Jada Steele

I stood behind the turntables, the hum of anticipation crackling through the warm night air. The lawn was packed, every face glinting with sweat and excitement. Tonight was a sound clash, the kind where respect wasn’t just earned; it was taken. The opposing sound system had already dropped a few heavy tunes, and their selector smirked at me from across the makeshift stage, sure of their dominance.

I adjusted the cap on my shaved head, my inked moustache flexing as I grinned. Forty-six years of life had taught me to handle pressure. Decades ago, as a girl in Kingston, Jamaica, I’d sneak out to watch the selectors work their magic. Back then, women like me weren’t expected to touch the turntables, much less control a crowd. That rankled me—so I decided to break every rule they set.

It started small: borrowing my brother’s records, begging for a chance to play at quiet house parties. They laughed at me when I chopped my hair, mocked the tattoo I wore as a defiant symbol against convention. But slowly, the laughter faded, replaced by nods of respect as I carved out my style—blending classics with the kind of toasting that made your chest vibrate.

The crowd erupted as my team dropped our first dubplate, a killer track with our singjay riffing on a U-Roy classic. I watched the other selector flinch, just a little. That was enough. With each tune, I built momentum, layering basslines and melodies until the massive roared with approval. By the time the clash ended, it wasn’t even a contest. The audience’s screams were mine.

In Jamaica, music isn’t just sound; it’s survival, revolution, joy. And tonight, I stood at the center of it, a woman who’d clawed her way into a world that wasn’t ready for her and made it hers.