"Searching for Sister Jean" Bonus Episode

The morning of May 23, 2020, started like any other at the house in Washington Gardens.

St.

Andrew.

Sister Jean Watt woke up next to the man she called Ja B.

Bunny Wailer.

To the world, to her, simply the love of her life, one of the founding fathers of reggae music, was beginning another day in their Washington Garden sanctuary, built through 50 years of unwavering partnership.

At 70, Sister Jean's silver dreadlocks carried five decades of shared history.

Though dementia had begun stealing pieces of that past from her mind.

She stepped out of the house into the Caribbean morning and never came home again.

And now, five years later, the unsolved mystery of Sister Jean's disappearance is a window into the secrets, the deceptions, the hidden worlds that dwell behind every closed door, every home, uptown or downtown, are common foibles.

We get old, become weak and vulnerable, and we end up relying on the people we love and trust to have our best interests at heart, to watch over us when we can no longer watch over ourselves.

But like my old friend Bob, Andy used to whisper under his breath every time a security guard would fly open the heavy metal gates that protected Kingston's elites.

Henry K.

Who's gonna watch the Watchmen?

Entertainer and reggae star Bob Marley, Rita Marley and the manager of the Whaler's, Don Taylor, are now patients in the University Hospital after receiving gunshot wounds during a shooting incident which took place at Marley's home at 56 Hope Road tonight.

How long shall they kill our prophets while we stand aside?

The passing of another Jamaican superstar, reggae dynamo Peter Tosh, one of the original waiters, and passed away.

Because his righteousness govern the world.

Sister Jean or Cis Jean wasn't just married to reggae royalty.

She was the foundation that made royalty possible.

While Bunny Wailer created the sounds that would carry Jamaican culture across the globe, she carried something equally remarkable at home.

A family built not from blood, but from choice and an image that elevated a musician into an icon.

Her hands didn't just raise many of Bunny's children, none by her own birth.

They stitched together Bunny's stage presence, designing wardrobes that brought his Rastafari spirituality to life under the lights.

Every thread she chose, every color she selected helped craft the visual poetry that made Bunnyweiler not just a voice, but a presence in a culture where blended families are common but rarely harmonious.

Sister Jean achieved something that still amazes me.

She took Bunny's children from other relationships and created unity where there could have been chaos.

Abijah Livingston, Bunny's eldest son, a man who now carries the weight of Preserving his father's legacy as the executor of the estate, says it plainly.

Even though he was close to his biological mother, he credits Sister Jean for the positive impact she had on his life.

And that's not sentiment.

That's testimony to a woman who understood that love multiplies when it's shared rather than hoarded.

Through the early days when Bob Marley, Peter, Tosh and Bunny were just three young men from Trenchtown trying to make sense of their place in the world through music, through the success that turned local sounds into global anthems, through the inevitable tensions that split the group, sending Bob towards international stardom, while Bunny chose to stay closer to his rastafari roots.

For 50 years, Sister Jean was the constant in a life that could have easily spun out of control.

And of all the original wailers, to me, Bunny possessed the voice that could be most healing.

Smooth as aged rum, warm as Caribbean sunlight filtering through open window shutters.

In that trinity of genius, he occupied sacred ground, the spiritual center between Bob's prophetic fire and Peter's militant thunder.

Like George Harrison bridging creative tensions between Lennon and McCartney, Bunny was the soul that kept the music honest, the heart that kept the brotherhood intact.

In Kingston studios, I moved like a pilgrim among profits, a young producer learning his craft.

I'd catch glimpses of Bunny during sessions, this living piece of reggae mythology just feet away.

But reverence kept me frozen.

You just don't interrupt legends.

You absorb their presence, honor the space they occupy, and hope that some of their magic may settle on you through proximity.

Besides, you don't want to say the wrong thing and be humiliated by an icon in front of a studio full of musicians.

And I speak from experience, but the universe has its own sense of humor about where sacred encounters happen.

My real education in Bunnywaler came not in those hallowed studios, but in the most unlikely classroom imaginable, a small courtyard of a makeshift boarding house on a forgotten ghetto lane off Barbican Road.

When my friend Brian from Colorado and I first moved to Kingston and transformed our rented home into a reggae Airbnb, we required certain amenities to keep our international guests happy.

Namely, the finest herb Jamaica could offer.

Eventually, our friend and new Kingston fixer, Rudeboy Tex, connected us with his source, Rella, a country farmer whose urban outpost sat like a secret waiting to be discovered.

I'd pull up in my Russian jeep to find Bunny's BMW already there, the reggae legend deep in conversation with this humble herb merchant.

In that cramped courtyard under the open sky, far from recording studios, and concert stages.

I witnessed something extraordinary.

Bunnywaler unleashed, speaking with the passion of a man who watched his culture birth a global revolution while its creators remained prisoners of poverty.

I became a silent witness to these sessions, mesmerized by this private Bunny who was exactly like the fire spitting rebel on stage.

The Marley estate's business practices, the government's neglect of reggae pioneers, the systematic exploitation of Jamaican artists by foreign labels.

Here was raw truth, unfiltered wisdom, the real voice behind the soothing harmonies I'd grown up loving.

His diatribes weren't bitter rants, but prophecy.

The observations of someone who had helped create something beautiful, only to watch it consumed by the very forces reggae music was created to resist.

A rilla.

What have I been telling you?

This is a hijack, a hostile takeover.

Tough gong can only consist of myself, Robert and Peter.

Robert would have never given his consent to Whitewell and dottrita.

After sister Jean disappeared, the family mobilized immediately.

Posters across the island, private detectives, a million dollar reward.

Abidja and his siblings chased every lead, drove to remote corners of Jamaica following reports of a dreadlocked woman who might have been her.

They even produced a documentary whale and searching for cisgene, released on international Women's Day in 2021, focusing on mental health issues and missing women in general, which the family discovered during their search, was an island wide crisis.

The cruelest part was the hope each false lead carried, followed by crushing disappointment when another woman turned out not to be sister Jean.

Well, I went over the 14 parishes so far.

I have post up flyers all over, ask questions, looking all the arcades, under the bridges, in the bushes.

Even at night, we even at curfew hours, we're still outside on the road, so searching all over.

Two months after her disappearance, the stress broke Bunny Weller.

He suffered his second stroke in two years, this one severe enough to leave him medically incapacitated.

The man who had given Jamaica some of its most powerful music was defeated not just by age, but by the anguish of losing his life partner.

On March 2, 2021, nine months after Sister Jean vanished, Bunny Wailer died at medical associates hospital.

His family believes the stroke that killed him was directly caused by the grief of her absence.

And think about that.

A reggae legend died of a broken heart because the system could not find his w.

But even as Bunny lay dying, other forces were in motion.

Just hours before his passing, his son Abija released a statement that reads like an indictment of his father's manager, Maxine Stowe.

Quote, since the disappearance of Jean Watt, My father's wife of over 50 years.

I've become suspicious of Maxine's behavior, end quote.

The allegations were stark and specific.

According to Abidja's public statements, Stowe had left the gate open on the day Sister Jean disappeared, despite knowing about her dementia and the family's strict security protocols.

In her first media statement following the disappearance, Stowe told the press that Sister Jean and Bunny were never legally married and she had no children with him, details Abidja call irrelevant since they'd been together for over 50 years and she had raised all his children while Bunny was hospitalized and incapacitated.

Abidja learned through published articles that Stowe was conducting business on his father's behalf without family consent and accused her of acting in her own self interests.

She had locked the family out of Bunny's social media accounts and was secretive regarding his financial records.

And while the family is there in despair, searching for a lost mom, monitoring their father's health, focusing on covering the mounting medical bills, and at the time, all the attempts to have an amicable meeting with his manager, Maxine, were met only with avoidance.

And like Bob, Andy used to say, who is gonna watch the watchmen?

Five years later, Sister Jean remains missing.

Her stepson Abijah still organizes protests, still holds up her picture outside police headquarters, still demands that someone care as much about finding her as the family does about losing her.

Perhaps the most damning revelation.

There's no specialized missing persons unit in the Jamaican constabulary force.

In a country where people disappear regularly, there's no dedicated department focused on finding them.

Sister Jean's case sits in a general pile, treated like any other file, despite involving the wife of a cultural icon whose music brought millions of dollars and immeasurable prestige to Jamaica.

We understand through communications with members of the police force that there's no department specifically dedicated to missing persons.

Abidja told the Sunday Gleaner during one of his recent protests outside the Criminal Investigation Bureau headquarters.

Quote, with our peaceful protests, we'd like to highlight the need for a unit in the Jamaica Constabulary Force dedicated to investigating and finding missing persons.

End quote.

When I see those heartbreaking images of Abijah and his siblings protesting alone, holding up pictures of Sister Jean with barely anyone paying attention, it breaks something inside me.

This is the son of Bunny Wailer, a man whose music helped define Jamaica's cultural identity, whose songs carried the island's voice to every corner of the world.

His father gave Jamaica something invaluable, something that can't be quantified in GDP statistics.

But touches every aspect of how the world sees the island.

And yet there he stands, essentially alone, begging the system to care about finding his missing stepmother.

They'll put Bob Marley on money and build monuments when it serves tourism, but when Bunnyweiler's wife disappears, just file it away with the rest.

What if this was a powerful politician's wife or a missing international tourist?

You really think they'd be the same in action?

A number of the family fear that the disappearance might be the result of foul play, Abidja told reporters at one of his protests.

Foul play?

The words hang in the air like an accusation, waiting for an answer that will probably never come.

Because the system that should be demanding answers is the same system that never really valued what Bunny Wailer and Sister Jean represented in the first place.

You know, when you've been in the game as long as I have, you start to notice the same plot showing up over and over, script after script.

Same characters rearing their ugly heads from the shadows.

Same edge of the seat endings where you're rooting for the good guy to win one for the Gipper.

But you know in your heart that life doesn't always deliver those Hollywood endings.

The femme fatale always seems to slip away into the night, leaving broken dreams and empty bank accounts in their wake.

Which brings me to my friend Dennis Stone, known as Dreadstone.

And why, when I hear the name Maxine Stowe connected to Sister Jean's story and watching the stress it causes this grieving family, it takes me back decades when I witnessed the same forces that failed Sister Jean destroy my good friend and mentor Dreadstone's Dreams years earlier.

Dennis Stone spent over 25 years building reggae music from the ground up, starting in the early 1980s with his Dreadstone sound system in New York, selling exclusive mixtapes through VP Records and on Manhattan street corners.

He later co founded Big Up Entertainment and contributed to gold records and Grammy nominated projects including Disney's Cool Running soundtrack.

Over the years he worked alongside Sly and Robbie, Bobby Digital, Donovan Germain, and he personally helped develop artists such as Carlton Coffee, President Brown, Jigsy King, Nadine Sutherland and Diana King.

But Dennis Story really isn't about professional accomplishments.

It's about character, about the kind of man who becomes family to strangers.

I met Dennis casually through mutual friends in Kingston's music scene.

Just two guys passionate about reggae crossing paths at a session.

But when I found myself alone in Jamaica as a young producer hustling my indie records and trying to navigate an industry that could chew up outsiders, Dennis stepped up as something I hadn't expected to find a true friend and mentor.

He never talked about himself and always asked how he could help others.

He guided me through the treacherous waters of major label politics, stuck his neck out for me more than once without ever asking for anything in return.

This was Dennis nature, a man who understood the music industry could devour people, but believed that authentic friendship could be protection against its poison.

Reggae wasn't just Dennis business.

It was his calling.

He poured himself into dub plates and mixtapes until the day he discovered what he believed was the next Bob Marley.

Tony Rebel, a conscious singjay who could both toast as a DJ and sing, a rare combination in the industry.

Dennis saw something transcendent in Rebel's ability to blend spiritual consciousness with crossover dancehall appeal.

He took Tony under his wing like a son, investing his money, sweat and dreams into building Rebel's career.

Together they created Vibe of the Times, an album that showcased everything Dennis believed reggae could become.

But the music industry has a way of corrupting even the most spiritual connections.

When the major label deal came through, everything changed.

Tony Rebel, suddenly starstruck by mainstream success, placed his faith entirely in the label and its A and R director, Maxine Stowe, the same woman who would later position herself around Bunny Wailer's legacy.

Here's what makes this betrayal even more calculated.

Stowe convinced Rebel that she had his back, and in a way, she did, along with all the other reggae and dancehole artists that Sony was gobbling up at the time.

But the dirty secret of the major label system was they weren't signing these Jamaican artists because they were genuinely interested in breaking them into mainstream superstars.

They were signing them to keep other labels from succeeding with them.

It's called shelving a practice as common as it is cruel.

Sign potential superstars, then bury their projects to prevent them from competing with your established big sellers.

Better to have them collecting dust in your vault than making hits for your competitors.

Sony was assembling a collection of Jamaican talent like trophies on a shelf.

Most would never get the promotion they deserved and never see their full potential realized.

But those are the cruel mathematics of an industry that only needs one out of a dozen artists to hit.

The rest are expendable.

Maxine Stowe convinced Tony Rebel that Dennis was not the right fit for this new level of success.

She pulled the race card.

A white guy from the suburbs of Long island could never truly understand what black music is about.

Out or survive these industry sharks, she whispered.

And when Rebel saw a black woman with dreadlocks, he naturally concurred.

The betrayal cut deep, not just professionally, but spiritually.

Here was Tony Rebel, the conscious reggae artist who understood how systems succeed by dividing and conquering.

Yet he fell into the very trap he preached against.

The industry predators had done their work perfectly, isolating him from his real support system.

What Tony didn't understand was that he was just another artist in Sony's collection strategy.

Without Dennis by his side, the one person who really cared about his career rather than using him as a chess piece, Tony Rebel lacked the authentic support needed to navigate the industry.

He was lost in the shuffle and dropped by the label after one brilliant album.

Dredstone never recovered from this betrayal.

Even though he understood the music business and its capacity to corrupt relationships, he believed their spiritual connection would transcend industry manipulation.

The heartbreak wasn't about losing an artist.

It was about watching someone he loved like a son choose glittering promise over authentic relationship.

Dennis pretty much stepped away from the music business after that, and reggae lost one of its truest advocates.

The lesson here isn't complicated, but it's hard to accept.

Trust and authentic friendship are among life's rarest treasures.

They should never be taken for granted, no matter how bright the promises of success may shine.

When you find real friendship, real mentorship, real love, you must guard it against those who would tear it apart for their own gain.

Because in every industry, every community, every every relationship, there are people who seek to maintain power by creating division agitators who understand that isolated people are easier to manipulate than those surrounded by genuine support.

Somewhere, Sister Jean's story continues.

Whether in hope or tragedy, we still don't know.

But both stories remind us that in this industry, in this life, the greatest loss is in failing to achieve your dream.

It's losing the people who believed in them with you.

The ones who loved you before the world knew your name.

Who stayed when the spotlight faded.

Who built the foundation that made dreams possible in the first place.

People like Dennis Stone.

Rest in peace, my friend.

Produced by Henry K.