Amidst the rolling Red Hills of Kingston, Rootsland returns with its most powerful story yet. In this season finale, "30 minutes to Zion" Henry K bridges the streets of Spanish Town and the blocks of Harlem, confronting corporate greed, broken dreams, and the brutal realities facing inner-city youth.

Drawing on his own journey through reggae’s trenches and the lessons of Geoffrey Canada’s Harlem Children’s Zone, Henry reveals the staggering difference that just thirty minutes of reading a day can make—the fragile line between stagnation and success. With raw reflections on legends who never got their due and a young mother who realized her only escape was through her child, the episode becomes both confession and call to action.

30 Minutes to Zion is more than a story about reggae or Harlem—it’s about sacrifice, legacy, and the urgency of giving the next generation tools to climb higher. From Kingston to South Florida, the torch is passed, thirty minutes at a time.

Support the Rootsland Team https://rootsland.captivate.fm/support

Produced by Henry K in association with Voice Boxx Studios Kingston, Jamaica

Intro Features Kim Yamaguchi

Closing Theme: Righteous People performed by Wayne Armond

photo Brian Jahn

ROOTSLAND NATION Reggae Music, Podcast & Merchandise

Because righteousness 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.

Nearly five years ago, when episode one dropped, the world felt like a very different place.

We were locked in a global pandemic, a vaccine barely finding its way into arms.

The social justice movement ignited the streets after George Floyd's murder.

Podcast charts were dominated by audio storytelling shows, artificial intelligence.

Back then, just a flicker on the horizon seemed a lifetime away from touching our lives, our art, our music.

When I first brought Roots Land to Consequence of Sound, a grassroots music site turned a global entertainment platform, they thought my show was a perfect fit.

Authentic, well produced, centered on music, shining a light on injustice.

Their executives understood that Roots Land's stories of reggae pioneers cheated by labels, silenced by systems, with the same stories now flooding headlines about inequality and a rigged world.

And according to the website's founders, our show aligned perfectly with the message they wanted to reflect.

But big offers from big media soon started pouring into that little mom and pop site with promises too tempting to turn down.

And like that secluded paradise that soon becomes overrun with gaudy tourists and and golden arches, Consequence of Sound shifted from a beloved digital refuge into a glossy aggregator chasing clicks and ads.

I should have seen the writing on the wall when a high priced marketing guru pitched me on a sponsorship deal with one of their clients, Red Bull.

Like many companies during the peak of this social justice reckoning, they had set aside budgets, diversity projects, programs designed to support underrepresented voices.

Roots Land, with its focus on reggae's forefathers and their stories of exploitation, seemed like a perfect fit.

They even pointed to a recent Red Bull project, a pop up exhibit celebrating Jamaican dancehall and fashion of the 80s and 90s as proof the brand was in this lane.

But there was just one problem, as it was explained to me.

I was white.

But the fix, I was told, was simple.

Replace me with a black host.

I began explaining to him that even if we did have a host change, the story didn't.

It was still going to be about two white guys moving to Jamaica and our experiences navigating the music business.

And then I asked that fatal question have you actually even listened to the show?

After an uncomfortable silence and clumsy redirect, I deduced the answer was no.

To him, Roots Land wasn't a story.

It was a product to be packaged, stamped and sold, a metaphor for how the corporate system so often views us, me and you, not as individuals, but as data points on a spreadsheet.

Needless to say, my partnership with Consequence didn't last.

By the end of that first season, I walked away and went independent, just like I had in the music business decades before.

Five years on, so much has shifted.

Pandemics ebb, technology mutates, headlines come and go, but some things stay as stubborn as Babylon's walls, corporate greed, consolidation in the digital landscape, the way ordinary people are trampled by the system.

No, those constants haven't gone anywhere.

But lucky for me, neither have the lessons I learned from witnessing all those broken dreams that line the streets of Kingston.

Welcome once again to our viewers on.

TBJ International in the Cayman Islands and.

Online@Onespotmedia.Com up first this evening, a 48.

Hour curfew is now in effect in sections of Spanish Town, St. Catherine.

Amoy Harriet begins our coverage of the mayhem linked to the incident.

Police and military swarmed the usually busy streets of Spanish Town in St. Catherine Thursday morning.

To prevent more situations, situations like this, it's believed thugs firebombed this business place on Yonge Street.

They also erected roadblocks, another sign that things were heating up following the fatal shooting of alleged leader of the One.

Oliver Bubba Smith, head of the One Order Gang, was gunned down on Festival Road, sending tremors through Spanish Town, where an ongoing gang war had been tearing apart the community.

A year later, Donovan Bowlby Bennett, leader of the rival Klansmen, was killed in a shootout with police.

The murder destabilized the Klansmen and opened the door for Bowlby's calculating right hand man, Tesha Miller, to step into the void.

Operating with impunity for years, Miller and his brutal thugs held Spanish Town hostage.

Anyone who resisted met the same fate as Douglas Chambers, chairman of Jamaica's Urban Transit Company, who is brazenly gunned down outside his office in daylight for refusing to pay the gang's extortion demands.

During this time, I was living back in Kingston, producing and working with the dancehall duo Twin of Twins at my Red Hill studio.

The group toured Africa, Europe, the U.S. the Caribbean.

You see, when a don like Tesha Miller calls, you show up.

Around 1am on a boiling Kingston night, we ventured deep into Clansmen territory.

Not wanting to drive too far into Spanish Town's maze of alleyways and lanes.

We parked on the main road in case a quick exit was needed.

As was often the case with ghetto street dances, we were met by about a dozen of the Don soldiers, most of them teenagers in cut off jeans and tank tops, barefoot kids with rifles slung over their shoulders or pistols dangling casually at their sides.

Thrilled that the twins had come to their corner of the garrison, they proudly escorted us through the back alleys until we reached the heart of the scheme, where a makeshift stage stood.

We were told Teschemiller was off the island, but one of his lieutenants brought us to a yard of a small house overlooking the crowd.

He handed us a bucket of crushed ice filled with bottles of Red Stripe and Smirnoff Ice.

Already standing close by was legendary dancehall DJ Ninjaman, wobbly on his feet, waving around a half empty champagne bottle in one hand and a loaded handgun in the other.

Before the night was through, both would be empty.

Yo, twins of twins and a real bad man this was gonna be.

We didn't leave Spanish Town till sunrise.

Some of those same kids who greeted us at the car walked us back to make sure we got out safely.

In the morning light, without their weapons, they looked like what they really were.

Tired, crusty eyed little boys who should have been home watching cartoons or playing with Legos, not running errands for Adan with dreams of becoming top Shottas or rude boy assassins.

Yet those were the options laid before them.

As we drove back to Red Hills, the Kingston sky began to glow.

I thought about my own childhood.

At their age, I still believed I could play third base for the Mets.

And my Saturdays were spent riding my bicycle to Cedarhurst to grab a slice of Mother Kelly's pizza.

Worlds apart, universes apart, the twins were still buzzing.

Lit from their performance.

They had set Spanish Town on fire with their unique blend of music, comedy and social commentary.

For one night, laughter lifted the ghetto out of the darkness of its turf wars.

Even members of the rival One Order gang had crossed enemy lines just to enjoy the show.

Yo ytes.

Oh, you like the show tonight?

Yeah, the show was great.

Spanish Town was lit, right?

We took Sid tonight at Spanish Town.

You did a great job seeing.

But that area scene.

Wow.

And what about those kids?

The weapons?

Sure, Naga lie sad, right?

Those yout have it rough.

Whenever I see them, I Just can't help think about Zion.

Giant All Stars.

Curly Locks, always the reflective twin, carried the weight of losing his seven year old son, Zion a few years earlier.

And seeing those ghetto youth trapped in impossible circumstances, he couldn't help but see Zion in every single one of them.

When our conversation turned to the obstacles and opportunities facing these kids, I realized this was the perfect time to share something I had recently discovered.

Since I spent so much time traveling, I would Download episodes of NPR's this American Life onto my ipod.

Yes, younger Roots Land listeners, you heard me right.

Ipod, not iPad.

Look it up.

Anyway, there was one episode that really touched me, maybe the reason I became so passionate about podcasting in the first place.

It was titled Going Big.

And that episode showed me the true power of storytelling.

How through this medium, you can touch people in ways that no other art form can.

And as I like to say, sometimes the story is the best song.

At the heart of that story was a man named Jeffrey Canada and his organization, the Harlem Children's Zone.

Canada, who was a successful entrepreneur, grew up poor and made it out of the slums.

Then he raised his child in the suburbs.

That's when he noticed a gap.

Suburban kids drowning in words and books, while up in Harlem, in the inner city, there was silence.

He asked and researched what made the difference.

The answer was staggering.

Just 30 minutes a day of reading.

That was all.

In more affluent neighborhoods, parents carved out that time.

And that small act made all the difference.

The more you introduce language to them, the more they grab it.

Every word is a seed, every bedtime story a building block.

More than any other act, this simple ritual decided success or failure, upward mobility or stagnation.

And the brutal truth is, you have to start early.

The first few years of life decide everything.

By the time a child reaches school, their fate is already written.

Here's Jeffrey Canada.

If you can tell a parent, no, no, you are getting that child ready right now.

And this kid is actually going to have.

I know you don't have anything.

I don't have any money.

I know you're worried about where the rent's going to come from.

I know you're worried about you're going to be able to provide for your child.

Can you keep a roof over their head?

But read to that child tonight.

Just read to this child today.

Just allow them an opportunity.

You're doing as much for your child as that person in that nice big house that you're Envying is doing for their child.

As parents, you're exactly the same.

But the harder truth, as they discovered, was sacrifice.

Canada and his team approached these young parents directly, went up to Harlem, handed out flyers, waited outside daycare centers explaining the importance of reading and nurturing to their children.

They had to look these young mothers in the eyes and tell them statistically, they were not getting out of the ghetto on their own.

But they did have one chance, their children.

And that meant letting go of their own dreams to pour everything into the next generation, Give their children the tools they need to compete with the more affluent kids, allowing them to climb the ladder.

That was the only way out.

It's hard when you're just 19 or 20 to accept the idea that you're not the one who's going to make it out of poverty, that instead, your job is to make sure your kid makes it out.

Tyisha, especially, really struggles with that idea.

Her cosby show dreams seemed so close.

Just a couple of years ago, I.

Felt like I'm a statistic because I had a son.

I had him at nine.

I was pregnant at 19.

My mother was a young mother, was pregnant at 15.

And I feel like every time I hold back another semester of college, it's like I'm never going to make it there.

I was supposed to be the one to break that cycle.

I was supposed to be the one to do it right.

When she realized she couldn't, she planted that dream in her son.

That's love as resistance.

That's love as revolution.

Her voice haunted me because I understood that disappointment.

I too, realized, like that young mother, that I had failed in my quest.

I was supposed to change the world.

I should have helped Bob, Andy and deadly headley secure their rightful credits and publishing.

If I had been a better friend, a better producer, a better businessman, maybe Eddie Fitzroy or Brian from Colorado would still be here, still be singing.

I know all too well what it feels like when reality doesn't align with the dream.

But the story of the Harlem children's zone has a Hollywood ending.

Outreach workers spent months roaming those blocks, knocking on doors, passing out flyers, even stopping mothers pushing strollers on the subway, urging them to give up nine Saturdays for baby college.

And those who did became the proof.

Their children who once faced impossible odds were now reading above grade level Math scores soaring past the New York city average.

By third grade, more than 95% of them were on track, Numbers no one believed possible in central Harlem.

And graduation rates began to climb higher than anyone dared to hope.

As Geoffrey Canada Put it plain.

I mean, I am always surprised by how easy it is.

It is not like, you know, decoding the human genome.

You actually don't need, like, eight supercomputers to do this.

It takes people to really focus and concentrate.

And I am always stunned.

Well, how is it no one knows this?

The reason it seems so incredibly difficult is that so few people have actually learned how to do it.

That lesson lit a fire in me, because whether in Harlem or Kingston, Spanish Town or South Florida, we may not all make it out of our ghettos, whether physical or metaphorical.

But we can pass the torch and we can hand over our dreams like a book at bedtime, 30 minutes at a time, and give the next generation a chance to climb higher than we ever could.

I didn't read that much when I was younger.

You know, I watched a lot of tv, and we don't really let him watch TV like that.

Maybe he watched Noggin when he get home, so it's time for him to go to bed.

But if we read to him, he gonna start reading by himself.

Like, just some little things like that, you know, just.

Just get him adjusted so he could be better off, you know?

I want.

I want to break the cycle, and I want to start our own, you know, and so he'd know that when he have his own kids, that, oh, my parents was there for me, so I'm gonna be there for my kids and so forth and so forth.

So it's basically, basically starting our own generation.

Now.

This episode may be the end of the season, the end of a chapter, the end of this incarnation of the show.

Yet it's still just the beginning of a larger story.

As this version comes to a close, another takes root as I'm preparing to build a new studio in the rolling red hills on the outskirts of Kingston.

Right now, it's just a patch of land with a weathered shed stuffed with tools and building supplies.

But the view, my gosh, from that ridge, you can sweep your eyes across 180 degrees of Kingston out to the Caribbean Sea.

Every square mile of my beloved city.

Uptown towers and ghetto lanes, the corners where I shed blood, sweat and tears.

From that perch, the city unfolds like a living map.

I can trace the house where Brian I rented in Armor Heights, the new Kingston hangouts where we chilled with Tex, the beach where I fell in love with Sia, the hospital where our daughter was born, the lanes where my Neva broke down, and the studios where beautiful music was made.

Each landmark of verse, each memory a chorus stitched together in one sweeping panorama of my past, my present, my Roots Land.

Now, I'm not sure how long it will take, but I promise you this.

From that hilltop fortress high above Kingston, new stories will be written.

New songs will be sung.

It is time to start from scratch, teaching a new generation of Jamaican youth about the global power of reggae music, its international demand, and the careers that can blossom from the art form.

A music that lifted entire generations of singers and musicians out of poverty in the 60s and 70s must be reintroduced to the inner cities of Kingston as empowerment.

Like the Harlem Children's Zone.

We need to start early, set up a Reggae Baby college.

You know, when you dig deep into one of the greatest stories ever, the Bible, we learn that the Lord made the prophet Moses and the Hebrew people wander the desert for 40 years before leading them to their promised land of Zion.

Religious scholars say the reason was so that the slave mentality could be erased from their souls.

A people born into bondage are not the same as those born into freedom.

And over those 40 years of wandering in the desert, a new generation arose that only knew the taste of liberty.

I fear that the Jamaican music industry still carries that slave mentality, bound to corporate greed, chained to money and power.

It's time to let that generation fade into the wilderness.

Make way for the new Roots, a wave of ghetto superstars fully emancipated from the mental slavery that held back their parents 3,500 years ago.

It took 40 years for God's people to reach the promised land.

Yet today, with sacrifice, determination, and the will to want to change a child's Future, it's only 30 minutes to Zion, a promise not of wandering, but of awakening.

And before I go, a heartfelt thank you to everyone who supported Roots Land over the years, whether through your letters, comments, or messages.

And I rarely mention it, but there is a link in the description that allows you to donate to the show.

And thank you to the angels that have given without even being asked.

Early on, we made the decision to stay commercial free, not only to protect the integrity of the show, but so you can enjoy this journey with me.

Be transported for a few precious moments without the intrusion of ads for job recruiters or mental health apps.

If you've enjoyed the show connected to these stories, know that every dollar you give.

Go straight back into production and now into literally building a new home for Roots Land.

Higher up in the hills, but still firmly planted at the intersection of words, sound, and power.

The Roots Land podcast.

Stories that are music to your ears.

Maybe we were a little naive, but we thought we can change the world through our music.

Brian was an aspiring singer living in New Hope, Pennsylvania, with a sweet, soulful voice and a revolutionary spirit.

I was a young songwriter from Long Island, New York, and when I met Brian, I realized I found my voice.

We rented a large house in the hills overlooking Kingston in an area called Armor Heights.

Our place became an artistic sanctuary where an eclectic mix of singers, musicians and artists from all over the world would mingle with reggae stars, an upcoming Jamaican talent.

Tucked away in the hills of this lush uptown neighborhood, it was easy to forget that the flickering lights in the distance Were coming from some of the most violent ghettos in the world.

Ironically, it was in these same ghettos where Brian felt most comfortable.

Right at home with the ragamuffins, rude boys and disenfranchised street youth of Kingston.

This golden haired, golden voice singer from America gave them something they rarely experienced in their young lives.

Respect and recognition.

But Brian and I learned quickly that broken dreams line the streets of Kingston.

I fell in love and stayed in Jamaica, started an independent record label.

And as for my friend Brian, the one who inspired my journey taught me so many lessons about life and music.

In the great reggae anthem, Get Up, Stand up, the Wailers sing not all that glitters is gold Half the story has never been told.

Brian always dreamed that he could make the world a better place through reggae music.

Maybe by me telling his story, he still can.

When I tell you that times are getting critical I don't want you to worry no, I never want you to fret There is nothing going on that's s and difficult Only a few old parasites who want to run things to a wreck but if you think Jaja is sleeping Then you bit up in TW he would have never make no devil mash them paradise when there's a whole barrage of righteous people out there and we ain't giving up no way yes, there's a whole barrage of righteousness Just people in town and we ain't going down no, we never going down no way, no, no way Hear what I said Cause you know we're ready When I tell you that times are getting serious it's just because I want to put my people on alert There are just a few old parasites Ain't infurious and I don't want to see the little children getting hurt.

But if you think Jaja is sleeping bed, you better think twice.

Cause he would have never let them devil mush them.

Paradise when there's a whole barrage of righteous human out there and they ain't giving up no way yes, there's a overrage of righteous people in town.

And.

We ain't going down, no, we're never going down no way, no, no way.

There's a whole barrage of righteous people and we're gonna bite down the evil oh no, we ain't gonna make them because we never giving in no way.

Produced by Henry K.