When nineteen-year-old Joromi Enoch meets a mysterious woman at one of his parties in 1969 Trinidad, he doesn't expect his life to change forever. His choices ripple through decades, affecting his daughter Trisha as she navigates her own path between family legacy and personal truth.
If you enjoy:
- Rich family sagas
- Caribbean literature
- Stories about identity and belonging
- Complex parent-child relationships
- Dual timelines
- Stories exploring how immigration shapes family bonds and choices
"Every time Trisha chooses joy, every time she trusts her heart - that's me, living on."
When nineteen-year-old Joromi Enoch meets a mysterious woman at one of his parties in 1969 Trinidad, he doesn't expect his life to change forever. His choices ripple through decades, affecting his daughter Trisha as she navigates her own path between family legacy and personal truth.
If you enjoy:
- Rich family sagas
- Caribbean literature
- Stories about identity and belonging
- Complex parent-child relationships
- Dual timelines
- Stories exploring how immigration shapes family bonds and choices
"Every time Trisha chooses joy, every time she trusts her heart - that's me, living on."
I was spinning records at my usual Friday night fĂȘte, riding high on the success of my latest party series. Joromi Enoch, yuh on fire man! I thought, dancing and smiling at the scene before me. The living room of my familyâs French colonial-style house had been transformed into a makeshift dance club, with about fifty people packed between the pushed-back furniture. Sweat gleamed on dancing bodies as my latest mix of funk, soul and calypso filled the space. At nineteen, Iâd made a name for myself as the DJ who could read a crowd and who knew exactly when to drop the beat. Girls would come to watch me work the decks, and I wonât lie â I enjoyed the attention. But tonight would be different.
Tonight would change everything.
The front door swung open, letting in a blast of warm night air. It carried the sweet scent of frangipani from our front yard. Every conversation came to a jarring stop like a needle yanked off a spinning record. No armor could defend me from what happened next.
Her.
She sashayed into the fĂȘte, swinging those hips seductively, then pausing in the doorway where the yellow porch light caught her silhouette. Her massive Afro, a halo of dark, untamed power, seemed to catch and trap the dim light of the room. The ceiling fan spun lazily overhead, stirring the air thick with music and cigarette smoke but she stood perfectly still, like she owned the moment.
My mind raced to categorize her and could not find any classification that would do her justice. Even the way she held her cowrie-beaded clutch â casual but commandingâmade it clear she belonged anywhere she chose to be. A barely-there red minidress clung to her curves, skimming her shoulders, teasing the small swell of her breasts, and stopping just shy of scandal. It hugged her in a way that broke every ruleâ and made my nineteen-year-old self glad it did.
She stood in the doorway, scanning the crowded room like she was taking inventory. Her eyes moved methodically from the cluster of guys near the makeshift bar in the corner, past the couples swaying to the music in the center, to the girls perched on the arms of our old sofa. I recognized the look â she was checking the scene, deciding if this party was worth her time, as we all did back then. But there was something different about how she did itâno hesitation, no self-consciousness, only pure confidence.
Something intense ignited within me. It burned through the hidden guardrails of my mind. It hit like a rogue wave, leaving me stripped and exposed, raw in a way that was equal parts thrill and terror. My chest tightened, warmth spreading fast, and I felt like Iâd been caught without armorâ bare, vulnerable in the amber glow of the room.
I was confused because I was feeling things that were altogether newâbesides the familiar rush of raw attraction Iâd felt with other girls, there was something deeper. I wanted to explore every inch of her body, immerse myself in her thoughts, and be the only one to occupy her spirit.
What? What the hell is this?
As she completed her survey of the room, a hint of a smile touched her face. I was frozen, watching her.
The record on my turntable was ending, the bass line fading, but I couldnât move to change it.
Her eyes.
Eyes are paired sensory organs that detect light and enable vision. My brain, scrambling, latched onto Biologyâmy favorite subject. Reliable, logical, familiar. But at this moment, the clinical definition wasnât enough. Not even close.
Dark as night, smoldering with something molten beneath the surface. Her gaze seemed to glow through the haze of party lights and cigarette smoke. Lost in watching her, Iâd forgotten about the record spinning on my turntable. The music cut off abruptly â the telltale scratch of silence made every head in a party turn toward the DJ.
âEh eh! Like de man get stick!â Fitz shouted from near the bar, his laugh slashing through the silence. âDe girl got you good, boy!â
Heat rushed to my face as titters bubbled through the crowd. My hands fumbled for the next recordâJames Brownâs âSay It Loudââ and I dropped the needle with less than my usual flourish. The familiar groove filled the room, and people gradually turned back to their dancing, though I could still feel some amused glances thrown my way.
Only then did I dare to look up again.
She was moving through the crowd, navigating between dancing bodies with deliberate grace. Unlike the others whoâd returned to their revelry, her eyes hadnât left me. Each step was measured, unhurried, like she had all night to close the distance between us.
I held my cup with dregs of Fernandes Black Label Rum tighter.
My throat went dry. My pulse flipped and twisted. But I couldnât look awayâdidnât want to look awayâ as she drew closer, each step making the rest of the party fade further into background noise.
That was it.
She assessed me. Measured me. Like I was one more thing in the room, something to conquer or dismiss.
Me? I wasnât used to being scrutinized, not like this. At six-foot-one, with shoulders broad from swimming and arms toned from hauling speakers and crates of records, I was usually checked out, not sized up. My close-cropped hair set off high cheekbones Iâd inherited from my mother, and hours under the Trinidad sun had polished my skin to a rich copper tone. Girls said I was gorgeous. Theyâd whisper this to each other and then giggle like I wasnât supposed to hear.
Sure, they came to my parties for the vibe but also to watch me work the decks. Once, a girl told me I had a way of moving that made the music look visible â rolling my shoulders to the rhythm and letting the beat flow through my body as my hands worked the vinyl.
âThe way yuh close my eyes and sway when yuh know a perfect mix was coming, yuh fingers would dance across the records, and then yuh does smile before dropping the beat we waiting for⊠Lawd fadda! Is like watching brown sugar melt into the rhythm.â
Yes, I knew what I was working with and wasnât shy about it. Maybe thatâs why I carried myself the way I did. Shoulders back, chin up, like I was untouchable. Overconfident? Maybe. But it came easy when you had a mom like mine.
She treated me like her princeâtoo well, if you asked my father. âYou canât raise a man like this and and expect him to function in normal society,â heâd grumble, pacing the kitchen in his work boots. He said it all the time, shaking his head like Iâd already failed some invisible test of manhood.
My father was always on me about how I livedâtoo many girls, too little focus. âYou canât juggle women like you juggling records,â heâd say, his disappointment thick in every word. He wanted me to settle down, to find one woman I could build a future with.
âPick sense from nonsense, boy,â heâd bark. âYou need somebody whoâll stand by youânot these girls you spinning âround like they on a turntable.â
To him, my life wasnât serious enough. And love? Love wasnât stormy or passionateâit was practical. Stable. Rooted in responsibility. âStop playing games,â heâd tell me. âFind a woman you can bring home. One whoâll build with you, not just want to party through life.â
And a conventional job was what he wanted for me most of all. Something with a steady paycheck and a title that would convey craft and success. Not a DJ, not a party-thrower. Not whatever this life I was carving out for myself was supposed to be.
But right then, standing there and gripping the record jacket like it was the only thing tethering me to the ground, I wasnât thinking about him or his lectures. I wasnât thinking about a so-called regular job or a set path.
I was thinking about this woman who strutted into my world. I felt like her long examination of me peeled away all the bravado I wore like a second skin.
Then she smiled.
She really smiled this timeânot big, not flashy. The parting of her lush lips, revealing a peek of white teeth, sent electricity racing down my spine, settling low and dangerously in my body.
And then, before I could look away, she stepped onto the raised platform weâd built in the corner. The click of her heels brought her closer until she was near enough for me to catch the scent of the flowering clover perfume on her skin and see the subtle flutter of her pulse at her throat.
I was glad the turntables were between us because I realized two things then.
She was exactly my height in those heels, her eyes level with mine, making it impossible to escape her honey-dark gaze. And my body, when it came to her, had ideas of its ownâwild, reckless ideas. I released the cup and the record jacket and grabbed the edge of the turntable stand until I could feel the metal edge pressing into my palms.
Lord help me, I thought, This woman will be trouble.
I had no idea just how right I was.
* * *
Our relationship blazed through the summer of â69. She wasâŠsomething else. Having finished secondary school just a few weeks prior, she moved through life like every day was Carnival Mondayâfree and easy, no concerns about tomorrow. While her friends were all rushing to the University of the West Indies, teacherâs training or nursing school, sheâd laugh and say, âWhy everybody in such a hurry to get old?â
I admit I was similar to her in this way. It had been two years since I graduated from high school, but a steady job had eluded me. My parties were my only source of income since my father cut me off to teach me a lesson in adulthood.
We spent afternoons hunting for new records in Port of Spain, her fingers trailing over album covers while she danced between the aisles, singing whatever caught her ear. The shop owner would watch her warily as she pulled record after record, but sheâd flash that killer smile and say, âNah man, life too sweet to be so serious!â Before long, heâd be letting her play whatever she wanted.
Weâd escape to my parentsâ gallery in the evenings, listening to the transistor radio while my mother cooked inside. Sometimes, we walked âround the Savannah as the sun set, our borrowed radio keeping us company. Sheâd talk about everything and nothing.
âYuh doh fine de clouds looking like breadfruit?ââŠ
âAh feel ah go lime in England one dayâŠâ
or âMaybe ah go work in meh uncleâs rum shop.â
âBut girl, what you planning to do?â Iâd ask, my fatherâs voice echoing in my head about the importance of direction, of purpose.
Sheâd throw back her head and laugh, her massive Afro catching the dying sunlight. âDoux-doux, my plan is to be happy,â sheâd say, twirling to the radio music. âEverything go sort itself out, oui. Why yuh so worried âbout tomorrow when today sweet like sugarcane?â
Sometimes, the deep country dialect caught me off guard when she spokeâso different from my carefully cultivated Port of Spain accent and the âproperâ English my father insisted we use at home. Her âyuhâ instead of âyou,â her âdatâ instead of âthatâ revealed she wasnât from our middle-class world of French colonial houses and Catholic secondary school education. But there was something magnetic about how freely she spoke, how she let the honest sing-song lilt of Trinidad flow through her words without shame or pretense.
The first time we made love was under the stars in Carenage, on a massive blanket Iâd borrowed from home. We were both virgins, fumbling and nervous but pressing on. The waves crashed against the shore, masking our whispered discoveries of each other. Afterward, she told me stories her grandmother used to tell her about the stars, mixing up the constellations but making up better stories until I was laughing too hard to correct her.
She started coming to all my Friday night fĂȘtes after that. Iâd catch glimpses of her while I worked the decksâdancing with abandon, pulling my prim friends into her orbit until even they forgot themselves.
âCome nah! Wine down low!â sheâd call out, teaching them moves that would have their parents crossing themselves if they saw.
As usual, my fatherâs words would reverberate in my head, That one too young, too thoughtless. No kind of woman to build a life with. But Iâd watch her move, the way she made everyone around her come alive, and something in my chest would lighten.
After one particularly successful party, she didnât go home. We ended up in my bedroom, on that same blanketâfreshly washed by my motherâon the floor because the bed would have made too much noise. Her kisses tasted like rum and freedom, and I found myself wanting to lose myself in both.
But it was the third time that changed everything.
We were at her placeâa tiny one-room spot she used to escape her parentsâ rules about âproper young ladies.â It sat at the edge of her brotherâs yard, right up against a sagging wooden fence. The walls were painted a fading turquoise, peeling in places, and the room smelled of the vanilla oil she loved, mixing with the lingering scent of the fried plantains sheâd made us earlier.
A dusty, old single fan whirred lazily in the corner, fighting against the heat that pressed in through the open window. The calls of the islandâs frogs and distant calypso from a neighborâs radio drifted in with the night air. Her bed was small, pushed against the wall, covered in mismatched sheets that smelled of cocoa butter and her favorite jasmine perfumeâa graduation gift she wore too liberally.
I had to close my eyes against the sensory overload. But I couldnât keep them closedâI needed to see her, to watch the way the single bulb cast shadows across her skin, making her look like something from a dream I wasnât sure I wanted to wake from.
The intensity between us was familiar now, but something was different. Her fingers traced my back like she was writing secrets on my skin, her lips brushing my neck with a tenderness that made my heart stutter. When she whispered, âStay with me nah?â it wasnât with her usual playful toneâthere was something deeper there that made me feel wanted by her in a way I hadnât been prepared for.
I turned over to stop her from marking my body any further. My arm floated away from her, and I nestled the back of my head in the palms of my hands.
Then, when she rolled over to lay half her body on mine, the word âloveâ floated through my mind, and panic followed closely behind. My fatherâs warnings screamed on loop: Boy, you need a woman who knows where she is going in life. This one is still playing child games. Itâs time to stop making sport and get smart.
I could not speakâdared not speak.
Instead, I stared at the cracked ceiling, listening to the fanâs uneven rhythm, feeling her breath steady against my chest.
This isnât supposed to be real! She isnât supposed to matter this much.
When she finally fell asleep, I made my decision. I had to end it. She was too young and unformedâtreating life like one long fĂȘte, with no thought for tomorrow. I should get someone more⊠settled. Someone with a plan. Someone my father would approve of.
So I started pulling away, spending less time with her, using my parents as an excuse for why she could not visit me, and finding reasons to avoid meeting up with her. Worse, when I was not spinning records at the parties I threw, I would dance with other girls or hang out outside with my boys.
She didnât take it quietlyânothing about her was ever quiet. I still remember her standing up to me in my parentsâ yard, voice rising as she demanded answers.
âWHY YUH DOING DIS? You ainât nothing but ah coward, yuh hear?!â she shouted, tears streaming down her face. Yuh runninâ from meâwe have somethinâ dat actually matterâjusâ because yuh father tell yuh so? Like yuh âfraid to live!â
âGirl, I donât know what you talkinâ about. We were just having fun. You read too much into it.â
Whap!
The slap across my face stung but did not hurt as much as the truth in her words.
I watched her storm off and cut her from my life. Cold.
This is for the best. This is what a man should do.
Itâs all love at first sight for Joromi the day a beautiful girl walks right up to him. A whirlwind of fun and pleasure then ensues. Except Jiromi has some misgivings while the girl remains adventurous, throwing all the care in the wind. Fortunately for Joromi, he is able to make the right choice between a woman who is ready to settle down and a girl still engrossed in the joys of youth. In summary, Scarlet Ibis James' novel, Scarlet Birthright: What They Left Behind explores the complexities of life, the bonds of family, death, and, most importantly, it tells a touching love story.
âAt your age, I was already working two jobs. Had my place. Was planning my future.â Cecil tells his son, Joromi, a sentiment that resonates with many parents today because most young people often behave as though time will wait for them. Scarlet vividly captures this by focusing on the confrontation between Joromi and his dad. Cecil doesnât consider being a DJ anything but a total waste of time; Joromi, on the other hand, likes to make people happy, hang out with them, enjoying every moment of it.
The book also beautifully captures the theme of family. Our families face various challengesâsometimes we are happy, and other times we are not; death sometimes painfully takes our loved ones away; and sometimes those we care about live far from us. Jiromiâs parents, despite their many years of marriage, are deeply in love, supporting each other and setting an admirable example. While Joromiâs marriage to Margaret isn't always smooth, particularly when it comes to discussions about TrishaâJiromiâs daughter who is living in Trinidad with his parentsâthey manage to navigate their issues together.
Scarlet's writing style is simple yet unique, with each word reflecting the characters' pain, joy, and their drive to persevere despite obstacles. When Trisha reflects on her life, her pain is palpable, and readers find themselves empathizing with her perspective. Although Margaret's refusal to allow Trisha to live in her home may be contentious, many readers can understand her stance, as it is a position that resonates with many wives. Additionally, Maryâs affection for Trisha embodies the typical love expected from a grandmother toward her granddaughter.
Consequently, Birthright will appeal to readers who enjoy romance and stories centered around family dynamics.