Summer ended the way storms do—quietly at first, leaving behind a different landscape than the one it found. Life shifted in a way no one saw coming. The world was barely recovering from its own problems when something larger rolled in like a dark cloud over the whole planet.
Covid-19.
Schools shut down, streets emptied, and fear sat on every doorstep like a stray dog refusing to leave. For some people, it meant inconvenience. For others, it meant collapse. And for kids without devices, without internet, without backup plans, it felt like someone had flipped the world upside down while they were still trying to steady their feet.
That was when he moved down to his grand-aunt's house. His father wanted better for him—better schooling, better environment, better chance. So his father stayed behind in the little board house on the hill, and he moved into the concrete house down the lane. Two different worlds separated by one tired man doing his best and a boy trying to grow in the middle of chaos.
Life there had its own rhythm.
Church every Sunday—no excuses.
Football after church—unless you were him.
He loved football like how some boys loved music or girls. It was his breath, his escape, his secret language with the world. But his grand-aunt didn't allow him to go out and play. Said it was "dangerous," said it was "unnecessary," said boys must focus on school.
So he learned the art of timing.
Listening.
Moving.
He always knew the sound of his father's car before anyone else on earth heard it. The hum as it approached the bottom of the road. The climb up the final incline. The slight brake just before passing the house.
Whenever he heard that familiar sound, he sprinted.
Up to his aunt's house.
Behind a wall.
Behind a tank.
Anywhere to hide the fact he had just been playing ball like a devious little warrior.
Sometimes he heard the car too late, and he had to dive behind a wall, crouched low like a soldier dodging enemy fire. Sweat running down his forehead. Heart slamming. Dust stinging his throat as he waited for the car to roll past.
Every time he got away felt like victory.
Every time he didn't… well, consequences came.
When school resumed online, things were rough.
He only had a half-working tablet—screen cracked, battery dying fast, Internet barely holding on. But he still logged into class, still tried. Sometimes he lied to teachers when he got kicked out of the lesson.
"Miss, mi light gone."
"Miss, mi Internet drop."
He didn't enjoy online school. But something changed.
Somewhere between the frustration and the quiet loneliness of that small room, he found a drive he didn't know he had. He pushed himself, completed assignments, stayed present, and rose to the top of his class.
Grade 8 became one of his proudest years.
And then came the girls.
Gabrielle resurfaced—an old spark flickering back to life. They talked again, shared jokes, little heartbeats over the phone. But it couldn't work. Timing was wrong. Destiny wasn't aligning. So the space closed.
Then came her friend, Tori.
Slim, smooth-skinned, dark brown, pretty in that effortless way.
He liked her genuinely.
But talking with her felt like trying to hold onto smoke—nothing stayed, everything slipped away. Communication wasn't there, connection broke, and things ended on bad terms. Another chapter closed.
Life didn't pause for heartbreaks, though.
Especially not in Jamaica.
There were days when the house had nothing to eat.
Not even enough for tea.
And hunger was a different kind of pain—sharp, quiet, humiliating.
He would climb the ackee tree, picking what he could to cook dinner for himself and his cousins. On other days, he'd go to the chocolate (cacao) tree, picking fresh pods just to have something sweet to silence the emptiness in his belly.
Sometimes his father came through with food—cornmeal porridge, corned beef with mix veggies, soup, curry chicken. Curry chicken was his treasure. It tasted like the only luxury they had some weeks.
"When you broke," he always thought, "you look at food differently."
Football should have been a safe joy, but even joy demanded payment.
There was a boy they called Dannymight—a legend of the lane. His shots bent the ball into strange shapes. When he kicked, it felt like the earth shook. His strength was ridiculous, like Ronaldo back in the day.
One afternoon, they sent him into goal.
He didn't think twice.
He wanted to prove himself.
Dannymight charged in with the ball, eyes locked, foot swinging like a sledgehammer.
The impact was loud.
Ball to bone.
Bone giving way.
His right arm fractured instantly. Pain surged like fire racing up his shoulder. He screamed, cried—raw, uncontrollable tears. His father arrived furious, broke, stressed, upset that his son had gone where he wasn't supposed to.
He thought he'd learned his lesson.
He didn't.
Months later, he played again.
Another shot.
Another fall.
Another fracture.
Left arm this time.
More tears.
More anger.
More hospital visits.
More lectures about sense and responsibility.
Even washing clothes wasn't simple.
He had to carry a massive bag over the hill to his father so he could wash them. Other times, they washed by hand. Long, slow, frustrating. But doing it with his father made him feel something warm—like loyalty, like pride, like love that wasn't said out loud.
He respected his father more than his father knew.
Hunger returned often.
There were nights when he called his father, voice low, stomach aching.
"Daddy, you have anything to eat?"
"No, son… not tonight."
That answer punched deeper than any slap ever could.
So he made his own survival kit:
Water + sugar in a cup.
White bread crushed in his fist.
A poor man's dinner, but it kept him alive.
Sometimes he even made a half-net and went to the river catching crayfish.
Seasoned them.
Fried them red.
Ate them whole.
Didn't even clean out the guts.
Survival doesn't ask for manners.
Online school was chaos.
He'd fall asleep in class, roaches crawling over his skin, the bed his only desk, the house too small to hold his ambition. But he kept showing up, doing work, pushing through.
He talked to Sashelle again.
Reconnected with Bentley—his childhood friend now transformed, but still the same brother at heart.
Then came summer—and Jevaughn.
His cousin.
His brother.
Tall, muscular, dark-skinned, musician, gyalist, smooth-talking Jamaican star in the making.
They had the best times.
The kind you look back at and feel a sting behind your eyes.
One day they rode home on Jevaughn's BMX down Constitution Hill. The brakes barely worked. The speed was insane. Wind tearing at their shirts. Then a dog saw them—a pit bull—charging like a missile.
"A weh him a do? Paddle! Paddle!" he yelled.
He and Jevaughn flew down the hill laughing, screaming, adrenaline banging in their veins.
Those were the moments that made life feel full—even when the fridge was empty.
And then there were the drums.
Jamaican drums at funerals, at church, at sessions—heart pounding, soul shaking. When Jevaughn played, the place lifted.
But there were softer memories too.
Like when his father took him to town.
On the drive back, he'd slide out of the driver's seat, toss the keys, and say, "Drive."
Thirteen years old.
Fourteen years old.
Driving a seven-seater.
Illegal as hell.
Proud as ever.
When he drove to school, kids stared like he was a legend.
"Aiden a drive? Bomboclaat! You bad, youth!"
Even the girls noticed.
Especially Rhianna with the loud muffler car.
Those small wins kept him alive.
Because life wasn't easy.
But he was learning how to carry it.