In his bedroom, he spends his nights sitting, sketching, and over the years, these sketches, more refined than the first, take new life, as he leaves Jamaica to plant roots in Baltimore. He picks up a camera and never looks back, and throughout college, tells stories, one shot at a time.
Bulawayo, Zimbabwe, he sojourns for his craft, and spends many a moon, schlepping his cameras, bouldering up mountains, traversing snake-infested rivers, roughing it in the jungle of Jambezi, making a home of a mud hut, capped with thatch. The cock crow, cow bellow, and elephant trumpet make for natural radio, devoid of the buzz of city life. For the love of documentary he toils, capturing the unique spark that is a band of musicians, unhindered by their disability, and unhinged in their humor.
A year and a day passes, the red carpet rolls out. A seemingly-impenetrable wall of cameras greets him, as now it’s show time! “And the Oscar goes to...” heartbeats quicken, the crowd grows silent. In a moment, the fruit of his labor wins hearts, for a story well-told.
On the top shelf of his wine case, between the Burgundy and the Pinot, stands a sword-wielding man gilded in gold, reminding him how a little boy from the bellies of East Kingston, Jamaica made it to LA.