Last week Thursday I went to my neighbourhood supermarket to buy a piece of yellow yam. Ms. Liz had cooked up some mackerel run dung and there was no white flour or yellow yam in the house to go with it. I jumped in my car and headed down the hill for my yellow yam. Two weeks prior in the same supermarket I noticed that the knife was no longer in its place by the yam box. When I enquired the young attendant told me that the management decided to move the knife because people were cutting up the yams in small pieces and not buying. I was terribly disappointed because by cutting the top or the bottom of the yam I could tell if the yam was fit.  

From the moment I started to peel the yam, I could tell that something was wrong. Even though the yam appeared fit on the outside, the inside told another story. From the formations of the yam fibres and the texture I could tell that this was a poor choice on my part. Nevertheless, I continued to peel the yam and dropped it into the boiling water. To my horror the water immediately turned grey/black. I exclaimed to Ms. Liz, “How come the water turn black?” I have never seen anything like this in all my 40+ years of eating yellow yam. “Someting mus wrang wid dis yah yam.” Ms. Liz peeked over in the pot and remarked, “you nuh see seh di yam nuh fit…when it young it tun di water black.” In all my years my neva see dis. 

I decided to allow the yam to boil because I could never be so wrong. I cut off a little piece of saltfish tail and drop it in the water hoping that it would change the colour of the water. No such luck! The yellow yam simply had no starch inna it, no gumption, no substance. After all this I said to myself, ”It mus cya eat yah.” After the yam was finished boiling I used my fork and pinched off a piece to get a taste. Listen nuh, in all my life ah neva taste such a bitter yam. I had to spit it out. Ms Liz walked over again and asked to taste it. She cautiously bit off a piece from the fork and then started to smile. “Mi tell you say the yam nuh fit.”

Lap yuh frock tail and si dung becah the tory no dun yet. When my husband walked in later in the evening, I told him that the dinner nuh look so good dis evening. Before he asked why, I told him the story of the young yam. He said I should give it to the dogs because they will eat what man refuse. I said, “what? If those dogs eat that yam tonight, I will pay you and Ms Liz a hundred dollars.” My husband threw the yam to the dogs and they swallowed it down as if it was prime dog biscuits. 

My lesson to you all is that there are dogs in this society who continue to eat unfit yellow yam (our children). They do not care that the child is young; they do not care about the bitterness that accompanies the consumption of young flesh. Like dogs they will eat what real men refuse to eat. When they are done they will walk away like nothing happened and will eat the same thing again. These dogs are hungry and act on impulse and instinct. Sad to say some cannot even determine what yam is fit for consumption. They are not trained and are not accustomed to waiting until their yam is fit for consumption. 

Our children must be trained to identify these dogs in our society. They must be taught life skills from they are old enough to appreciate it. They must also be taught that even though their bodies might appear mature with full sized breasts, that they are not ready for sex. Most importantly they must be taught that there are dogs everywhere in the society; not just on the streets at night but can be found also in “safe” places like in our church yards and in our homes. Grandparents should also be involved in our family lives to teach us some of those lessons that are not written in text books.