Doodo is dead

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My friend Doodo is dead, I used to see her almost every day, when she went with the cuttler on her way to her piece of land where she cultivated vegetables and fruits. Her house is miraculous hanging on a hillside in Marigot, Dominica, saved last autumn from the rage of a hurricane. She used to visit me almost every day, taking a seat at the bench at the door for a half-an-hour chat, sometimes for sharing lunch with me, having a cigarette. On her back she had a tattoo In Jah I trust.

This is what I always will remember: her excellent sence of humour, her friendly smile and her devoted friendship.

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In Jah we trust.



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