says Angie's wealthy parents were like her Santa Claus. Years later they remet on the track at the reservoir, and then the three of us began running together. We swim, too. To this day, we love the river; anywhere there's water on the island of Jamaica—in the bush, in the mountains—we three find it and go swimming. We go all about in this country, because we know it's beautiful and special. And we love the same things—we love to pray, we love helping people out. Angie and Minnie paint drug rehab centers and things like that.

Back then, Angie was living outside the city on her property in the mountains. Like me, she loved to grow things. The day Minnie brought her to Hope Road to meet Bob, she came with a beautiful straw hamper packed with every little thing from her garden. She had put the basket on the ground when Bob came out of the house, and in the course of the introductions she said, “Well, I brought this basket.” He looked down at it and said, “What's in it?” And Angie said, “Well, I've been growing these vegetables and I wanted you to have them.” Bob just kind of looked off at her, with his head cocked to one side. He appreciated that so much, because he was always giving to people, and people hardly ever gave
him
things. So he was a little taken aback, I think, and just stood there, with his head to the side, eyeing her, and saying, “Nice, nice. Give thanks, man.”

Whenever Minnie came on tour with us, she'd help with my clothes and stuff, but more often she helped with the food, and from that experience, in the mid-seventies she opened Minnie's Health Food Restaurant, also on Hope Road, with cuisine derived from the ideas we'd been trying to present at the Queen of Sheba. Everyone would find themselves there at lunchtime, gossiping over some of the most wonderful dishes, from food in coconut milk to rundown (coconut milk boiled down to gravy), made with all the best fresh things you can think of, because as always Minnie got up early and was first at the market. Neither of us was in this food business just for the money; we were trying to make poor people see a lifestyle, a way of living that was simple but healthy. It didn't take much, but it took the best. And that's what we did. In Jamaica we have a saying, that a person should take the sour and turn it into sweet. We took the sour and we made lemonade!

In 1975, Minnie helped me make Bob's first-ever birthday party. We put together a big spread at the Queen of Sheba. In all his life—all his thirty years!—he had never before had a birthday party. He cried a little at that party—even though there were plenty of babies to do the crying, Minnie's kids and mine, all his other children. Judy Mowatt came with her kids, some band members were there too. Bob told everyone that this was his first birthday ever. We had a great time, and in Jamaica since 1981 we continue to celebrate February 6 as Bob Marley Day.

So many of Bob's lyrics reflect our personal life, from “Nice Time” to “Chances Are” to “Stir It Up,” which he wrote when I came back from Delaware. And, of course, “No Woman No Cry.” Sometimes, on tour, if we'd had an argument before the show and he wanted to apologize, while we were performing that song he'd use the opportunity to come over to me onstage and put his arm around my shoulder, with sometimes a kiss or a whisper “I love you” in my ear.

I could go on and on about what song meant what, because basically when Bob wrote he didn't always write alone, but sometimes with Bunny or Peter or Vision or his other friends feeling a drum sound, or humming a piece. He relied on me for different kinds of advice at the end of the day. He might call to say, “Did you read what I did last night; it's on the table.” Or “How does this sound?” Or “Did I spell this right?” Or “Was that the right way to say it?” So that most of the lyrics you come across, especially in the early times, pertained to the life we shared. I don't want to make it seem as if I'm claiming them, but we did a lot of writing together. Sometimes we'd go into the Bible for verses or psalms. In the little cellar studio at Bull Bay—those were some of the times when he would really go into his soul. Bob always wanted his lyrics to give a positive message of love, peace, and unity. And he would come out the next day with “Wow, we could do this one.” And he would take it from there to the next step.

At some point during the touring years, although the fight was in there and the trouble war existed, we were getting along and had begun living as man and wife again. This was about the time we took in Karen, who was born in London and whose mother had taken her to Jamaica to live with her grandmother (the baby's great-grandmother). The mother had left and then told Bob “the baby's in Jamaica”; I guess she was trying to get Karen as close as possible, to make sure Bob provided for her. Typical Jamaican girl (and I can't exclude myself—to some extent). Mother always ends up with the baby!