🎶 SAY YA TO JAH — A New Wave of Musical Prose with Reggae Soul 🎤📖

artwork specially provided by NS

Hello Steemit family!

I’m really excited to share with you “SAY YA TO JAH” — a story that lives and breathes reggae, rhythm, and rebellion. This isn’t just a short story. It’s musical prose, where every word pulses like a bassline and every sentence grooves like a skank guitar riff.

What is Musical Prose?
Imagine reading a story that sounds like music — the beat of the streets, the heart of Kingston, the soul of reggae legends. Where rhythm isn’t just in the background but drives the narrative. Words echo the vibrations of dub, ska, and roots reggae, mixing poetry and pulse, creating a flow that’s alive.

In this chapter, you’ll meet Sтаn — a white musician from Europe — diving deep into the world of Jamaican dub. He meets Coxi Dja, a veteran sound master, and together with Nina, a bridge between worlds, they transform a Bulgarian poem into a burning reggae anthem. The scene? A hot afternoon in Kingston, surrounded by dust, smoke, and the sound of a Fender guitar melting into a deep bass groove.

Why This Story?
Because music is a universal language — and reggae is freedom’s heartbeat. This book explores that power: freedom to create, freedom to resist, freedom to say YES when everyone says NO. It’s about crossing borders, breaking stereotypes, and bringing cultures together through sound and soul.

The Soundtrack Idea
But here’s the twist — this novel isn’t just words. It comes with an authentic reggae soundtrack crafted to echo the story’s spirit. Imagine reading the scenes while hearing the very tracks that inspired them. This is a multi-sensory journey — where literature meets music, and the experience becomes unforgettable.

YOU CAN LISTEN TO THE SONG HERE:
https://shemzee.bandcamp.com/track/--204

SAY YA TO JAH

The sun hovered low over Kingston, bathing the streets in a golden haze. The air smelled of dust, sea breeze, and sweet roasted meat. Somewhere close, the sound of a skank guitar, a heavy drumbeat, and a deep bassline gave rhythm to the heat.
Stan sat in the shade of a giant palm outside a small bar with plastic chairs. He sipped a cold beer, eyes fixed on the street.
A tall, dreadlocked Black man approached him, wearing a bright red shirt and faded jeans. His smile was wide. Shadows played on his face like it had been drawn in charcoal.
"Everything irie, bredren?" he said, like they were old friends.
Stan nodded slowly. "Zeen."
The man laughed. His voice was rough, yet warm.
"So you da one who cooked up that wicked tune 'Go Down', yeah?"
Stan didn’t answer immediately. He took another sip. Looked at the man, as if memorizing his face.
"Maybe. Depends who's asking."
"I'm Coxi. Coxi Dja. DJ and musician. You got a meetin' with me. If you made Go Down, you're my man. Blew my mind, bro."
"Good to meet you. I'm Stan," he said, offering his hand. His voice was quiet, nearly flat.
Coxi gripped it with energy.
"Normally I don't roll with white bwoys, but you? You get it. You feel that dub ain’t just beats and effects. It’s art, man – art of takin' away all that’s extra and still sayin' what matters. It’s street sound, but it’s cosmic too, ya overstand?"
Stan nodded.
"But you... you dropped vocals on that track? Most dub DJs strip the voice. Or leave it ghosted, like echoes. You brought lyrics. And they hit deep, bro. Real backwards style – and that’s what I love!"
"Go down and deeper down, down! into spaceless space..." Then reverb, till I feel it in my spine. Man! What even is that – poetry, prayer, spiritual?"
Stan smiled wide.
"It’s a poem. Words aren’t mine – they’re from a Bulgarian poet, Smirnenski. It was an experiment. In the London studio, it just... settled on the dub rhythm."
"You got his number? The poet?"
"Why?"
"Feels like he writes for my people. For the oppressed. For those men who are doomed to constant gloom, deprived of their human worth."
"He’s been dead a hundred years. Died in 1923. Long before dub even existed."
Coxi Dja sat beside him, lighting a joint.
"So... damn. You resurrect the dead, huh? I don’t know what kinda voodoo you do, but it's fire. This ain’t dub like we make here. It’s... a new dub. Soul from another continent. You feel me?"
Stan (quieter): "That’s why I came. I want to find the roots. Learn how to make it for real. Feel the vibration – not just imitate it. Stand up to Babylon."
"You know what dub is to me? Dub is when the bass hits your chest and moves through you, and you're not just in your own body anymore. The bodies around you move, sway, feel. Suddenly you’re one. One rhythm. One pulse. In the night still warm from the sun. By day, this mother-earth burned you, now she just hums. Like in orgasm, in ecstasy. That’s the reggae rhythm. With dub vibes. And when you catch that moment... no worries, no sorrow. Just lightness. Just Jah. Just irie."
Stan looked into his beer. Then up.
"That’s what I want. To enter it. For real."
Coxi rolled his shoulders like his whole body agreed.
"That’s it then! Don’t think it. Feel it. Tomorrow's my free day, I can take you to my studio, see what happens. You got a gyal?"
Stan nodded.
"Cool. Bring her. I’ll bring my oman too. Might even be from your side of the world..."
"Alright. I’ll come. And I’ll bring her."

---

Coxi's studio was a low structure of concrete and tin, built like a temporary shelter that stayed forever. A board hung on the door: "Zion’s Room", faded paint peeling from time.
Inside smelled of wood, incense, and old electronics. Light leaked through holes in the roof. Lamps flickered with the unstable power supply. Stella was already filming, handheld and quiet, her camera breathing like a living thing. She waved silently, a sign that meant: recording, respect the space.
Coxi lit a joint, exhaled heavy smoke, and laughed. He pointed to the woman next to him:
"Bro! Before we start – meet Antonina. Bulgarian. We call her Nina here. Been on the island ten years. More Jamaican than half the locals. She’ll help you with the lyrics. Cuz your language? Sounds... foreign. Alien, but in a good way."
Nina smiled gently. Her eyes were sharp and slow. She spoke soft, but sure.
"Nice to meet you. I’m Nina," she said. "I live for dub. For those moments in the beat where only the soul can hear. Let’s see the song."
Stan handed her his notebook. She read the first lines, then sat beside him.
"Freedom – that’s your eternal dream."
"That’s like... Freedom – dat a di dream weh neva done, right?"
"Exactly," she nodded. "Line by line, we go."
The camera zoomed in on their faces. Silence between translations. Each line heavy – not just in meaning, but in rhythm, in feeling, in memory.
"A lonely island in a boundless ocean of pain," Nina read.
"A likkle island in a sea fulla pain."
"Poetry," Coxi said. "Jamaican poetry. Go on."
Line by line, Nina translated. Explained nuance, breath, emotion. Stan listened closely. Coxi nodded. The camera scanned the wall – a painting of Haile Selassie, a map of Africa, a lion with an open mouth.
When they reached:
"When everyone says NO – you say YES",
Nina paused. Then translated:
"When di whole world seh NO... yuh seh YES."
"No, flip it," Stan said.
"Say YES when dem all seh NO."
"Ey yo – dat a FREEDOM, bro!"
Coxi burst out laughing:
"Girl! That line’s gonna light up the streets. That’s a damn anthem! Gimme the bass. Drop the beat!"
Stan opened his laptop and hit play.
Skank guitar and drums dropped together. Then the bass crept in, deep and earthy like breath from the ground. Drums punched clean and raw. A soft keyboard floated in like smoke from a dying candle.
The camera focused on Coxi, who grabbed his old Fender. Inhaled. Looked at the ceiling. Then at Nina’s eyes. And played.
It wasn’t flashy. It flowed. Every note, every pause was in its place. The guitar didn’t shout. It sang. Its soul trembled.
Nina continued translating the poem into patois. Stan got ready for vocals.
Then he stepped to the mic and exploded. One take. No hesitation.
They listened to the full track. Coxi added a smoky guitar outro, and Stan layered a soft backing vocal on the chorus:
"Say YES when dem all seh NO || Ey yo – dat a FREEDOM, bro!"
Then came the best part. The cigarette after the work’s done. Sip of rum. Smile. Coxi and Nina visibly enjoyed it. The song had hit them.
Stella kept filming, focused, silent. Her lens captured the vibes in the tin walls, the light on the strings, the four souls who were no longer separate bodies. They were one pulse. One rhythm. Vibrating on the same frequency.
Before they left, Stella took the piece of paper with Nina’s translation featuring the original Bulgarian, a clear and faithful English translation, and the Jamaican Patois version:

🇧🇬 Bulgarian
Свобода – това е вечният ти блян
Самотен остров
Сред безбрежен океан от мъка
Свободата ти е скъпа
Не се продава и купува
Но показва колко струваш
Тя е вятърът в платната
Полет над стената
Поезия сред мрака
Божествената песен на душата
Свободата е победата над Сатаната
Свободата е надеждата на светлината
Когато адът е раззинал паст
Когато алчна, похотлива власт
Диктува на тълпата
Бъди различен сред безличните
Подай ръката си
Вдигни главата си
Когато всички казват НЕ – да кажеш ДА
Ей йо – т'ва е свобода!
Господи, дай на мижитурката
Поне две стъпала по кариерната стълбица
Дай на чиновника офис
Голям и просторен – рушвети да проси
Дай електорат на кандидата-депутатa
И котка в чувал на пишман тариката
Дай на крадеца богати клиенти
Дай на банкера високи проценти
Когато всички казват НЕ – да кажеш ДА
Ей йо – т'ва е свобода!

🇬🇧 English

Freedom – that’s your eternal dream
A lonely island
In a boundless sea of sorrow
Your freedom is precious
It’s not for sale or trade
But it shows your worth
She’s the wind in your sail
A flight over the wall
Poetry in the darkness
The soul’s divine song
Freedom is victory over Satan
Freedom is the hope of the light
When hell opens its jaws
When greedy, lustful power
Dictates to the crowd
Be different among the faceless
Reach out your hand
Lift your head
When everyone says NO – you say YES
Ey yo – that’s freedom, brother!
Lord, give the coward
At least two steps up the career ladder
Give the clerk an office
Big and spacious – to hustle bribes
Give the candidate a loyal electorate
And a cat in the sack for the phony boss
Give the thief rich clients
Give the banker high interest rates
When everyone says NO – you say YES
Ey yo – that’s freedom!

🇯🇲 Jamaican Patois

Freedom – dat a di dream weh neva done
Likkle island
Inna sea fulla pain
Freedom’s dear
No buy, no sell
But show ya value, show ya self
She a di wind inna sail
She can fly over walls
She can write poem inna dark
She sing di song weh come from da soul
Freedom beat Satan, she won
Freedom is di light of hope for everyone
When hell open wide
An greedy power waan rule di mind
of da crowd
Yuh must be yuhself / Inna world fulla sheep
Raise ya hand
Lift ya head
Say YES when dem all seh NO
Ey yo – dat a FREEDOM, bro!
Lord, gi di coward
two at least two step pon di ladder
Lord, gi di clerk big office space
fi hustle di dollar in this place
Gi di politician some vote fi pretend
Gi di fake boss something’ he never expect
Gi di thief some rich man fi rob
Gi di banker more percent, job by job
Say YES when dem all seh NO
Ey yo – dat a FREEDOM, bro!

TO BE CONTINUED...

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