In the Season 3 Finale, "Police and Thieves" Henry and Brian discover that Kingston is a city whose story always starts and ends the same way, the only thing that changes are the players... the police and thieves, the gangsters and civilians, the saints and the sinners.

Rootsland is produced by Henry K Productions Inc. in association with Voice Boxx Studios in Kingston, Jamaica.

Introduction by: Michelle "Kim" Yamaguchi

Guest Vocals by: Patrick "Curly Loxx" Gaynor, Adam "Teacha" Barnes , Steve Briskman.

music production and sound design by Henry K

additional music under license from artlist.io and beatstars.com

Episode Photo (C) Brian Jahn (@brianjahnphoto) • Instagram photos and videos

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• The Rootsland Gang: Fighting Babylon since 1991 featuring Wayne Armond, Edi Fitzroy, Luciano, and Deadly Headly Bennett
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• Various Artists - Rootsland (Original Podcast Soundtrack)
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Remember, man, let me do the talking, all right?

Don't.

Don't say, oh, you got it.

I wouldn't even know what to say, Brian.

I don't want to do any of the talking.

You trust me?

Oh, I trust you.

Just follow my.

I trust you, and I'll follow your lead, brother.

I don't want to say a word.

You handle all this.

I will keep my mouth shut.

Wow.

Is that the same man?

Yeah.

I can't believe it.

Looks great.

This must be an auto shop or repair shop.

Ghetto mechanic.

Ghetto mechanic, yeah.

What's up, Rambo?

I'm Brian, and, yeah, nice to meet you, Rambo.

I'm Henry.

Yo, the car looks good, man.

We weren't expecting all this.

Yeah, does it?

Looks great.

He already fixed the tire for us.

We fix your tire, wash your car, cleanse the engine.

The engine, and top up all of the fluid.

Fluid.

So, may I go ask you again?

It's going to be expensive.

I've seen that already.

What?

Carry for me.

The guy's right.

Just in.

Govern the World, broadcasting live and direct from the rolling red hills on the outskirts of Kingston, Jamaica, from a magical place at the intersection of words, sound, and power.

The red light is on.

Your dial is set, the frequency in tune to the Roots Land podcast stories that are music to your ears.

We entered a long, narrow yard that had scraps of metal and car parts scattered along the perimeter.

In the back, a mechanic pounding away on a dismantled car engine.

It felt like the set of Beyond Thunderdome.

Barefoot workers in torn clothing using makeshift equipment and homemade tools.

The Nevaeh was parked front and center, like it was on display in a dealership showroom.

The car was spotless, the tire repaired, wheels polished, and the hood was open so we could see.

They even cleaned the engine and wiped down our corroded battery terminals.

Rambo stood shirtless next to the van, flanked by his soldiers, proudly pointing to the nefa like he was awarding a prize on a game show.

With a wrench in one hand and a washcloth in the other for added effect, he took the rag and wiped a small smudge off the windshield.

Hey, listen, Rambo, we got the taxi guy out.

Out front here.

Let me go tell him that we're not going to need him, you know, because you guys already fixed it.

So let me go tell him that he.

He can go.

All right?

I'll be right back.

Rambo gave a nod to one of his crew, who kept an eye on Brian until Brother Nelson pulled off.

When Brian stepped back into the yard, the Soldier closed the heavy zinc fence behind him, cutting us off from the Grant's Penn street traffic and any chance of escape from Rambo's world.

We were all in.

Rambo, listen, you know we appreciate all the work you did and everything, but we just don't have the money to cover you know what you did.

May you listen to no disrespect or anything.

It looks amazing.

You get a flat tire in a bad area in the middle of the night with no spear and as we watch over it, don't take care right anywhere in the world that would cost you hundreds or thousands of dollars and you know that.

So it would be total disrespect for you show up with chum change and think you can leave here with your van like the ghetto people.

50 Last minute we were able to come up with $50.

Just wanted to show you the respect and come down here and give you something.

You know, we're just struggling musicians and you know, we're really broke broke.

And I never see a broke white man in a Jamaica yet.

Yo, Rambo, listen.

Them are rich and them get that be by fucking over black people.

We know these white Jamaicans, man.

We see how they treat poor people.

Blood on fire.

Blood and fire.

That's all you people ever brought to this island.

I know you're going to get some back.

No more talk.

Take the van and go get my blood clot money.

No.

And your friend, steal yourself with me until you come back.

Yo, Rambo, hold up man.

I, I, I can't leave my brethren here.

End of discussion.

We better let Henry go and track down the money and I'll stay behind.

No more chat.

No.

Your brethren not going anywhere.

Come on, Rambo.

You might have been.

You must be right here.

Until you get back with my money, you better move.

You're wasting time.

I stood over to the side, watched as Rambo got right into Brian's face.

He was greasy and sweaty and now gripping the wrench in a more threatening manner, recklessly waving it around while he was arguing with the veins popping out of his neck and arms.

Brian didn't flinch.

Stood his ground calm and collected.

But Rambo already made his choice and there was no backing down in front of his soldiers.

He drew a line in the sand and unfortunately I was on the wrong side.

I wasn't going anywhere until Brian came back with the money.

Which didn't make me feel too confident.

Good luck getting that much cash from anyone in our crew.

They were all just as broke as we were.

I mean, what Options did we even have?

I could just imagine Brian calling my parents, asking them to Western Union down the money.

Oh, what's that, Mrs. K?

Well actually your son zip tied to an engine block in the back of a Kingston auto body shop being held hostage until we could pay the bill.

She'd have a flippin heart attack on the spot.

Not to mention she'd have me evacuated on the next flight out of Kingston and and ban me from ever coming back.

Suddenly I was startled by the sound of a loud thud at the front gate that almost gave me a heart attack.

Everyone and everything momentarily paused while the gate slowly started to move, scraping against the gravel as it opened.

At first I thought someone was pushing it, but as it opened up wider, I could see it was a car using its front bumper to cautiously pry its way into the yard.

And as the vehicle came into view, I saw the words Kingston Police written on the door.

Someone must have heard the commotion outside the gate and called them.

The squad car pulled into the entrance and parked.

The driver remained inside, attentive behind the wheel, while the other officer exited from the passenger side.

Careful not to take his eyes off Rambo or any of his crew, Squatty reached in the car and grabbed his cap off the dashboard, firmly placed it on his head, adjusted it from side to side until the brim securely rested right above his mirrored sunglasses.

I looked over at Rambo for the first time since the police arrived.

He looked like he was staring at a ghost.

I had never seen a black man turn white.

All of the melanin just vanished from his skin.

His crew also stood there, frozen, not knowing how to react, like deer caught in the headlights.

Everything alright over here?

We heard there was a disturbance in this yard.

Yes Officer, everything's good.

You sure everything good?

Officer?

Yes, we got it all under control.

Okay.

They were just helping us out with our car.

I am not going to ask you again, you know so.

Because once we gone, you're on your own.

We're good.

The officer looked irritated, frustrated with Brian's response or lack of his disrespect by barely acknowledging the police.

Squatty took off his hat before getting back in the cruiser and gazed over at me one last time, puzzled, nodding his head as if he was signing off from any further responsibility for whatever happened to us.

From here on in, the car backed out into the Kingston traffic.

And then they were gone.

The gate was still wide open and just for a moment, I thought about bolting out into the street, ready to set a new Jamaican Sprint record.

I had no idea what Brian was thinking, but I trusted him.

I told him I'd follow his lead.

So there I stood, waiting on the next move.

Rambo and his crew were also stunned, silently processing everything that just happened.

In the confusion, Brian took a rubber band off his wrist and put his hair back in a ponytail, revealing a large joint tucked above his ear.

He leaned forward towards one of Rambo's soldiers and grabbed a box of matches out of his hand.

Everything was moving in slow motion.

Brian struck the match against the box and lit his spliff like he was in a spaghetti western alongside Clint Eastwood.

Outnumbered and outgunned, facing down a whole gang of villains, relaxed, seemingly without a care in the world, Brian took a big draw of his spliff and then exhaled a cloud of smoke that completely enveloped Rambo and his crew.

Y', all, we don't like police, man we don't trust Babylon one bit.

Bombo CL no wonder why the white man said them bro them spend all.

Their money pan ganja we only smoke the boom man smell like ready the best weed in Kingston me I tell.

You say it's strong.

Watching Rambo's reaction, seeing his demeanor instantly go from violent aggressor to light hearted joker, was when I first realized my friend Brian was no longer a student of the streets.

He had become a Zen master in what Bruce Lee called the art of fighting without fighting.

Both Brian and Rambo knew that the only thing that scares a bad man with a gun is a bad man with a gun and a badge.

If Brian would have told the police that we were being extorted, possibly kidnapped, there's nothing those cops would have enjoyed more than calling for some backup and dragging Rambo and the crew down to the station where in Jamaica they could hold someone as long as they want without pressing charges, subject them to violent interrogations and stick them in overcrowded, unsanitary cells.

When Brian turned away the police and told them we had everything under control, he wasn't only thinking about our well being, he was also thinking about Rambo.

And no one knew that better than Rambo.

So much so we spent the rest of that morning in Grant's Pen talking about music and sports and politics.

Brian freestyled a few tunes before we went back up to Armor Heights.

And in the end, Rambo let us leave with the van and wouldn't take any of our money.

He told us to come back whenever we had it all.

But the story doesn't even end there.

As always with my friend Brian, there's a side that's never been told.

And if I hadn't run into Brother Nelson a few months later in Halfway Tree, then I would have never found out.

Yes, Brother Henry.

Nice to see you again.

Long time.

Hey, what's going on?

Brother Nelson?

Everything all right?

Looks good.

I guess the police were able to help you get it back.

Oh, yeah.

Oh, thank God.

That was.

That was crazy.

What do you mean the police?

You.

You told the police to come, not me.

It was Brian's idea.

What do you mean, Brian?

Brian told you the sending when he.

Came out to tell me that the time you went out there.

That makes no sense.

He told me to rush over to Grand Spend police station and send the car over immediately because there may be trouble.

I saw the squad car leave out right away, same time.

You see, what I was to learn, it wasn't a kind bystander that called the police that day.

It was Brian.

That's why he never turned around when the gate opened.

That's why he didn't have to see the police to know it was them.

He had Brother Nelson have the police rush over, knowing he was going to turn them away and refuse their help when they arrived.

No wonder the cops look so pissed off.

Imagine the forethought and street sense to formulate a plan like that on the spot and execute it without even me knowing.

The enemy of my enemy is my friend.

And by Brian demonizing the police, Rambo no longer viewed him as an adversary, but an ally.

Brian was aware there was no better common enemy he could have chosen, and that was evident by Rambo's reaction when he first saw the cruiser roll in.

In fact, an Amnesty International report on police abuse in Jamaica from the early 90s specifically mentions grants Penn as one of the areas in Kingston that suffered under the worst police abuse, killings and harassment.

The residents of Grants Penn, including women and children, had been so traumatized by systematic police brutality that a majority of them suffered from PTSD as a result.

This was a community that feared the police more than the criminals.

Police and thieves out in the street.

Oh, well,.

You know, after that morning, we could drive through Grant's Pen with impunity, no matter what time of day or night, under the protection of Rambo and company.

And sometimes, if we had a little extra money in our pocket, we'd stop, chill out in the belly of the beast, buy the crew some beers and weed as a tribute to our local don.

Eventually, Rambo and his soldiers, like all gangsters, would disappear.

They'd be replaced by a new set of bad men.

That knew nothing about me or Brian or the Neva.

Over time, my entire Armor Heights crew would head back up to the States, even Brian, leaving me alone in Kingston, a city whose story always starts and ends the same way.

The only thing that changes are the players, the police and thieves, the gangsters and civilians, the saints and the sinners.

And sooner or later, they'll all collide at the intersection of words, sound, and power at a magical place called Roots Land.

Well, I nicely give thanks, you know, for tuning into Roots Land and staying with the story.

You know, stay tuned for season four, you know, come in October.

Remember to, like, share and subscribe.

And please support our show by downloading the Roots Land original soundtrack, available on Amazon, itunes or wherever you purchase music.

So join the Roots gang and Roots Land.

Yes, Rasta.

Henry k productions.