The name Jah Seph is, like many terms within the jamaican patois dialect "Iyaric", a game out of letters and wordsounds. Iyaric is sometimes also referred to as Wordsound — a name derived from the Rastafari principle of "Word, Sound and Power", which several scholars have compared to West African concepts regarding a power or essence being encapsulated within the pronounced sound of a name or word.
Jah Seph, or just Seph, would think little of such things, never having to explain, why he talked the way he talked. The many foreigners he met in the West indies, were always pleasantly amused, when they heard his talk. And aslong as they expressed their amusement respectfully, he would maintain good relations to them. But he met too many who didn't, who tried to play it off, as some foolish accent, of someone who smokes too much pod to speak proper english. More resentment he would meet, if those foreigners learned about the real reason why he and his kin refused to speak the language of those who used to held his ancestors as captives. Offense they would take, for shame is a heavy burden to carry.

A strong memory that would return every now and then his mind would attend to such subjects, was the one of a young blonde from Washington. She was just a tourist, graduated from college with a Ph.D. in psychology, enjoying some jamaican sun and finding him to be the proper beach boy to flirt at. He had attended the needs of a beautiful woman, shown her jamaica, first from the side, any tourist is longing to see: The beaches, the foods, the dancehall parties, the interracial fantasies.. a full tour. And after he would start showing her, what lies beyond those pictures from the travel agencies catalogue: The ghetto's, the poverty, the sufferation, the street children, the gang turfs, break her joyous spirits for good. And only then, he would take her up into the hills, into the bush, where Jah people congregate, play the drum and smoke the chalice at a Nyabhingi Session, show her the regained culture they were preserving in the bush, from getting destroyed by the babylonian ruling system. It was then when she told him: "You know, i feel so guilty, because 'we' took away so much from you people. I grew up having everything I need, money in the bank for college, a car when i was sixteen. That just makes me uncomfortable in the presence of black people."
Back then he would only smile at her, and tell her "Struggle mek we stronga, nah no weaker." But later he when he thought about it, it puzzled him. So, the woman felt uncomfortable, because she was overpriviledged, and now expected him, the underpriviledged to make him feel better? He didn't know how to act on his feelings, so he reasoned with other Rasta's, and Ras Mercer, a Bobo'shanti Rasta he respected highly explained to him. "Iya Mon hav' fi mek effort fi erase di sins of their karmic past. Karmic sins.. All people ah dis' eart' hav' been workers of Iniquity. Yuh see when bible seh woe to the workers of Iniquity? In-Equity! Imbalance! Dem is ting from long time, from ah past journey, ah world before, and like every traveller ah student, he take 'eem past teachin's inna di next journey wid'im." The Rasta would pass the chalice to Seph, and as the swell of smoke would stir up their reasoning thoughts continue: "White mon still hav' fi learn fi humble 'eemself. He nah acceptin' dat he only living, becau' ah those 'fore dat he come, and dat di life ah tommorow is based pon how 'eem ah go live. Dem cya even accept dat we black mon is di ancestors who bring dem pon dis eart'. How dem gwan accept deh own karmic sins dem done an start fi erase dem.."

...

Now, several years later, he would face what it really meant, to live inside this overpriviledged society, as somebody who does not belong to those, supposed to benefit from it. It was a struggle of different classes and layers of people, a Rat Race in a concrete jungle, and it wasn't even so much about his colour, he felt now. It was more that in the struggle to overpower one another, everything became significant for value, class.
Just like the money system that ruled them, everyone was a paper with number, size and colour defining the value. And if you were in the way, one would use everything of that against you, especially if your colour was black. Profiling they would call it.

All these were things that caused complete misunderstandings like the one that had him locked up in a cell, downstairs the basement of the HPD...

((to be continued, only managing the intro today))