Four.
My husband has work in Barbados, so four of us are in Jamaica. One me and our three daughters.
Seven.
“Sandbags, I need sandbags!” On Friday morning, after a restless night of worry and very little sleep, I jumped out of bed with a mission. I had already gathered drinking water and filled buckets and drums with clean water to get us through the storm and its immediate aftermath. Now I needed to find sandbags to dam the two rear entry points to our one-story home where I live with my family in an uncommonly green, tree-lined area of Kingston 7. Our home does not usually flood, but by all news accounts, this would not be a usual storm.
Hurricane Melissa has been referred to as a “generational storm,” a term that feels aptly cultural to Jamaica where parents, grandparents, and great grands all have survival stories to tell (and Jah know it feels oddly personal to me – but, more on that later).
As Melissa moved from Africa to the Caribbean, slowly intensifying from tropical storm to hurricane, on social media newscasters provided words and images of worst-case scenarios for the island – my birthplace, my homeland – of Jamaica. At first they spoke in rainfall inches, then in feet. They spoke of the Windward Passage, then Morant Point, then settled on densely populated and highly concretized Kingston. “Worse than Gilbert,” they warned and I panicked. So, “Sandbags,” I told myself, “Get sandbags.”
Six.
I said before that “generational storm” felt both culturally and personally familiar and Gilbert is why. Like many Jamaicans, I know all too-well of that storm. Thirty-seven years ago, Hurricane Gilbert made landfall near Kingston. It upended the entire island in every way possible, from hundreds of lives lost to billions of dollars in infrastructure collapse. I was six then. It was my birthday and when Gilbert blustered in, it took the roof off of our family home, scattered my family in different directions, and drowned me in a deep and abiding respect for storms and their potential to undo. I carried these old memories with me into the hardware store as I prepared for Melissa.
Six.
As I walked the aisle, I spotted batteries and grabbed four 4-packs of AAs, two 2-packs of DDs, and when I saw candles, I stacked six 6-count boxes of the long-burning ones into my trolley. While waiting in the short queue to pay, I heard my fellow shoppers – my fellow Kingstonians – laughing as they collected ropes, matches, and kerosene lamps. I could see the generations from old to young, trading their own Gilbert survival stories while dismissing Melissa’s might. I cashed my goods then walked to the store’s outside annex to collect six bags of sand.
“You ready for the storm?” I asked the man who was loading the bags into my trunk with ease. “Melissa nah go come. Jamaica nah go get more than a likkle breeze,” he said with a smile while his coworker added, “Melissa too fickle.” We take bad ting mek joke here, we have done so for generations. This storm would be no different. I laughed weakly, but winced inside knowing that misogyny in Jamaica even trickles down to how we speak of storms.
Eighty.
I tried to laugh more heartily while placing the six sandbags I collected from the hardware store, but with eighty pounds of granite in each bag, it was nearly impossible. My daughters and I stuffed newspaper into door frames. With my husband on the phone and my father and brother on the ground checking in regularly, we assessed what objects the hurricane could make into kites and missiles. My daughters and I took down awnings, sun sails, and string lights. Dripping with sweat in the still, humid heat, the girls and I carried outdoor furniture inside. Preparations for the body were already done: water and nonperishable goods stocked. And with preparations for the house now as complete as they could be, waiting through the “what-ifs” was the last remaining obstacle before landfall.
Five.
Alongside Melissa, there was a Category Five media storm swirling. As the hurricane moved closer they said, “Worse than Maria.” As Melissa crawled closer they said, “Worse than Katrina.” As Melissa passed Hispaniola, “Worse than Beryl” and “Worse than Gilbert” grew to “Immense storm surge on the southeast coast of Jamaica” and “Catastrophic wind and rain across Jamaica” and “Downed power lines across the capital city” and “Communications could be down indefinitely.” As Hurricane Melissa’s eye moved west of Kingston, the wind gusts and flooding potential island-wide remained dangerously high. “Seek shelter now” they said, and I am grateful that we did. After locking down the outside, we packed up and decamped to a hotel in Kingston’s corporate area on Saturday afternoon.
Since Saturday, October 25 we have been here alongside fellow Jamaicans, fellow Caribbean nationals, a dozen or so Jamaica College alumni, non profit disaster relief representatives from GEM, and weather correspondents and television crews from ABC, Fox, and across the world. We are all here for shelter, but for my family, we left home to take this bad thing and make it feel safer and lighter. We are here because hurricane memories are heavier than sandbags.
Two.
After slowing down to two miles per hour, weather forecasters revised their landfall projections. Melissa would enter at Clarendon, clearing right through central Jamaica. But both the planet and the Caribbean Sea are warmer than they have been, than they should be. Wind shear shifted, high pressure systems moved, and Melissa strengthened and glided west. Landfall now projected at St. Elizabeth.
One hundred twenty.
There are nearly one hundred twenty rivers in Jamaica, the land of wood and water. And all of Jamaica’s rivers swelled with the arrival of Hurricane Melissa. Many reclaimed their banks by forcing landslides and crushing roads. Many reclaimed their beds by taking back the cinder block silt used to build homes and shops.
Fifty three.
Black River is one of the one hundred twenty rivers of Jamaica. It winds through the parish of St. Elizabeth, running for more than 53 kilometers or 33 miles. This river begins in the Cockpit Country’s underground and swells as it moves south, gathering volume and speed from five named rivers and several smaller tributaries. Nearer to the coast, more than 4,000 people live in this city that bears the water’s name and in the wake of the storm, Black River has become undone.
Two hundred ninety five.
Arriving on October 28, later and farther west than predicted, Hurricane Melissa’s berth was wider than this island and its winds broke records at 295 kilometers per hour.
Twenty three.
As I write this, a dear friend cannot yet account for twenty three family members in Trelawny.
Ten.
As I amend this, it has been ten hours since electricity has been restored to my community.
Twenty three.
As I amend this, my dear friend has heard from all twenty three of his family members in Trelawny.
One.
As I write this, I have not yet heard from one of my uncles who lives above Frankfield in Clarendon.
Twenty eight.
The death toll is now at twenty eight, but the number of lives lost may increase.
Unknown.
I do not know how long international reports will headline the heart wrenching stories of loss and devastation. Will they still be here when farmers from Westmoreland, St. Elizabeth, Clarendon, Manchester, St. Ann, St. James, Hanover, St. Mary, and Trelawny are protesting and demanding that the Ministry of Agriculture, Fisheries and Mining offer some compensation for profit losses from the storm?
Five hundred thousand.
There were more than 500,000 power outages caused by Hurricane Melissa. My community was without electricity for six days. Some in Kingston are still without power, while others in Kingston never lost light at all.
Unknown.
I do not know the number, but if we asked students, teachers, principals, patients, nurses, and doctors, I am sure they know how many of Jamaica’s schools and hospitals had leaking roofs before Hurricane Melissa.
Unknown.
I cringe at the sound of this word “resilient.” I read in the news that Jamaicans are a “resilient” people and will get through this, but how much more “resilience” can we muster? If we ask residents in rural communities across these fourteen parishes if they had clean piped water, smooth roads, easy access to healthcare, and reliable internet before Hurricane Melissa, how many would be able to answer in the affirmative? When you consider the load, it seems resilience is heavier than all the bags of sand.
Unknown.
The estimates and projections of storm surge were stated and printed on all media platforms. Now, in the aftermath, I want to know how much rain actually fell. I want to know how much rain water soaked into mattresses and teddy bears in bedrooms all across the country. Can anyone tell me how much river water mixed with sea water mixed with sand, mud, silt, petrol slick, pesticide runoff, motor oil, farm animal waste, human waste, sewage, and decomposing matter only to burst through people’s doors during the storm? Can anyone tell me how much of this filthy mix has now broken through the weakened skin barriers of storm survivors in the isolated, un-helped parts of western Jamaica?
Unknown.
I wonder how many of us in Kingston feel uncomfortable returning to “business as usual” in the capital while plane-loads of tourists are entering Norman Manley airport. How awkward do they feel arriving alongside aid workers and chartered shipments of supplies?
Six.
As I write this, it’s been six days since my community lost electricity, which means that darkness came two days before landfall.
One.
The news reporters have been packing their bags every morning to journey west. Every evening they return looking damp and bereaved. I see a cameraman leaning against a wall near the conference rooms. He’s massaging his temples and I ask him if he is alright. He shakes his head no and tells me, “It’s just horrible there. It looks like a warzone.” A loud commotion draws my attention to the lobby and I see a van’s worth of tourists checking in. This place is no longer a shelter.
In the morning my daughters and I will leave the hotel, exactly one week after we checked in.
Six.
I should have known that those six sandbags would be the lightest weight to carry.
Fifty One.
My father was born at Victoria Jubilee during Hurricane Charlie in 1951. A generation later we all endured Hurricane Gilbert. My family has been roofless before. We have been uprooted and categorically displaced before. But this storm feels so different. Was it the louder warnings, warmer waters, or wilder winds? In the aftermath, as we wonder how long before all storm victims are re-sheltered, I wonder how many climate-crisis-fueled storms will the youngest generation of Jamaicans have to endure in their lifetime.
Four.
I am humbly grateful that after this hurricane I still have a roof over my head. I am humbly grateful that we were able to return to a dry and intact home. And I am equally humble and grateful for the one rotting piece of pumpkin found in our refrigerator.
Soggy in a plastic produce bag, I carried the orange squish from the warm fridge to the backyard where the soil is usually dry and tough. As I made my way through the rain-tall grass behind my home, I looked back and saw the six sandbags still blocking the rear doors. I exhaled a breath I did not realize I was holding. Maybe it is an act of solidarity, maybe it is the inaction of fear, but I know I am not yet ready to move the sandbags.
As I continued making my way through the back yard, I looked around and saw that the four gungu pea seedlings that I planted in the earth in March were still bowed in deference to the storm’s winds. I set the pumpkin down, helped the gungu pea plants up and made them splints from fallen ackee tree limbs. And imagine my delight when I noticed that one of the plants had flowered during the storm.
I picked up the small shovel that I kept near the ackee tree and started to dig a hole near the gungu plot. Bees joined me as I worked, loudly buzzing and pollinating everything.
The blade entered the ground with ease, and once I turned over a narrow three-foot patch, I scattered the pumpkin’s seeds with a hope that all good things will be multiplied.
One million.
A million thank yous to everyone who has cared enough to check in, call, and donate. And a million prayers up for all those in need. May goodness and mercy be delivered swiftly.
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PLEASE SUPPORT JAMAICA. Not just now, but for the long haul. Consider a monthly donation as the needs are plenty. This level of devastation is widespread and will likely take a while. So again, the support for Jamaica now and over the next several months will be critical. And if you are in Jamaica and want to help, consider donating money and supplies to local organizations with the right resources (trucks, power tools, etc) to get aid safely to those in need.
Below is a list of some organizations that are doing the work right now:
Global Empowerment Mission is offering support across Jamaica
Breds Foundation is supporting Treasure Beach, St. Elizabeth
The American Friends of Jamaica is offering support across Jamaica
Food for the Poor is offering support across Jamaica
Jamaicans Abroad Helping Jamaicans at Home Foundation is offering support across Jamaica
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With the support of a Caribbean Culture Fund grant this year, I have been recording and archiving the sounds of water across Jamaica’s diverse natural environment. I am grateful to have collected the following field recording for Listen Jamaica in Kingston during the 5 pm hour on Tuesday, October 28, 2025. By this time, Hurricane Melissa had crossed from the southwest to the north coast of the island, leaving nothing but a howling wind and raw desolation in its wake.
"write pon di riddim" 