The home my family occupied after we moved to Kingston was situated along the route taken by dignitaries on their way to Jamaica House, the Prime Minister’s official residence. As a result of this fortuitous bit of luck, we never had to join the throng at the airport eagerly awaiting Queen Elizabeth, Emperor Haile Selassie or other important visitors to our island; we merely had to wait by our gate for the motorcade and wave furiously as they drove by, escorted by the police and a line of other official cars.
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