No Woman No Cry by Rita Marley Page A

you, I’m gonna dress you up! ” she had promised. As soon as I got there this became necessary, because it was winter and I was definitely not dressed for forty degrees. Even if I had known what to expect, I couldn’t have afforded to prepare for it in any case. So the very next day after we arrived Margaret took me shopping. She took me uptown—I remember her emphasizing that: “Rita, I’m gonna take you uptown , girl!”
    On the way there, I kept my eyes open. To my surprise, I began to see people who looked like me, more black people around. And it started to dawn on me that there was a lot I didn’t know about America. Apart from what we picked up from movies, this was also what America looked like. There were people sitting in the street, I even saw beggars on the sidewalk and homeless people around. In America! I’d thought this was only in Trench Town. I suppose Margaret took me uptown not only to shop, but for many different reasons—especially to expose me to the fact that even if I was out of one ghetto, here we were in the Big Apple, in another (though I liked it).
    In the course of the afternoon she dressed me from top to bottom, including a coat, stockings, and shoes. Then she took me somewhere else, where a woman taught me about makeup and shaped my Afro. Then we went back to Margaret’s apartment, and she prettied me up some more. I think she was just as excited as I was, because I remember her saying, at one point, “You know, we gonna really show them something!” Then we went to the studio, and Bob was astonished! “Ah, Margaret!” he said, accusingly. “What have you done to Rita?” Not only was I wearing different clothes, I even had on eyebrow pencil, something I’d never before worn (and seldom have since)!
    So I had a new look, and even after three children I had a new interest too from Mr. Marley. Later, when we were alone, he took a long look at me and said, “Wow, so you went and got yourself a fresh face!”
    It’s many years since then, but I’m still thanking Margaret for that face.
    Back then, all the magazine stories I’d read as a girl had said that when you got married it was understood that you were going to be married for life, you were going to be devoted. Even though my mother and father had split up, Aunty had divorced Mr. Britton, and Cedella Booker had had her trials, I was sure—maybe because I was so young—that my relationship with Bob would last. True, I would sometimes make arguments, usually about his flirting with other women, sometimes really just to pick a fight or even threaten him: “I think I’m gonna live somewhere else and stay away from you.” (But then I would start crying.)
    When we got to New York, though, a new element was added, because it was a record company recommendation that you shouldn’t let your fans know you were married. How could you be a devoted husband and sell records? I didn’t know this until I read, in a newspaper interview: “Bob, we hear you’re married—is it true you’re married to Rita?” And his answer was, “Oh no, she’s my sister!”
    I waited until the next time we were alone to question him about it. That night we were sitting in the living room, looking out at the lights of New York. I had the newspaper on the table, ready. I went over to him and put it in his hand.
    â€œOh, I saw that,” he said. He didn’t seem interested. Maybe he was thinking about something else.
    â€œYes, but what does this mean? Why you tell the press we’re not married?”
    â€œOh that’s just show business,” he said. “But then, who wants to expose you? You’re mine!”
    I must not have looked satisfied, because he stood up and took my hand in his. “Listen, man,” he said. “Just cool.” That was his favorite expression, “Just cool.”
    â€œBecause