PAGE 1 FREEDOM 2003

Nightmare in Jamaica!

The sun blazed mercilessly over Kingston, Jamaica, in July 2003. Sweat stung my eyes as I stood before the rusted gate of the General Penitentiary Maximum Security Unit, a fortress of despair holding some of Jamaica’s most notorious criminals. The air reeked of decay, the walls pulsed with memories of violence and death, and every shadow whispered of survival against impossible odds.

A rasping voice broke the suffocating heat.
“Yo, Whiteman! When yuh touch down in England, tell dem seh mi innocent, yuh see?”

It was Dennis “Leppo” Lobban, a gaunt figure who'd sat on death Row. Convicted of three murders, including the brutal killing of reggae legend Peter Tosh, once of Bob Marley and the Wailers, Lobban’s hollow eyes held defiance and desperation. His words clung to me, sharp and haunting, a chilling reminder of the hopelessness within these walls.

My heart hammered with a single thought: Get me out of this hell.

For more than 700 days and nights, I endured this rat-infested Jamaican prison, a place where cruelty was routine and survival was never guaranteed. I saw men hacked apart in flickering cellblock light. I heard the relentless thud of fists and blades breaking bodies. I passed the feared Shower Posse gangsters who sprayed death with Uzi submachine guns, leaving victims crumpled in pools of blood. These were men who slit throats as casually as blinking, their cold stares promising no mercy.

When the Immigration Police finally arrived, their boots crunching on gravel, hope flickered but still felt fragile. I climbed into the metal prison van, the scorching seat searing my skin. As the gates groaned open, I looked back at Leppo. His silhouette was rigid, eyes burning into mine.

A faint smile tugged at my lips. I raised a hand in a fleeting wave—a final act of defiance against the nightmare I had barely survived.