Kimaspeak

Ras, Woman and Child?

2011-05-08T22:39:00.000+01:00

Ras, Woman and Child?

I love the look of well tended locs on men. There is nothing like a man, in shiny . cultivated locs, well fitted jeans, a crisp white shirt and an ounce of swag in his walk. Kees Diefenthaller springs to mind, so does Shurwayne Winchester. I use the phrase well tended because I am not attracted to locs that have let themselves go on a brother’s head, literally finding themselves in a tangled mess, developing muffin tops, distorted bellies and thin edges. Anyway I digress. Men with locs usually spell glorious and Nubian. Proud brothers who are walking in their kingly characters, sporting hair that shouts pride in one’s roots. Locs-men are usually non-meat eaters, or lets not get carried away, non-pork eaters. They claim righteousness and wholesomeness and the casting away of the old order. They are the first to grasp their lighters when genuine old skool reggae erupts in a dancehall setting. Men who wear locs are hot.

I have, however, noted and tested a hypothesis about locs-men: why is it that so few of them seem to go out with locs-women? When I was a card carrying member of the weave-a diva club, men with locs seemed to love a bit of the old kanekalon or 100% human hair, it did not seem to matter. chicks with relaxed hair or weave definitely got more play than the Nubian loc-sporting women in the club.

Having said that, I really am not bothered: the chances of meeting and sustaining a relationship from a nightclub encounter is probably less likely than Bob Marley issuing a hit song from the grave, but I am always very intrigued about perceptions of beauty and the prejudices and stereotypes that are associated with locs.

Do men with locs think loc-wearing women are beautiful? Or conversely, is it that a loc-wearing woman exudes a “I don’t play” vibe that causes a man to take another step back. In a controversial video, Method Man admitted to not being attracted to women with natural hair. He says “I don’t like Peasy Afros. I don’t like dreads either. I like a woman to get her hair did”. And for her to get cancer as well I suppose. Is it that women with dreads don’t look “did”? I wondered whether in spite of men making fun of the weave, it is truly what their view of sexy and beautiful is. When I see a man with locs, I see someone who oozes confidence, who is not afraid to go with an unorthodox view of sexy, someone . When men see me, is this what they see? Or have they been conditioned for so long by their sisters’ Barbie dolls, by the video-hos in rnb videos, by the actresses that surround them, by the images in the media, that women who wear their hair in dreads almost become invisible, inadvertnently?

I make no criticism. Everyone has his or her own notion of beauty and it is not up to me to pass judgment, but it would be wonderful to see a few more be-dreaded men with be-dreaded women by their side- Rastaman, rastawoman and rastababy.

Royal Wedding Black-Out

2011-05-01T13:56:00.000+01:00

Lindsey, in the brilliant Clybourne Park, the caricature of the liberal movement, utters the magic words that are indignantly sputtered when middle class Britain say something that could even be marginally interpreted as prejudiced: “But …half of my friends are black!”

These soothsaying words surreptitiously say the unsaid. I couldn’t possibly be guilty of thinking that those teenage boys sitting outside of the cornershop are in a gang, because half of my friends are black; I couldn’t possibly be racist when I say a tennis player looks like a golliwog because half of my friends are black; I couldn’t possibly be insular and narrow-minded, because half of my friends are black. It is an uncomfortable exclamation that is usually uttered in response to a pregnant cause, after some off-colour (pun intended) remark.

So maybe it is honest, and even somewhat refreshing, that William and Kate do not make any false claims that they have any black friends or friends of colour. It is slightly disappointing perhaps, given Diana’s friendship with Dodi Al Fayed, William’s declaration that his heart is in Africa, Kate’s family holidays to St. Vincent and even more to the point, the fact that the Boujis-Mahiki-Kitts set is increasingly international, replete with Arab wealth. Surely Wills and Haz would have rubbed shoulders with others outside of their “set”?

Buoyed perhaps by recent all-inclusive directives, the British media took this task on inflicting diversity on the Royal Wedding upon themselves: BBC World Service’s coverage was fronted by black and Asian newsreaders, much ado was made of the fact that the footsman to the Queen was a black American (why is it an honour for a black man to be the Queen’s servant instead of her equal, even if he is the top servant?) and the lone black chorister was zoomed in upon and given special attention. Black people played “Spot the Black” on Facebook and Twitter. Fact was that any persons of colour who featured in the audience were the Ambassadors and representatives (and their wives) of the Commonwealth jurisdictions, and the odd spouse or partner of a local politician or celebrity. I was impressed though, that Boris Johnson’s wife, Marina Wheeler, who is half-Indian, proudly wore her salwa khameez with pride- who would have expected Boris the ultra conservative to be the poster-child for integrationist Britain at this “last bastion” of Englishness?

The fact that there were hardly any black people at the Royal Wedding seems to come as a surprise to our friends across the pond where affirmative action propels persons of colour (rightfully or wrongfully) into the glistening parapets of upper society, although I don’t recall Chelsea Clinton’s wedding being a Benetton advert either. I hazard to say that in spite of the increasing international outlook of boarding schools these days, it is a rare thing to find persons of colour whose parents had the funds to ensure that they went to exactly the right boarding schools (Eton, Marlborough), maintained the right hobbies (skiing, riding, polo), vacationed in the right resorts (Courchevel), partied in the right private members; clubs (Raffles, Public) and lived in the right postcodes (Sloane Square, Kensington, Chelsea). Getting into those sets is difficult enough, getting into the royal enclosure within that circle would have required not just wisteria type social climbing but the tenacity and determination of the first man heading to Everest.

William and Kate’s whitewash wedding may not be politically correct, but it is at least honest. That’s just not how they roll. And that’s fine. I was more taken aback that Posh and Becks were invited and President Obama and the last two Prime Ministers were not. There might still be hope-maybe Harry will bring home native Zimbabwean Chinekwa, instead of Chelsy?

The Perfect A

2011-03-12T12:51:00.000Z

The media, predictably, were quick to denigrate and pounce on hip hop music when Claudia Aderetomi travelled to a dodgy hotel in America to get industrial grade silicone injected into her butt cheeks, allegedly so that she would be able to break into the music video industry. Suddenly, hip hop music became a source of condemnation and derision, and every columnist in the mainstream press clamoured to criticize its treatment of black women. Women like Nicki Minaj and Buffy the Butt were held up as representing the aspirations of black girls- full figured, with a slim waist and a huge undimpled (preferably fake) backside. Apparently, we all want this. Yeah, right.

Never mind that free from the influence of black music, hundreds of women die from each year from cosmetic surgery, Caucasian Lidviyan Selaya died in December 2010 in Florida after suffering cardiac arrest after liposuction, Chinese singer Wang Bei died in November 2010 after undergoing a facial grinding procedure, and Latin American Solange Magnano, a beauty queen, died from a pulmonary embolism after a gluteoplasty (butt lift). Who can also forget Donda West, Kanye’s mum, who died from a heart attack a day after a liposuction procedure. I doubt that she was vying for a part in a hip hop video or needed the money to forge a video hunny career.

The media missed the point, as usual. While I do not deny that music videos present an ideal that few can live up to, the problem is not hip hop music or the “careers” of video girls or even the clichéd trotted out objectification of women. The problem is that we live in a society that focuses, thrives and makes it profitable for us to exist in a permanent state of dissatisfaction with ourselves and our bodies. Mainstream media fails to mention that black women used to always be derided by the mainstream media for not having the perfect lithe, sinewy bodies. A big bottom was an unsightly thing, to be laughed at or burned away on a treadmill, instead of a natural genetic feature to be celebrated and acknowledged as an evolutionary symbol of our femininity. Mainstream media conveniently omits that most black women cannot obtain jeans that pull over our buttocks in the UK- the High Street is a notoriously difficult place to shop for me, and I do not have a bigger than average bottom. Gym classes that focus on problem areas include “legs, bums and tums”, making it clear that a bottom that sticks out is considered unsightly and a problem. Who could forget “I like big butts and I cannot lie”, the opening line in Baby Got Back? The very hip hop music which is now criticised was a proud rebellion against that type of derision of our bodies, and while it is indeed a shame that we have now reached the point when it has exerted a pressure of its own, we cannot forget that it is really the exception to the fash-rule.

Claudia Aderotomi was a fallen soldier in the universal battle for female perfection. We have all had those moments of self denial where we wonder whether mornings at the gym or denying ourselves chips is really worth it and feel like zapping it all away to achieve what we feel would be a perfect figure or a perfect weight. Just as teenagers at school are no longer required to obtain plain As and must distinguish ourselves by having A*s and just as Sainsburys only sells Grade A carrots with no bumps or knobs or other physical deformities, we live in a society where we feel that we must be a perfect A. Regrettably, for every Claudia, there is a Jenny and an Emily in the search for perfection- a perkier breast or a flatter tummy, hopefully we realise that we don’t need to die to validate our selves and our bodies.

The Battle of St. George

2010-11-21T20:53:00.000Z

Mao Tse-Tsung once said something that has always stuck with me. He stated that “the cardinal responsibility of leadership is to identify the dominant contradiction at each point of the historical process and to work out a central line to resolve it”.

In Grenada’s chequered political story, punctuated with periods of power and leadership struggles and marked by commas of uncertainty, striking pause into our democractic systems, this is apt and chillingly true. Bernard Coard misjudged this responsibility when he tried to chastise the People’s Leader, between chastening the ego of dear Maurice and mapping out a new route ahead for JEWEL. The National Democratic Congress was formed in 1986 when Francis Alexis and Tillman Thomas judged this responsibility accurately and defected from Blaize’s New National Party. Keith Mitchell again judged this contradiction accurately when he promoted himself leader of the Party forcing Blaize to form The National Party.

It appears that this moment was misjudged over the last week. Having been prodded and pressed and urged and cajoled to show his leadership muscles and bare his political balls, Tillman Thomas decided to re-shuffle his Cabinet. This should be an exercise straightforward in itself- it was done only last year when Karl Hood was demoted as Minister of Health. Alas, reshuffling a Cabinet is not the same as reshuffling a pack of well worn cards in a rumshop game of rummy. Fronting his PR man to make his announcement (bad move), he allegedly did not discuss the decisions in Cabinet nor did he afford the affected persons (much loved man about town Peter David, newly elected Michael Church and the well spoken Glynis Roberts) the chance to dissent or discuss. Mao Tse Tsung would not have been happy. The by then agitated appointees decided therefore not to attend the swearing in of the new Cabinet as they were not happy with their new portfolios- Church is now a mere Minister of State (brazenly and arrogantly confirmed by Thomas), Glynis Roberts is now Minister for Labour and Peter David is now not the much envied Minister of Foreign Affairs (with all the incumbent perks) but has been relegated to Tourism.

On the surface, part of me was visibly annoyed that these elected MPs had acted rather like petulant teenagers and had shown their hand as individuals who were more interested in their political egos rather than the general development of country. However, I was not surprised. It takes a very particular type of individual to run for political office and these are not usually shrinking violets. The events of Friday 19 November were critical, not because of the anecdotal value of the “walk-outs” but because it crystallised what many predicted as the internal combustion of Congress. Several points are now salient.

First, Tillman Thomas’ leadership style is not popular and this tacit confrontation marked the first open challenge to his leadership. And a challenge it is. The demotion of Peter David (who I like) was not just a demotion per se, but was a direct anointing of the anti-Peter, a tacit announcement that it was not he who was second in command. This reshuffle was poignant in what was not said but party insiders knew that it was a moment showing that the heir apparent was Nazim Burke. Were I Peter David who worked really hard for the party, I would not like this unilateral decision one little bit. Be warned, this is not a struggle between Thomas and David- this is rather David annoyed that he has lost to Burke.

These changes allegedly were the result of party advisors who appear to have colonised and overpopulated Congress’ ranks. Special Advisor for Press, Special Advisor for Policies, Special Advisor for who knows what- have all appeared to have taken on great importance in the party, reminiscent of Bristol’s warning of a “second Cabinet”. Being a fan of the democratic process, I would not even bestow upon them the word Cabinet, not even in inverted commas: they are unelected political appointees, some with skill and some utterly inept judging by the fact that the vast majority have not thrived in the private sector. These special advisors (and their sons and daughters) appear to be the most ample beneficiaries of the fruits of Congress- serving in prized positions, now it seems even at the expense of our elected representatives. Pardon me, but Dennoth Modeste, albeit a son of the Victorian soil, did not stand for elected office, neither did Glen Noel nor Ann Antoine nor Franka Bernadine, although I have every confidence in the latter. It cannot be right that it is seen that grace and favours and the privilege of speaking in the Prime Minister’s ear falls to those who did not sacrifice career ambitions and risk the possibility to humiliation to stand for public office, to the ultimate reality audience ever- the official polls. It absolutely cannot be the case or seen to be the case that certain of these individuals occupy more favoured positions? What is it that Dennoth Modeste can do that Peter David, an educated, well-spoken man cannot be seen to do, and if there is indeed something, why wasn’t he doing it during all his years in the diplomatic service? Is Glen Noel the only reasonable choice as Minister for Housing? Why not Osborne James, who was actually elected? It is not as if one is more qualified than the other. It may be that the public dissenters have a point, albeit not particularly well handled.

Having said all that, I have always admired Thomas in that he seems to be incredibly humble but like much of what we have inherited from our colonial past, we seem to always wish for a leader who is larger than life, with equal parts of ceremony with substance. Thomas has been chastised as not being able to “speak” because his accent is Hermitagean with accents of Sauteurs. I would say there is nothing wrong with that, but maybe because we are so small we suffer from what I call the “semblance of statesmanship” complex. In my eyes, there is nothing wrong with the way he answers questions- short, to the point, honest, unpolished by cheap spin and PR, but to the vast majority of Grenadians, he does not appear like the archetypal “Prime Minister”. Added to this, the abject failure of Congress (and I say this as an omniscient narrator without any fear or favour) to capitalise on the shortcomings of the NNP under his leadership, has weakened faith in his hand. Job creation is virtually at a standstill, the effects of the recession has had a toll on economic prospects, the tourism industry is still underdeveloped, the release of Bernard Coard was handled with a lack of aplomb, there has been no significant investment in infrastructure, the youth programme has been dismantled, among other things, it is not difficult to see why Grenadians are eager to have Thomas deliver on the change he promised.

The question now seems to be, will that change be a change without him, and not without David and his cohorts as he hoped. The decision he has made to make these changes appear to have inversely, operated as a judgment on his tenure as leader. The result seems inevitable. There will be a battle. Congress can continue without Thomas or David or both. I know that Thomas Jefferson said that he who cannot obey cannot command, but what occurs when the act of obeying will betray pride and ambition?

Cocoa seeds

2010-11-17T00:33:00.000Z

A few weeks ago, I went to the Tate Modern to see Ai Weiwei’s much vaunted and critically acclaimed “Sunflower Seeds”. To the untrained, unlearned eye, it would have seemed unspectacular- a sea of over one hundred million of what seemed like small pebbles placed into a giant exhibition area, much like an expanse of Brighton beach indoors. This was especially so as Weiwei’s vision that we would touch and interact with the art was nipped in the proverbial bud by Health and Safety jobsworths as the herds of Londoners stamping on the seeds created some form of dust that was apparently unsafe. Bollocks. I think that the millions of Londoners walking away with a few seeds in their pockets and backpacks was more of an issue.

I say seeds, but this is incorrect. These were really porcelain replicas of sunflower seeds. They seemed identical but they were all unique and hand-crafted by families and individuals in the porcelain crafting region of China, Jingdezhen. Each ceramic seed was individually moulded, sculpted and hand painted by persons trained in the art working in family workshops and at home. By so doing, Weiwei turned the cliché of Made In China on its head: here it was in front of us- mass production alongside traditional craftsmanship. Weiwei explains in his video that sunflower seeds were a common street snack shared with friends which carried some association with Mao Zedong’s Cultural Revolution during 1966-1976 where Chairman Mao was depicted as the Sun and the people as sunflowers who turned towards him. The effort was poignant to me- the dignity and the desire to work of the Jingdezhen people was striking- they wanted and actively sought out more work and took pride in creating the sunflower seeds to perfection. It raised important questions about materialism and consumerism in today’s society. What is the dividing line between individuality and our mutual commonality.
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I couldn’t help, when viewing this exhibition, to ponder on the Caribbean condition. We have traditionally prided ourselves on our attention to detail, our individuality and our uniqueness- we are too small to mass produce anything. I couldn’t help making an analogy with the seeds that would be used to represent our condition, were such an exhibition to be launched. I thought we could use cocoa seeds- cocoa representing a traditional export that was meticulously grown and harvested, resplendent in their jewel colours of red and yellow, an export that has now become secondary to the cheap fast tourist product. I recall days of traipsing fields of cocoa, shaded by overarching canopies of nutmeg, breaking the prized pods open and sucking on the opaque, almost cataract pulp of the fruit, careful not to ingest too many in case, as legend had it, we died of short breath. We picked cocoa, we carried buckets of them back home on shaky donkeys, wide banks and unsteady heads. We laid it out to dry in the sun in huge cocoa drawers, careful to save them from a torrent of rain. We danced headily, turning these prized globules with our feet. Cocoa too, could be associated with periods of one man rule in our islands. Who could forget Uncle Gairy on Grenada's cocoa plantations, speaking to the workers and consecrating himself their Saviour?

Cocoa is still prized in the islands, but our brand of Trinitario has been overtaken by the cocoa industries of Ghana. We are not able to compete on size nor on production range and we have been beaten on prices and plagued by disease. In the early 1970s most farmers switched to production of bananas as the cocoa crop was too unpredictable. The end result was that cocoa was only grown sporadically and exported in its raw form to more profitable centres for production. Now, due to the fact that it is estimated that cocoa will soon be worth its weight in gold (a true fact), there is a renewed effort by the region in its cocoa producing capabilities, and rightfully so. The EU has funded the Caribbean Fine Flavoured Cocoa Forum with a view to capitalise on the flavoursome Caribbean bean as opposed to the ordinary, bulk, cocoa beans. The potential can be enormous. Professor Denise Thompson of the University of Trinidad and Tobago noted that we were exporting raw cocoa at $3 a kilo, which was being sold in the market at $1500 a kilo. It is my hope that this project takes off, for the benefit of our people and for the benefit of our islands.

Maybe in two years time, a young artist would place an exhibition in the Tate telling the history of our revitalised love affair with these seeds, representing the bounty of hard labour.

Why Katie Price is a Feminist

2010-11-13T10:05:00.001Z

I always get a lot of stick when I say this, but I really like Katie Price. Maybe it is because in spite of all her gold unitard wearing shenanigans, her story resonates with me a whole fricking lot. Here is a single mum, raising the disabled child of a deadbeat dad (shame on you Dwight Yorke for not taking care of your seed) and she is also the main breadwinner of a broken family. Her husband left her when she was adamant that she did not wish to end the marriage. Did she feel sorry for herself ? No, she spent a few weeks getting drunk in Marbella and then she emerged, feisty, fighting and back in form with a new boyfriend at her side. She was not born the most stunning woman in the world, nor the most intelligent, nor the sexiest or the most privileged, yet she has managed to be completely self made and to have created a market out of herself spawning homeware, clothing, No 1 Albums, bestselling books and reality TV shows. I think Katie Price is a feminist icon because if she can do it, the rest of us have no excuse.

The feminist movement in the early 1990’s were defined by a number of key issues: women’s suffrage, gender neutrality, equal work for equal pay, free choice of women to their reproductive rights but increasingly, women are disappointed with the fruits of the spoils. Men routinely deny that there is a glass ceiling, but the miniscule numbers of senior employees in corporate UK betray the lie. We have been told to work hard and assiduously and we will have the dream husband, the dream family and the dream house in the country, only to find that we are still left with the lion’s share of the housework and childcare whilst that man that we love so much chases DDs and salivates over Botox enhanced, silicon filled blondes. We were taught to be independent, to value the fact that we could purchase our own homes, our own cars and pay our own bills: no one told us that this was a stupid strategy. As Lil Kim says in the Moulin Rouge- why spend mine when I could spend yours? Meanwhile the girls at school who happily used their best assets and gave it up to the right bankers, lawyers, and IT personnel are enjoying the very same spoils, except for free and without the hassle of bank accounts, investments, mortgages and the like.

Katie Price has turned this form of delusional thankless feminism on its head. She has is a cacophony of contradictions. She has had an abortion, had three children and is undergoing fertility treatment to have another. They will probably have three different fathers, turning the idea of the nuclear birth family upside down and on its head. She has, to some extent, reinvented herself from the rubber clad, Lolita inspired pin-up of a Page Three Girl into a viable business enterprise, merchandising herself and her children. Nothing is sancrosanct, nothing is secret. Katie Price has cleverly made herself the brand and is marketing it (even unapologetically whoring it) with passion and enthusiasm. She is strikingly honest about her capabilities, surprisingly optimistic despite all the negative press, and has a dogged determinism and sense of not caring about the opposition that we only latterly see in men. She exploits the lad’s mags with knowing prowess- a pout here, a wink there, a bat of the eyelid. She can become the sex kitten at the drop of her knickers but can also be versatile enough to sell children’s equestrian gear in pretty pink. Isn’t this even better than Germaine Greer? A woman exercising her choice in all aspects of her life, refusing to be defined by the views of others and eking out a name and a place for herself? Katie Price has worked quite hard for her cars, her house, her horseboxes and her life but crucially, has done so doing it on her own terms, at her own pace and with her own vision. There are partners who are earning millions in brown suits at multinational law firms who cannot say the same.

Some may say that her overt sexualisation is actually demeaning traditional concepts of feminism and by continuing to pose for men’s magazines and on the covers of Nuts and Zoo, she reinforces stereotypes of women as objects. I beg to differ. Katie Price has taken her sexuality by the vagina and has released herself from the claws of society’s expectations of what is a “good woman”. She is the head of her household and plays a dominant role in her relationships. And there’s the rub- Katie Price probably best epitomises the central thesis of Germaine Greer’s The Female Eunuch. By her failure to fit squarely into the traditional, suburban, nuclear family which is both repressive and devitalising, she has become a metaphor for our times where women resist being separated from their sexuality. Katie Price more than owns her libido and her desire; she cognitively associates herself with it, and manipulates it for her own benefit. Isn’t this the antithesis of the female eunuch?

Not everyone is born to be a suffragette. Not every individual will fight for parliamentary freedoms or be the first to go to University or to enter into the professions. And we don’t all want to be pink pony toting women in a sea of hair extensions, hobbling with six inch heels to a celebrity event. But if a woman chooses this, and makes a commercial enterprise out of it, I am surprised that this is considered counter-feminism and counter the movements that preached that we were all needed to reclaim ownership of our choices.

Ten minus One Equals Nine

2010-11-06T00:34:00.001Z

The heartless, baseless and utterly stupid comments of Kamla Persad-Bissessar in response to the devastation wreaked upon other Caribbean islands by Hurricane Tomas have almost left us”small islanders” in fits of almost epileptic quantums. That a leader of an island, that a leader of a sister Caribbean island at that, who is poised to take a leading role in the integration of the region should boldly blurt out in the aftermath of an humanitarian crisis, in the fashion of a tactless undiplomatic ignoramus, that any aid delivered to the islands would be contingent on some benefit to Trinidad and Tobago, proves to me, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that some individuals, whilst claiming to be educated, are actually dumb as shit. I take no prisoners- Kamla is a jackass of the higher order.

I was angry, on a deeper level, because this is Trinidad. This was the Trinidad of Eric Williams who was a beacon of Pan Africanism and regionalism, a forebearer of the Caribbean integrationist movement, the godfather of the Maurice Bishops and the petit frère of the Castros. This was the Trinidad and Tobago of the Spanish settlers who had no experience in tilling the land and where the slaves of Grenada and St. Vincent were exported to till the huge canefields of Curepe. This was the Trinidad and Tobago that many islanders migrated to in the early 1940’s around the period of war and who settled in Fyzabad and in other neighbouring districts to build Trinidad’s infrastructure. This was the Triniadad we Grenadians bestowed our greatest exports upon: Uriah Buzz Butler, the blueprint for Caribbean trade unionists and the Mighty Sparrow, Calypso King of the World. We even gave the island of Trinidad carnival. Prior to the French Grenadian settlers on the island, Trinidad had no Carnival. That is a documented fact.

On a more personal level, this was the Trinidad that I ate, drank and lived everyday. I watched Gayelle TV with Uncle Fabien in the evenings. My Ipod is filled with the latest tracks from Machel Montano, Lord Kitchener and Faye Ann Lyons. I just purchased a ticket to see Destra and Saucy Wow tomorrow. This was the Trinidad into which I pumped thousands of dollars into the local economy to jump up in the heat for two days on the road in a cheaply bedecked pair of panties and a bra. I paid for the discomfort. Trinidad was ever omniscient in the Dixee and Crix crackers on which I was weaned, the Fruta, Trinidad Orange Juice and Orchard that I begged my mum to buy me in place of the sweet Swivel oranges laden on the trees outside, and the Mackeson and Stag that I now drink in place of our own local Carib. We feature Trinidadian artists in our local carnivals, we patronise Trinidad brands, we even read Trinidadian tabloids like the Punch. The CIA Factbook shows that the Caribbean purchases hundreds of millions of products from Trinidad and Tobago. Sure, the United States , Spain and Germany are amongst its biggest trading partners, but our contributions are certainly not minimal. The net gain of our generational straddling of the twin island Republic is that the economy is thriving and its people are a colourful amalgam crossing cultures and race, so much so that its President takes this for granted.

I am not upset in the manner of a petulant naive teen oblivious to the fact that deals are made via the back door on international aid projects. However, these are often on projects which have long term ramifications, never the initial response to a cry for help. There is a reason why the world help has only four letters, it is not meant to rebound to the donor. I strongly believe that an offer of conditional help to a country on its knees in times of crisis is not actual help at all. I am also annoyed by the silence of Trinidadians on the issue, as they should know better and in their refusal to speak out on Kamla’s misdemeanour, they tacitly agree. Quelle fuckerie. It is as if they really believe in the propaganda, that the other islands are the perpetual buskers in the underground of CSME and the OECS. This is very far from the truth. Whilst we are small, the islands do not survive by the largesse of Trinidad and Tobago, nor do we consider it to be an ATM machine. St. Lucia, Barbados, Jamaica and even the smaller islands of Anguilla, St. Kitts and Antigua do exceedingly well from the tourist markets. In contrast, Trinidad has been allowed to benefit from and exploit Grenada’s maritime resources for a number of years.

Kamla’s approach smacks of someone who has only had the benefit of learning and not an education; it is not a wonder to me that she was only able to soar to the dizzy heights of Norwood Technical College in SE27, an institution that was later scrapped. It is also ironic that she herself benefited from the regionalism that she seems to deplore. After receiving her teaching certificate, she was graciously accepted by St. Andrew’s High School in Jamaica as a lecturer, and later by the Jamaica College of Insurance.

I am more concerned however by what some say this aggressive and isolationist statement means for the Caribbean, for Caricom in terms of the integrationist movement in the Caribbean. The Caribbean Court of Justice is meant to be housed in Trinidad and Tobago. The very principle of neighbourliness seems to have been lost on TNT and it seems that the people there (based on the ignorant comments in the Trinidad Express) are vehement that they do not wish to be their brothers’ keepers, particularly when the islands are down and out, handicapped or crippled. It is a damning indictment of the short sightedness of the region’s leaders when even Europe the economic powerhouse that it is, is creating and strengthening alliances among its Member States, and in India and China. Instead, small Caribbean countries, which in the grand scheme of things, play miniscule roles in the global economic landscape, have a puffed up sense of their own importance and start conditioning their measly dollars on vacuous ideas like benefit. Dollars which I may remind Trinidad and Tobago is so devalued compared to the EC dollar that they can keep it! We doh want it! What hubris! However, I am not convinced that this says anymore than display Trinidad’s immaturity in its refusal to enter the spirit of the regional effort, and unlike Williams, I think this time we are not willing to let one spoilt petulant child spoil the family. I say let's march ahead without Trinidad. Jamaica has learnt its lesson- yes, its economy has advanced but it has ate humble pie and has realised that it needs its neighbours.

To Kamla, I have only eight words : “the consciousness of well doing is ample reward”. This was said very often by the Grenadian Principal of my school, who was sent to rescue a Trinidad Convent, no less.

Can't Say Fairer than That

2010-10-31T10:15:00.000Z

The RER comes to a shuddering stop. The doors open and the mademoiselle in the clipped accent says charmingly “Bienvenue a Chatelet Les Halles” but there is not much to welcome. I can see it in my mind’s eye. The exit to Rue du Reamur Sebastopol. The swinging doors where the same blind man with the uneven legs sits soliciting funds in a grey bucket sits, permanently stationed. The queues of African men and women to Ligne 4, heading to Porte de Clignancourt and the waves of French Mesdames and students headed the opposite way to Porte d’Orleans. You stay in Les Halles and you can either go up the stairs and be confronted by the huge H&M on the right or Le Fnac on the left. You can walk a bit further on and find the Starbucks and a cinema, playing the latest American flicks in VO (version originale). The actors in this mise en scene are always there, young extravagantly dressed young men and women, wearing the latest urban styles, expensive baskets- Nike or Adidas, congregating before a jaunt to KFC. They do not meet in Chatelet by accident, they meet in Chatelet because it is where the RERs from the outer regions of Paris intersect; they bus themselves in, by the trainload, every Saturday to the epicentre, as if to stake some adverse possessary right to this arrondissement.

The latest cap on housing benefit has led to outcries that London will be soon like Paris in that the suburbs will be ghettoised and the areas in the middle of town would be reserved for the uber- rich, not even the Camerons and the Spencers of this world, but maybe, even more frighteningly for the bourgeoisie- the Baidikovas, the Assaubayevs and the Amin Al-Shareefs who are only in residence 90 days a year, lest they be asked to pay UK tax. Others say well so be it. There are millions of hard working men and women who cannot afford to live in these affluent areas, and who make do with going to work each day from less than perfect conditions, facing a long commute from Romford, Bexleyheath and even as far away as Folkestone. My first PA was one of them. She did a two hour commute each day, twice a day to get into work. It certainly seems absurd that taxpayers should be asked to pay upwards £104,000 a year, so that individuals who are supported by the State could live within a hop skip and a jump of the City’s and the West End’s amenities. Is the price of social diversity necessarily so high?

I know that we are hypocrites in London. We want equality but we are not prepared to bear the inconveniences. We admire the village character of Paris but we also believe that everyone has a right to his/her betting shops and branch of Morleys. We believe in the welfare state until the recipients of benefits live in nicer houses than we do, in nicer areas than we do.

We certainly do not wish for another Clichy-sous-Bois, where the police are afraid to enter except with bullet-proof jackets, and where young men in hoods, with sharpened faces and razor tough glints patrol the streets. We do not wish for the outskirts of London to become synonymous with severe impoverishment, segregation and gang violence all because unemployment has hit critical masses. We do not wish that in a few years, Clegg and Cameron start speaking of the “racailles” on the outskirts who infest the good town of London. Nonetheless, where I depart from Tolynbee and the rest of the Guardian leftists is that I genuinely do not believe that this is likely. Contrary to Boris Johnson’s politically ambitious insinuation that the cap on benefits would result in a Kosovo style cleansing, the statistics show that very few persons will be affected by this measure; the estimate is barely 5,000. A cap of £200 a week means that enough poorer people will still get to live in the fancy areas in wealthy boroughs, but maybe that they won’t leave in the most luxurious townhouses with Saatchi and Lawson as neighbours. And isn’t that okay?

I know that lots of us love the idea that the Sloanites and Muswellites and Hampsteadths have had to learn to live with persons of different backgrounds like anyone else because the council flats are almost superimposed onto their end of terraces, but this is only a figment of our imagination- Londoners are already strongly separated by class and by income and most of the individuals who live in these areas hardly even look at the “hoodies” down their street, much less to integrate and to live together in inner city “one-love” harmony. It is clear that out inner city experiment does not work and that it only serves to highlight the glaring gaps between rich and poor in areas like Islington and Notting Hill. There is already a sub-ghettoisation which already occurs. Lewisham, Southwark and Greenwich councils houses a substantial proportion of workers who cannot afford to live in the nicer parts of town.

Fact is that the proposed reforms will see hundreds of thousands of people facing less than a £20 decrease in housing benefit and if the odd anomalies of councils paying for seven bedroom houses in Maida Vale at £4000 a week cease to exist, I can’t say fairer than that. I simply cannot see the case for taxpayers funding housing at levels which ordinary policemen, doctors and lawyers cannot afford. In fact, many of us started off by living in shared accommodation in nicer areas, and if we wanted to live on our own, we decided to live further out of the city of London, eastwards and southwards, in Kent and Essex. It is said that these measures will only affect 692,000 persons in total living in private rented accommodation paid for councils, and if the decreases are only modest, I cannot fathom how this will result in a mass exodus. Social housing in the middle of London will continue to exist, and rightfully so.

We do, however, need to be vigilant. These cuts come at a time when hundreds of thousands of public jobs are being made redundant. There are also corresponding cuts to Job Seeker’s Allowance, and a change in the index on which benefits are being pegged. In many cases, individuals are not being able to find jobs because they do not exist. It is tempting to label job seekers as “scroungers” but when individuals are on £67 a week, out of which bills and other essentials need to be paid, it does not take a genius to work out that the cumulative effect of all these measures may just be a run on the poor.

Are we aggressive?

2010-10-28T23:29:00.000+01:00

The BBC has not always managed to work its way past stereotypes so I believe that we were all elated when the first winner of The Apprentice was a young, black man who proved that the words diversity and merit were not mutually exclusive.

I should open by way of disclaimer by saying that I have mixed feelings about the show- how is it that a reality talent show focussing on making people better entrepreneurs has as its prize being someone else’s employee? This, in my opinion, is contradictory, counter intuitive and reductive. Surely, a better plan would be to give those individuals the backing, financial assistance and advice to put in the hard graft into their own business ideas? This is why I believe that for all the braggadocio and smarmy sales pitch of the wannabe young Sugars, none of them must be particularly bright. Unless, maybe, this is just a way to improve their marketability (I call this doing a “Kate Walsh”): the ultimate aim is not winning the job, but to use it as a stepping stone toward different opportunities.

I digress, in any event. I took particular umbrage with the show’s comments over the past couple of weeks. The women’s group were a lesson in inefficiency, but as usual, this did not reflect on their own personalities, no- it was an indictment of all women in boardrooms across Britain. These gaggling and cackling hyenas were treated as if they represented the best of womankind, something that did not even dawn on Suralan to say applied to the men at all. The males on the show fail on their own merits and for themselves. If they are dickheads they are dickheads. They do not embarrass “mankind” as a group with their hilarious, inept antics. The fact that the women are singled out in this manner, by no less than a woman, is indicting. Don’t we have enough guilt and burdens already?

I was also taken aback when Joanna Riley was called aggressive by her colleagues and by the Sugarites. Tactless, yes. Opinionated and stubborn, yes. An asshole. Possibly. Aggressive? I certainly did not see her inspiring or threatening violence in any kind, or intimidating others in such a way to inspire a fear of being confronted or attacked. After all, this is a show which values a cut-throat, go-getting attitude; is it surprising then the Type A personalities who might think of being a contestant would have more balls than a juggler?

I have an almost switchblade reaction to the word aggressive when it is used to describe a black woman. It is all too trite, too easy, too clichéd. The word aggressive is loaded it brings together all the worst parts of anger, edginess and danger, much in the fashion of a bitch marking its territory and waiting to give birth. This is the favourite word utilised in disciplinary meetings, reviews and appraisals, bandied about so much as the word of choice when there is nothing else to say or to be commented upon, hurled against that person who would dare be even slightly contrarian in a conservative meeting environment that we eventually retire into a shadow of ourselves and retreat to become less us, less overt. This is not the first time that the image of the angry black woman has played out on the Apprentice- we were all hooked on the USA version featuring the Crown Princess of Mean- Omarosa. Omarosa was painted as an aggressive go-getter, the only other side to her two dimensional character was her love of “drama”, another poignant stereotype.

I do not deny that there are obvious cultural differences at play. In the Caribbean and in Africa, we often use elaborate gestures to communicate our respective positions on an issue. In a market stall or during a simple conversation exchange, voices can become raised, people can become shrill and the debate would still not be characterised as an argument. In a middle class milieu, it may be that these very same cultural traits can be interpreted very differently. Passion can sometimes be a solid indicator of competence but if this passion, however, is interpreted as confrontational, then this perception is often what matters.

Young Joanna Riley seems to have made a way in the world for herself. She is the mother of twins who found herself in a dead-end job and was inspired to start up a cleaning company in her hometown so that she would be able to provide a better life for her children. She rose above the cliché. What use is there, then, in painting her with another? She appears to be bright and personable and maybe she is slightly rough around the edges, probably because she has had to fight hard and rough to achieve most things that she has wanted out of life. She reminds me a lot of a younger me- spirited, brutally and shockingly honest, and emboldened. She said a few things I would have said- no, one should not apologise for airing one’s views or giving input, and yes, I too expected the other girls to nail the presentation- what’s aggressive about those views even though they were said with a flourish? There was no screaming, kicking, gnashing of teeth. I am disappointed that now she appears to have retreated into a wet, boring carapace for fear of being misinterpreted. How many others in boardrooms across New York, London, Atlanta and Los Angeles, have lost their fire, lost their spirit and have become muted former versions of themselves to succeed in a corporate environment? Too many, perhaps. I say a silent prayer for their (maybe our?) resurrection.

The Political Calypso

2010-10-24T11:51:00.000+01:00

All those who promise free and just debate

Then blow up radicals to save the state,

Who allow, in democracy’s defence,

A parliament of spiked heads on a fence

All you go bawl out “Spikes things aint so bad”

This ain’t the Dark Ages

This is Trinidad.

Derek Walcott in his seminal poem- The Spoiler’s Return brilliantly and beautifully captures the role of the calypsonian in the Caribbean political climate. Spoiler returns from the dead sitting high upon a bridge in Laventille lamenting that something is rotten in the State. He traces the stench to the inept political figureheads of the day and outlines their hypocrisy and eagerness to hide the true state of affairs from their constituents. In so doing, he becomes and acts as agent for the opposition, a grassroots dissenter who is at the same time the voice of the people and his own voice.

The calypsonian as de facto parliamentarian has not always existed. The development of the calypsonian as the one of the main players in the political landscape marks the evolution of calypso from a medium of entertainment, to a social agent for political change. This is the political calypso- the calypso that transcends the realm of calypsonian as spectatator and reporter, into agitator and a veritable opposition.

In this paper, I focus first on the evolution of the political calypsonian in Trinidad & Tobago, not because the politicisation of calypso did not occur in the other islands, but because Trinidad & Tobago has witnessed a traceable leap in the development of its artform. I discuss briefly the role of the other islands, moving on to address the role of the calypsonian in the UK.

The Political Landscape in Trinidad and Tobago in the 1940’s

The political landscape in Trinidad and Tobago in 1940’s was characterised and influenced by wartime infrastructure. Various areas in Trinidad were leased to create naval bases in the area around Chaguaramas. It was also the period of the Labour riots. These riots of 1937 spearheaded by T.U.B. Butler (an immigrant from the neighbouring island of Grenada) led to the formation of the modern Trade Union movement. Butler was jailed from 1937 to 1939, but was re-arrested when the United Kingdom entered World War II and jailed for the duration of the war. After his release in 1945 Butler reorganised his political party, the British Empire Citizens' and Workers' Home Rule Party. This party won a majority in the 1950 General Elections.

It was within this climate of war and repression and the burgeoning movement for workers’ right that early calypso came to develop a political voice of its own.

The Early Years of Calypso

In the early 1940’s the calypsonian was limited by his role as entertainer. In fact, calypso was only just then emerging as a separate genre. This was the era of the chantuelles- singers who chanted alongside the stickfighters and spurred them into action and composed ditties for various masqueraders. In fact, most calypsonians were chantuelles who derived their songs from the chant of the Kalenda bands. Most chantuelles preferred, however, to sing for the upper classes and identified themselves as heroes of war. Calypsonians, on the other hand were associated with prostitution, the life of the lower class and carnival jamettes .

Calypsonians were seen by many in society, and particularly by the Roman Catholic population, as sinners and propagators of the devil’s work. The calypsos were often lewd and crude as they pandered to popular opinion.

One such calypso was sang by the Roaring Lion in the 1920’s:

“Nettie Nettie
Give me the thing that you got in yuh belly
If yuh cyan stand de digging
Give me back me shilling”

Sociologist Pete Simon recalls the “fly-by-night, wine, women and song calypsos" of the calypsonians of that era. Smut was a feature of early calypso, the lyrics depicted the art of sex and the storylines were generally obscene.

Other than smut, the topics dealt mostly with various elements of life in post-war Trinidad & Tobago and world events. Lord Beginner crooned “Nora the War is Over” and the Duke of Iron regaled with a song dedicated to Mickey Cipriani. Women still featured, however. Lord Invader sang “Fan me Saga Boy” to great acclaim and the Duke of Iron had a very catchy tune known colloquially as “Matilda”.

However, during these early years, there remained a few calypsos which broke the mould and were sang in the vein of political commentary

“ When they say calypsonians musn’t mix with politics
Ah does watch them fix
Still they want calypsonians to redden up dey finger
But that’s only for kicks
You see every period before an election
You could hear them begging for vote from calypsonian
You see me so longs’t I vote
Ah go sing on dem political cutthroats
Because in this government have another government
Undermining the real government
In that government have some other government
Only retarding improvement
All dey mean is calypsonians must sing on bacchanal
Or make roadmarch for them to go jump for carnival
But not me, ay, Ah fus ah love mi country
So ah go sing on everybody”

During the late 1940’s calypso ceased to become primarily a form of amusement. It had begun to emerge as a critical and potent genre in engaging public opinion.

The PNM Years

The 1956 General Elections saw the emergence of the People's National Movement under the leadership of Eric Williams. The PNM, opposed by Dr. Rudranath Capildeo of the Democratic Labor Party and Ashford Sinanan, who later founded the West Indian National Party (WINP) continued to dominate politics in Trinidad and Tobago until 1986. The party won every General Election between 1956 and 1981.

After the 1956 General Elections, Dr Williams was hugely protected by the calypsonians, largely because he dared to stamp on the old ideas of colonialism and to relegate old ideas of the inferiority of the black man. The PNM years were characterised by an uneasy symbiosis. Indeed, at the opening of the 1957 Tent Season, the Original Young Brigade Singers including Sparrow and Striker feted Dr Williams’ achievements. Sparrow’s William the Conqueror is probably best known:

I am no politician
But I could understand
If wasn’t for Brother Willie
And his ability
Trinidad wouldn’t neither go nor come
We used to vote for food and rum
But nowadays we eating all the Indians and dem
Now we voting PNM
Praise little Eric rejoice and be glad
We have a brighter future in Trinidad
PNM
Ain’t got nobody like them
Cause they have the best leader
William the Conqueror.

It was Sparrow again who leapt to Williams’ defence in “Leave de Doctor alone” when rumours of Williams’ secret marriage was featured in the press. Sparrow in fact played a critical role as a supporting agent in the PNM political machinery. Sparrow continued to denigrate the opposition and the trade unions of the day whenever there was any showing of non-support for Williams:

In his Sewerage Talk he sang:

No gas today
No phone tomorrow
What next I don’t know
No drain digging
No rubbish cleaning
Is only corbeaux working the island as you see
Suffering politically
Because the present government
Have some stupid opponent
Not one is intelligent

In general, the calypso fraternity, belonging to the underclass of the day, was largely sympathetic to the PNMs’ political agenda and this led to the relationship between calypsonian and politician ceasing to mature. There were a series of pro PNM propaganda calypsos such as PAYE sang by Sparrow in 1958 which began with an anti income tax agenda but ended with the message that it was going to assist in job creation.

That is not to say that calypsonians, including Sparrow, did not openly criticise some of the PNM’s policies. Later, in the early 1970’s, as Williams lost popularity, there were a series of calypsos which were critical of the party- Maestro’s “To Sir with Love” and “Dread Man” in 1977 and Relator’s “Our Children Deserve Better”, are notable examples. However, a crucial turning point occurred after the death of Eric Williams.

The Turning Point

Williams died in office in 1981. The PNM remained in power following the death of Dr. Williams, but its 30 year rule ended in 1986 when the National Alliance for Reconstruction (NAR), a multi-ethnic coalition aimed at uniting Trinidadians of Afro-Trinidadian and Indo-Trinidadian descent, won a landslide victory by capturing 33 of 36 seats.

This victory, some say, did not occur by accident and it is was from that moment the power of calypso in the political arena became clear.

Chambers’ popularity fell to ebb when a calypsonian locally known as Gypsy sang “The Sinking Ship” in 1986.

The Trinidad, a luxury liner

Is sailing the Caribbean sea

With an old captain named Eric Williams

For years sailed smooth and free

But sadly Eric Williams passed away
The ship hit rough water that day

And someone turned the bridge over

To a captain named Chambers

Made blood crawl, things start to fall

(Chorus)

Captain, the ship is sinking

Captain, the seas are rough

Shall we abandon ship?

Or shall we stay on it
And perish slow? We don’t know
We don’t know

Captain you tell me what to do

This calypso was seminal not just in its message but in its style and in the way it was catapulted into the centre of political action. The NAR advertised its meetings with the words “ The Ship is Sinking” whilst PNM t-shirts read “This Ship is not Sinking”. To his credit, Chambers did not take personal offence to the song and invited Gypsy onto his personal platform. Gypsy said that he willed the song to bring Trinidad & Tobago out of its political apathy. Regardless of intention, this song became the pinnacle and reference point for political calypsos for the next few years. It is to be however noted that the tone of the song is respectful and the imagery of the double entendre is used to carry the message.

The Modern Political Calypso

The duality in meaning, and the dialectical culture of the political calypso means that the double entendre was prized and the most utilized medium of expression.

This is not particularly so with the modern genre of political calypso. The new political calypso uses the art of direct questioning to engage directly with the objects of its discourse, much in the form of an open parliamentary debate.

In The Stage is Mine, Sugar Aloes sings:

“ But even though they chastise me
They can’t take away this voice

It is very plain to see that

I am the People’s Choice

And I’m going to jam them hard

Anytime they cross the line

Commonsense must tell them

The Stage is Mine”

These lyrics show the calypsonian in open confrontational mode, declaring a form of verbal warfare with his opponent. He becomes at once the opposition and the free press, the leader of his own political party and a type of Ombudsman who will reign in the leaders of the day. He is trusted to lead the fight and valiantly, courageously and openly assumes battle.

Sugar Aloes later sings in “Never Again”

“Civil disobedience that’s Panday’s requests
Encouraging his people to incite social unrest
Use allyuh vehicles, block roads and pavementte
He want them to march in town and shutdown the government
He just want to get back in power, so he doh care who the hell get kill
Until we have constitutional reform, he not supporting no Bill

Panday is a demon, who come straight from the depths of hell

When he’ll face reality, well boy only time will tell”

These new kinds of political calypsos are detailed and biting and do not operate through the bias of a veil. The political calypsonian openly reveals his opposition and attacks him aggressively, without restraint. The new political calypso is now characterised as being slightly rough around the edges, and though the format is loud and often vulgar, it is only ever expected to be true, aligned with the position on parliamentary privilege.

The Political Calypso in other islands

In other Caribbean islands, the political commentary also kept pace with developments in Trinidad and Tobago.

In Grenada, for instance, social agitators for change like the Black Wizard led the way in the early 1980’s with songs like “I am the IMF” which verbally assaulted the government of the day’s policies on debt restructuring. These early calypsos followed the dialectic of the mask or the frame.

In the early 1990’s there was a critical shift in the political commentary found in the islands. Singers like Finley Jeffrey “Scholar” and Raymond Matthew “Beast” were early proponents of the new form of calypso which focused on hard-hitting politically biting songs. Scholar’s “Prefer to Go to Hell” marked the development of the political commentary as a virtual replacement of the opposition in Grenada during the 12 years of rule of the New National Party, and during the period when the opposition won no votes in the island. These calypsos were punchy and the focus was placed on “plain speech”. The calypsonian became the voice of the people in the absence of an opposition and played a crucial role in the preservation and maintenance of democracy and free speech.

This is also the same in islands like St. Vincent and Barbados, where local calypsonians continue to see their role as de facto representatives of the people.

The Political Calypso in Britain

The calypso culture in Britian has evolved over slowly over a period of time, but only significantly within the boundaries of the Notting Hill Carnival and the London Calypso Tent. Contrary to the Caribbean where calypso is the national music of choice, calypso is marginalised in the society and as a consequence, so is its role. To Caribbean migrants, who are twice diasporised, the calypso enjoys a cult status but to the rest of Britain, who are mainly onlookers, the calypso remains a genre which sits on the fringes of British society.

Composers like Lord Cloak and the Mighty Tiger in the early years, crystallized the genre as a source of entertainment and social commentary. In the early years, Londoners starved for news, also tended to focus the calypso on issues experienced at home. However, others, like Alexander the Great began very early on to sing about issues that were relevant to the UK context and actively agitated for change in this respect.

In more recent years, there has been a decisive focus on the social issues faced in Britain and calypsos on political issues have been sung by the new generation of artists such as Brown Sugar, Helena B, and Wen D. Some posit that this is because they are becoming more and more comfortable with the United Kingdom as home and stake their rights to comment on the issues and structures that affect them.

The political calypso in the UK has not, however, taken off where the contemporaries in the Caribbean have left it. The calypsos are more somber in mood and respectful in tone. G String’s “Obama” (2009) and Akima Paul’s “The Audacity of Despair” (2009) do not possess the gritty tones and hard hitting punch-lines that the political commentaries of the Caribbean.

The question is do they need to? In a country where democracy is clearly enshrined and free speech is indeed free, what becomes of the role of the calypsonian? Where is the vacuum he is trying to fill? The author would suggest that the calypsonian maybe cannot speak for the vast majority of British subjects who are already ably represented in the Westminster model, but he or she can speak for the new British subjects.

Perhaps the calypsonian perhaps can be the voice of the immigrant as his role unfurls in British society? Maybe the calypsonian can speak for the Romanians, the Poles and the Kazakhs too as we all play a part within this Diaspora? Perhaps calypso can become the voice of the unrepresented much as it is in the Caribbean, and it is possible that it will develop beyond the confines of the tent into a valuable agitator for change?

Photo from Joseph Jones photography.

A Perpetual State of Servitude?

2010-10-17T11:54:00.000+01:00

Blank invests blank into flailing Caribbean economy. This story has become tired, ran with the sagging perpetuality of a Latin telenovela, loaded with the characteristic sub plots of suspense, intrigue and of course, the disappointing denoument. The first blank could be one of any number of foreign investors. The second blank can range from hundreds of millions to, in some cases, a negative sum, when taking into account the demands of tax breaks, reverse kickbacks and multiple concessions. The story has been the same for a number of years but greedy villageois politicians never get tired of its charm. Outsiders profess to pump millions into the Caribbean economy and in blind and empty faith, we sell our best and finite resources, our collective patrimoine, for thirty pieces of silver and promises of another Ritz Carlton or Sandals.

I do not say this to say that I have anything against foreign investment. Even London, with its healthy financial veins, prospers through the biais of the arteries of Russian and Arab influence. Foreign investment, if well targeted and managed, can be the instrumental lifeblood of any economy. What perturbs me, is the overenthusiastic proliferation of this investment: virtually none of it is local or homegrown. It says a lot about our pysche as our people if we are content to remain perpertual grafters, unwilling to peddle, sell or grow an idea, and always uninspired to discover and build upon avenues for growth. Is the influence of the slave trade and indentured labour so great that we are unwilling to be entrepeneurs and bosses and are content to remain in a constant state of servitude to someone else's ideas?

The Caribbean, as a burgeoning economy, is awash with opportunities. The deregulation of the telecommunications industry has led to unbridled opportunities in this sector. Where are the mobile phone middlemen? Where are the Carphone Warehouses and Phones 4 U of this industry? So far we are content to let the duopoly rest with Bmobile and Digicel who thrive on the pay as you go model. There is no one, at present, pushing the contractual model with any ferocity. Similarly, I only know of one professional telephone "unlocker" in Grenada, and virtually no shops specialising in technical repair.

There are similar parallels in the hotel industry. So far in Grenada, we have been content to rest on our laurels to market the typical white sand beach experience that we believe that tourists seek. It took a couple from the UK to develop a boutique industry around Petite Anse in the North, to let us realise that our potential is not just limited to Grande Anse Beach. There are still no backpacker hostels, and throughout the Caribbean we do not have the equivalent of a lastminute.com, encouraging island hopping and promoting small hotels and industries. The fashion industry is not dissimilar. Clothing is a major item of expenditure for Caribbean youth. There are many "boutiques" specialising in mass manufactured items of clothing imported from China or India via Miami or New York, but there are virtually no individuals who have forged those links directly with the manufacturers. On an even more promising level, where are our couturiers and our seamstresses who will specialise in bespoke Caribbean fashion design? They do not exist; they are all chasing the service dream instead of the liberating proprietor model- studying to become lawyers, cooks, chefs, landscapers, architects, all the same fricking thing.

So many of our resources go unnoticed and undeveloped. We export cocoa at less than 80 cents for one pound when the final product is made into fine chocolate which is sold for more than ten times the cost of the original raw material. This is why I salute the Grenada Chocolate Company, but then again, it took a clever New Yorker with a dream to make it happen. Where are us in this equation? There are so many opportunities for well managed micro industries, but we appear to lack the commercial nous and the enquiring and independent mindsets to manage and direct our own resources.

This is why, in one sense I welcome Richard Branson's announcement that Virgin Unite will be launching a Branson Centre of Entrepeneurship in the Caribbean. The irony is not lost on me that again, it takes someone who was born outside of the Caribbean to support entrepeneurship in the Caribbean. Nonetheless, it seems to be a positive step in the right direction- instead of training our young people to become better maitre d's and bellboys and maids as continues to be the case, 18-35 year olds will be provided with support and capital to set up their own small businesses with an emphasis on sustainable tourism. The centre will be based in Montego Bay, Jamaica but there will be satellite centres in different parts of the Caribbean. Richard Branson's latest brainchild is the follow-up of a similar centre in Johannesburg in South Africa where young people have been encouraged to build start ups in IT, fashion and the like. It remains to be seen what the uptake will be. For instance, Branson appears to require a proven entrepeneurship track record, which many who are resigned to the fate of having a "good job" will struggle to fill. Will this ultimately be a gimmick and a marketing opportunity for Virgin Holidays?

Either way, with or without Branson, it is imperative that we develop the modus operandi of self sufficiency. It is not enough to simply hope for a job and to assist in the execution of an idea. We must be willing to hold our countries fate by the balls and to play active roles in developing our economies. The rallying cry is often "E doh have work". I ask then, why not? If there are no jobs, it must be because we are not creating them, and if we are not creating them, then it is because we are not creative enough. The Caribbean must cease to be the epicentre of service, not only because we are not really good at it (a separate blogpost) but because it creates a serious culture of dependency and "gimme" that is not ultimately healthy for our development. I really believe that it makes a mockery of emancipation if we are content to live and to exist in a perpetual state of servitude.

Marche!

2010-10-07T23:54:00.000+01:00

*I have been inundated at work and in the middle of producing a paper for a calypso conference. So as not to let the blog stagnate I have posted a poem this week that I wrote a couple of months ago.*

Alone,

The brute brown beast barked and whelped

In beautiful anger within its encyclopaedic white-hot cage

Enraged,

The yellows of its rumshot eyes fluoresced and smarted

as the ghost of eternal chalkdust mocked it,

Haunted,

sips of water splayed from its yelping tongue

as the corners of its black mouth drizzled.

Its nose almost flared blood at a slight misdemeanour

(We had arrived 1 minute late perhaps),

as it frightened the rest of the young pack before it.

I was a small child but I was not afraid of this old mangy speckled animal.

Marche Dog! Allez bête!

It knew that it liked to eat its young

And I had once watched those brown dirty grizzly paws

Try to dance across my sister’s chest.

The old dog snarled some more

Rendering naked its tray of scissoring molars

Its long salmon tongue forking and darting

As if to render me afraid.

But I was not afraid and I held the stand of its gaze.

Daring it to pounce, daring the old stink dog to bite.

Review: The Help

2010-09-26T11:24:00.001+01:00

I picked up The Help in the departures lounge over the holiday season, slightly sceptical about a book written by a white woman about the lives of domestic servants in the Deep South. I mean what could she really know right? Her parents hired black domestics and I remembered watching Sarafina- my prejudice was against this book and I bought it against my better judgment. I had just spent almost half of my allocated spending money on two dresses in the sale at French Connection and a pair of shoes (not in the sale) at LK Bennett and thought that a good, interesting book would lure me away from the shops. Not really, I still managed to buy an ill fitting suit at Ted Baker (returned) and spent most of my time stroking the Mulberry Bayswater in patent leather (wish list). I digress- needless to say The Help lay unopened in the bottom of my travel bag. I finally picked it up on my commute and I was so glad that I gave it a chance.

It is easy in the whirling maelstrom of the election of Barack Obama, to remember that life was awfully different only a short time ago. It was only fifty years ago that black domestic servants were not allowed to live in the same quarters or areas as their bosses and had segregated facilities, it was less than 4 decades ago that lots of young black men were killed and their murders were never investigated, and that based on the colour of their skins black people were not allowed in the halls of any of the finest educational establishments.

The storyline of The Help is simple enough. A young white fledgling writer decides to compile an anonymous book about the lives of black maids- there is no great suspense, no grand denouement, no thick coded sub plot. Sure, there are the narrator’s dalliances with dating a politician’s son, the mystery of the lost maid (Constantine), and the characterisations of the rich southern elite women are not anything far from the expected and ordinary.

Kathryn Stockett delicately chronicles the experience of Abileen, Minny and her friends who worked in the grand houses of the landed families of the Deep South with dignity, and without the pathos of looking through the lenses of the situation after the fact. Kathryn uses Skeeter to tell these stories: she is an internal dissident and a woman on the borders of the bridge playing, ball attending, handbag toting, curler wearing Southern Society who herself is asserting and climbing her own mountains to establish herself as a writer in a male dominated environment. Confined to writing a column about cleaning- a servant’s domain, she is metaphorically the “servant” of her career, or at least treading the lower echelons and she is therefore well poised, given her sensibilities, to be the appointed narrator of the days of the lives of the maids.

There are stereotypes in this book. Abileen is the warm, gentle, bible-reading, “praying-for-neighbours”, long suffering “Mamie” who likes caring for white babies as her own, only to see them eventually become the image of their dreadful parents. Minny is the sassy black women with attitude who can’t hold down a job because she likes to talk back. Most of the white women in the book are portrayed as self- serving – their galas for the Poor Starving Children of Africa are put on to endear them to the communities of Jackson whilst their contempt for the poor starving children of Jackson is reprehensible. It might be possible to argue that the premise of the book is objectionable- the black voices need to be filtered via a white voice to be heard. Isn’t this virtually endorsing the status quo and noblesse oblige?

However the stereotypes do not permeate the ethos of the effort, and the result is a gently rollicking novel full of convincing dialogue and storylines which brings home the reality of segregation in the Deep South. The two maid characters show the struggles of the black woman against the backdrop of the precursors to the Civil Rights Movement- the marginalisation of men, children who are made to grow up too fast without educations and who follow in the footsteps of their mamas serving and waiting and sons who are constantly under threat from either being killed or blinded (metaphysically) by the establishment. The collard green diets of the working poor contrast against the cakes, sponges and sandwiches of the upper class families they served. Their grand houses are set against the cramped hovels of the maids. The devil is in the detail. Medgar Evers, a neighbour, is gunned down. Mae Mobley plays “back of the bus” pretending to be Rosa Parks. And there is coverage on the television about a Martin Luther King- Abileen is amazed that over ten thousand of the marchers were white.

Stockett’s debut book has been questioned on the basis of whether it is legitimate that a white writer should assume and appropriate the dialect of the Southern blacks, and whether she has the mandate to genuinely tell their stories. She admits that she struggled with whether she would be able to do the book justice in crossing that invisible line in narrating in the voice of a black person. Only the black women in 1962 would be able to tell whether or not it is accurate. What The Help does, however, is to relate the stories of human beings at the outer margins of society, gracefully and with compassion and from that perspective it is an astounding success.

Of me, the Pope and Crisis Christians

2010-09-23T07:40:00.000+01:00

This week the Pope visited the UK amidst some controversy. While others ranted and raved and foamed at the teeth, and some waited for a miracle, I lined the streets of my pillows and chose to watch the ceremony from the comfort of my bed. I said Amen at the blessing. Mummy, that’s enough.

With no hesitation I will say that I lie somewhat between the accepting-of everything faithful who lined the streets with their holy innocents peering in pilgrimage to see the Holy See, and the virulently outraged who would like to see the pontiff incarcerated for his crimes against humanity. I would not say that my faith is lukewarm. If I would have to set a temperature, I would say a quiet 70 degrees, just enough to take what I like and discard what I don’t but not a roaring bubbling boiling point that would guarantee a scald or a burn. I take religion and its accessories with a healthy pinch of salt. I take God wholeheartedly.

I don’t really like pastors except maybe Joel Osteen and TD Jakes. I hate the idea of compulsory tithes. The God that I know is a God of quiet love, who makes me cry because of his goodness, and he is very much at odds with a bible banging, screaming on the pulpit, God of Anger and Wrath who is seeking to wreak vengeance and rage hell-fire on unbelievers. I like the Catholic Church. It is one of the only faiths that recognises openly that a lot of religion is ritual. I like the pomp and ceremony, the initiation rites of Holy Communion and Confirmation and the honouring of the Saints and the Blessed Virgin which balances the male bias of the rest of it all. I don’t condone in any way the abusing of children and I would clamp the testicles of those priests myself if required. I think the Church’s policies on contraception especially in the Developing World are ridiculous and to be honest, dangerous. I also know that the Church is sexist. I believe that the Church should be called to account, made to pay and openly denounce its spurious claims of infallibility but it is also the Catholic Church that gave me my education and which does some marvellous work in the Third World and I am mature enough to realise that in life, I won’t agree with everything or everybody all the time. I take what I like and I leave what I don’t like. Give me the Pope in his Honda PopeMobile any day to screaming Creflo Dollar who makes poor people tithe all their money so he can have a private jet. I call this selective tolerance.

Maybe it is this sense of balance, that leads me to look askance when I encounter Crisis Christians. They have been washed by the blood, pleaded in Grace, brought to the paths of Righteousness but what makes them different and usually even more fanatically zealous is that their new found faith in Jesus Christ in born out a (truly) horrible crisis. They live by the crumbs of a pastor’s teachings and do not question of query the teaching itself. They cut themselves off from the “world” and from friends who are not similarly “saved” to exist in a bubble of equal yokedom. They minister to you every day. Crisis Christians convince themselves that they are “wretched” and choose to live in a cocoon of stasis as “they wait on the Lord” to heal their pain or situation. Maybe I overegg the pudding because after all, it is better to probably cling to faith than to lose one’s faith in times of crisis.

I also preface this by saying that I know that we all seek solace in Christ when times are particularly difficult. An apt Bible verse can be most welcome on a depressing grey morning and there are nothing like the Psalms to give God praise when something marvellous has happened. Touch wood that I don’t experience a crisis event and become of “them” but there is something mildly amusing, if not disingenuous about invoking Christ with ardent fervour only after a terrible break up, a divorce or a financial crisis. Most Crisis Christians become “born again” at this juncture, go to terrible lengths to attribute their suffering to a religious experience and become valiant Crusaders to convince the rest of us mortals that we will be cast in hell-fire if we are not “cleansed by the blood” by a similar religious experience. My viewpoint is that each one lives his/her own life as he/her sees it fit. I draw the line at trying to “minister” to me. Please can I work out my own salvation? Never mind that I believe in Jesus and I try to live a Christian life, that isn’t enough, they say. But forgive me that Christ isn’t only solace and refuge. The King of Love my God is. Running to God in times of distress is easy. When life is going well and the blessings of God are evident, we are tempted to think that we are in control. This is the occasion that should spur us to draw closer to God, if we are so inclined.

The God that I serve is a God of Love not a God of Fear. If one has always believed and trusted in God, why does Christian-ness need to be redefined. There are junctures in life when we are convinced that we should take our faith more seriously, but to assume that this catalyst is the essential element to faith is being presumptuous in underestimating the myriad ways in which God’s blessings can overflow. Maybe God’s love for me is evidenced via his overpouring of blessings and happiness and joy, I need not wallow in suffering and feelings of impending doom and call myself wretched to live a life satisfactory to him. He has chosen to give me his greatest gift- life, and it is with joy that I try to do all that I can to show him that I value and cherish the experiences and the opportunities he has bestowed upon me. I give him thanks everyday but personally, there is no need for me to be over zealous about it because despite all my protestations and declarations, He alone knows the ways of my heart.

Nothing's wrong with Peckham

2010-09-17T07:40:00.000+01:00

I live in Forest Hill, South East London. I love to say that it is only 5 minutes from East Dulwich (as that is where I really want to live), but it is also only 15 minutes away from Peckham.

Black people do not like saying that they live in Peckham. We don’t get brownie points for being “brave” and can often not tag it as “up and coming”. All we know is that home insurance is higher than in SE23, Tesco and Waitrose may not deliver, and black cabs are loathe to say yes to the fare. Many try to euphemistically say Nunhead, Dulwich Borders, or even Camberwell as Camberwell is marginally a step up, but to say that one lives in Peckham is to admit, that according to the newspapers, one lives in one of the worst neighbourhoods in Britain, a neighbourhood that has defied regeneration efforts and continues to remain plagued by crime, violence and low expectations even in spite of a £290 million investment over time.

I must admit that I am not really familiar with this Peckham which makes the news. I visit Peckham quite regularly for reasons that shall not be disclosed for current purposes (okay lest I sound like a drug dealer it’s where I used to get my weave) but I have never been stabbed, injured, or assaulted. I have, however, been hit behind the neck by KFC chicken bones intended for the screen whilst watching a film at Peckham Multiplex for the princely sum of £2.99. Peckham is where my friend Eva works; she got married to an English man after he met her selling bread and egg in Ghana- her eyes are often bloodshot and red with worry over children she left at home- two with her niece and one with her cousin. I like her omo tuo and I like telling her it will be okay. Peckham is also home to known business man Asir, who sells refurbished, and second hand mobile phones (and maybe a few new ones of unknown provenance) who can always knock 15 quid off the sale price, unlike T Mobile and Carphone Warehouse. It is the home of 2wo, an Afro-Caribbean eatery whose jollof rice and chicken is lip licking good.

Despite the fact that only 19,500 people live in Peckham (that figure has to be corrected to say “documented”, not to seize on a stereotype, I am afraid) it is known for very high levels of gang violence. Peckham’s ethnic makeup is primarily of Black African origin (36%) although the figure seems to be a lot higher from a quick stroll through Peckham Rye. In fact, when I first came to the UK in 2001 and was taken to Peckham, I genuinely could not spot a single person who was not of colour for about half an hour. True, Peckham is not only Rye Lane and some parts (Peckham Rye) are suitably gentrified. However, these are not the areas which feature on Crimewatch and on BBC1 when spouting sorry figures. For all intents and purposes Peckham is a black epicentre. Some call it Little Africa.

After reading these mockumentaries and crime reports, one would think that Peckham’s blackness is the root of its evil. Landlords bemoan Club 56 - the loud hilife and Nigerian rnb that filer through its premises, they say that the rowdy patrons pee outside the club and occasionally shit outside of it too (after all, they argue, these people are not used to toilets). Some residents bemoan that nail shops and hair shops are de rigueur and that woman stand outside on the streets asking to “make your hair nice nice for small small” and that these small establishments are swollen and festering with Korean and African immigrants who work in insalubrious conditions. Some of this might be true but the problem with Peckham is its relative poverty, not its blackness. It is true that that there are a few decaying shop fronts full of brick a brac and rows of low income shops churning out the odour of shoey plastic and polyester tat, but in an age where the entire country is experiencing a recession, business and income seems always bustling and thriving, and in an environment where religious ardour is scarce, Peckham is also full of churches that are full of the always hopeful faithful.

Those who treasure gentrification wish for cute Neroised streets with identikit coffeeshops and tea houses, restaurants, pubs and a couple of bars. When Frank’s Campari Bar opened last year atop the car park, it was featured in most food review magazines and in TimeOut. Similarly, cosy cafes which bring a French or continental feel to the area are treasured as sign of up and coming-ness and estate agents emphasise the terraced houses and accompanying young professionals as a sign of progress.

However, I don’t need a six figure commission to explain why Southwark’s renewed efforts into Peckham don’t really work and will never work. It is because Peckham’s African-ness and blackness are not embraced, and are treated like a persistent rash or an unsightly mole. Instead of trying to superimpose aspects of SW into Peckham, equipping it with Norman Foster architecture and the like, how wonderful it would be if Peckham could be the literal Africatown of London, in a similar fashion to Chinatown. Fruits and vegetables and Afro Caribbean produce should be sold via open air street markets. Instead of a library that hardly any of the local youth visit, maybe it might be worthwhile having Peckham host a Museum of African and Caribbean Art. Shops should be encouraged to sell items from the continent- boutique outfits sourcing ethical bags and clothing from cooperatives from the continent should be given first dibs on retail space instead of Risky, New Look and Primark. The cinema could be encouraged to feature films from Africa and the Caribbean and restaurants featuring a wide range of food from the continent- Ethiopian, Moroccan, South African, Senegalese, Cameroonian, could be positively encouraged.

Sure, some of the yuppies might move out. But maybe some more black professionals would move in. And maybe the youth on the street with nothing else to do but loiter and who feel so marginalised and disenfranchised that they move in packs, might be motivated by seeing other young black people building successful lives for themselves. Maybe they can be mentored and taught and maybe, just maybe, by making the area a space in which they feel welcome and embraced, they will have something to be proud of. And maybe then SE15 would no longer be unfairly stigmatised.

Willow Smith: Too Much, Too Soon

2010-09-12T10:35:00.000+01:00

Now, don’t get me wrong, I am probably the biggest fan of the Smith family. And no one loves, more than I do, seeing a black man, up on top, with the best of them. I still shudder when I read about Barack Obama and Will’s family, quite frankly, gives me incredible chills. Given half the chance, we can do twice as good.

I mean, who ever knew that goofy Will from the Prince of Bel Air would turn out to be THE WILL SMITH, rivalling his buddy Tom Cruise in terms of marketability and box office power but with a sensitive goofiness that counterbalances the hardness and toughness of his roles? I would have never thought that the other half of the silly duo featuring Jazzy Jeff would be named by Newsweek as the most powerful actor on the planet with over eight movies in a row grossing over £65 million.

I also find Jada Smith incredible- she is the epitome of the perfect wife- an actress in her own right with her own rock band and who stillsucceeded in raising two confident and well adjusted children- her own career is independent and complementary to Will’s yet sufficiently under the radar to ensure that she doesn’t get caught in the woman trap of being everything to everyone. I consider little Jaden Smith to be a natural child prodigy. He was amazing in The Pursuit of Happyness but The Karate Kid catapulted him into the ranks of one to watch, garnering him an MTV Movie Award. I realise that this family is extraordinary and I do not measure their achievements by the achievements of us regular folk, but I think the Smiths have probably gone one step too far with their youngest and probably most impressive offspring- the cute and utterly charming (yet precocious) Willow Smith.

I knew something was up when Willow metamorphosed from child wearing long regular braids with a cute little accent who complained about being brought along to “fittings” and virtually stomped into the chrysalis of a Rihanna mini-me. First it was the shaving of the head, then it was the ridiculously on trend shoe boots, leopard print leggings and mustard pony haired jacket, all effortlessly assembled together with the piece de resistance of a Givenchy bag. Then it was the leather jacket combined with Doc Martens. Then I found out that she had a stylist who defended the decision by saying that she was “very involved” with her new edgy look and who consulted with her, with the aid of fashion booklets and magazines for “creative references”. Rob Zangardi praised her “rock and roll sensibilities”.

Then came the news this weekend that Willow has just released a new track entitled “Whip My Hair Back and Forth”. The lyrics are astonishing. That a nine year old is talking about whipping her hair- which is ultra feminine-aggressive and slightly sexual- disturbs me. Willow then sings about getting her “swag on”. Since when did a nine year old have swag? I am not in any way old fashioned but shouldn’t she be playing with her dollies and shouldn’t any purported “swag” be confined to dress up games and wearing mom’s heels? She then recites “pay no attention to haters cause we whip em off”. A nine year old? With haters? After all Jada’s believe-in-yourself, develop-yourself-cause-the-world-doesnt-matter influences? Why should haters be in a 9 year old’s vocabulary? Crucially, she ends the verse by promising to “keep the party jumping”. Which party? A sleepover?

Sure, the beat is great, Willow can actually sing (in a Rihanna way) and the autotune and other sound effects make it an overall good track, but I query whether this is age- appropriate. I am all for children being allowed to express themselves and for their creative outlets to be encouraged, supported and not suppressed but there is a deep divide between allowing a child to be creative, and allowing a child to engage in creative pursuits in an adult way. There are many children who started off early in show business- Charlotte Church is an example, and this year Amy Winehouse’s niece was introduced on the X Factor but there is a huge difference between these children and Willow: none of them sound grown.

Now I get Will Smith’s game- total domination. I understand the power of mass marketing and I get that just as he analysed the market and capitalised on the doomsday genre (which is by far the highest grossing genre), he is probably trying to do the same for his children. God knows that I can’t stand Miley Cyrus and Justin Bieber and would love to see a relevant talented young person who is not annoying. But I get slightly nervous when I hear young Willow, in spite of her talent, being described along the terms of a young Michael Jackson by Jay-Z who signed her to Roc-Nation yesterday. We all know what happened with Michael Jackson. And isn’t it worse these days? Aren’t Britney and Lindsay Lohan actual living warnings on the psychological traumas young artists can face when they are dissected and crushed by hungry press? Isn’t it verging on the borders of negligent to allow a young girl to enter that rough and tumble market with a song that is clearly not targeted to her contemporaries but is intended for an adult, mass market audience?

The music and fashion industries are cruel. I may eat my words when she is selling hit records but perhaps, just perhaps, it is equally as cruel to place little Willow out there, at this pre-pubescent juncture in her life and expect it all to be okay.

The Ones who are Left Behind

2010-09-10T07:50:00.001+01:00

His hands are full, replete with brightly coloured action figures that he doesn’t know were carefully accumulated and stored for him from his mother’s wards' Happy Meals. His heart, however, is empty. It is yet another Easter, another Christmas, another birthday without the woman who gave him life. He knows her voice, he has heard it often enough- chafing, hoarse and pneumatic from the cold- but still upbeat and ringing with the slight lilt of warm Caribbean pronunciation that years pacing the streets of the Bronx can never take away. Yet, he has no idea who she is. She left too long ago, before he could remember her, before he could even remember himself. He does not know what bothers her, what or who keeps her awake at night, or even her favourite colour.

He cannot ask her because long conversations are out of the question- calls are quick and last until the Go Bananas calling card runs out. Their conversations are stilted, him asking for what he wants at her prompting, and her telling him that she misses him and explaining how that she cannot wait for the day when she will finally ‘fix up” and can come home or when he would be able to come to visit or to stay. They both know in their heart of hearts that her consolations are gaping, and this is how it will be for at least the foreseeable future, and how it has always been since the age of five when she migrated. He does not tell her that his aunt resents his presence in her home and complains that she does not send enough money and that she frequently moans, with an earnest look in his direction that the price of school books and food items are too high and the costs of an extra child in a home is burdensome. He wonders when he meets his mother, whether she will hug him and kiss him, in the way that his aunt kisses her children. He would not know this, but when they meet, eventually, 10 years later, he would be too old for kisses and hugs.

He does not know that he is labelled a “barrel child”, one of the many Caribbean children left behind by their parents, a casualty in the ladder of stepwise migration where mothers and fathers leave their children behind in the hope of seeking a better life. He is too young to know that the word better is relative. What he knows is that he needs his mother. Guardians are sometimes unable to care for their wards- grandparents are too old, too sick or too feeble and aunts and cousins vary between too demanding or too lackadaisical, leading in many cases to children who are all but in name abandoned. Their parents’ love are measured in the number or size of barrels- huge blue or cardboard containers that are overstuffed with remnants of a life far away- as if to atone for the significant life events missed and to make the recipient momentarily forget that he or she is absent. If he is lucky, he will be the first to be taken up abroad; if there are others or sisters before him, they will take his place. He feels lucky and he is certainly the envy of the town when the barrels and boxes packed with tinned goods and foodstuffs and toys and smelling of America arrive, but he tells no one that the feeling of wistful emptiness is hard to displace.

Of the ones who are left behind, girls suffer the most and I venture to say that the effects are multigenerational in their ambit. The girls in my town who were left behind as children, who were always well dressed but who lacked guardianship have now, themselves, left their children behind to be taken care of by cousins, aunts and friends. Love again comes exported in material form of boxes and barrels filled with new clothes, name brand shoes, even Skippy peanut butter and Heinz Baked Beans. Some have started new families abroad. There are many who grow up to be well rounded individuals but others search for love, validation and approval all their lives.

The psychological effects of stepwise migration of parents have not been properly researched and considered although economic migration to the metropoles has been occurring since the early 1960s. Feelings of guilt feature strongly in the relationship from the perspective of the migrating parent. Reunification if and when it eventually happens, is not always successful, as it is effectively the equivalent of a birthing experience. Learning to live with a fully grown adult or a difficult teenager is not easy from the perspective of either party. The children in question often do not feel that they were loved enough by the migrating parent. There is always the underlying question of what could a parent conceivably do in the circumstances and why was migration sans enfant chosen as the best alternative. There is also the elephant in the room that it was thought that by virtue of being abroad, the parent was living in the lap of luxury, although for all intents and purposes this might be far from the reality. Monies sent are likely to be monies saved after rent, bills and sou-sou. The carer substitute at home also feels cheated- after preoccupying herself and raising a child, he is yanked away at his parents’ whims.

Dr Audrey Pottinger reports that the ones who are left behind are often depressed and that there is trauma in being left with relatives that they sometimes hardly know. Many experienced chronic feelings of loneliness, anger, abandonment, and fears of rejection. Dr Pottinger reports that guardian shifting (being shunted from one guardian to the next because of sometimes very trivial problems with discipline) is quite common and substantially impedes a child’s development and schooling. Many have surrogate parenting arrangements which were inadequate or inappropriate. Some are physically and sexually abused. Pottinger believes that the impact of migratory separation appeared to be more pervasive than death or divorce within a family and that although it might benefit the economy and allow a family to become more financially independent, there are significant social ramifications. Jamaica is the only country, to my knowledge, which has developed an overseas family service specifically to cater to the needs of the children who find themselves in this situation.

In writing this, one of my childhood friends springs to mind. She, like many others, were one of those who were left behind. Despite a promising start at one of the best secondary schools in the island, she was very unhappy with the almost totalitarian regime of discipline meted out, and moved back into the family home, by herself. Her boyfriend soon moved in. She managed to finish school but with very meagre CXC passes. I am confident that her life would have been very different had she had the necessary guidance and supervision. Even on reunification there are sometimes issues to grapple with- a new step parent, adjustments to a new way of life and a new guardian, and feelings of over compensation and the expectation of gratefulness coupled with blame.

I know that it is not always bleak. Migration results more often than not in progress and many a time, entire families are allowed to taste and see the results of the sacrifice. The ones who are left behind sometimes go to universities, obtain jobs and they themselves are integral in being strong supports to the extended family structure. It is very easy to be critical and to question what causes a mother to allow herself to be separated from her own children for such a long time, but the lack of economic prospects in the Caribbean is a financial strait jacket and it is not easy to be jobless. Conditions in Miami and New York in the beginning are not great, and it is sometimes not just possible to bring children along for a rough and uneasy ride- renting a room in an apartment, trekking to New Jersey in fog and cold to a hostile employer and hustling to get to that second or third job. The sacrifices are indeed made with the children in mind. However, it is the ultimate irony that many of our jobseekers go on to be nannies and childminders to the rich- reading stories, bathing, taking their employers’ children to the park when their own children are at home, lonely and needy, left behind.

Wouldn’t a LaTreivius by any other name sound as sweet?

2010-09-06T07:24:00.001+01:00

The BBC ran a story a couple days ago on why black Americans don’t swim. It was a deeply embarrassing but heart wrenching story: I have long lamented the fact that lots of people I know on my island do not swim in spite of us being surrounded by water. The facts were that in that particular instance, eight teenagers died trying to save each other from water in the Red River in Shreveport that was not even that high or that deep. However, even more surprising, what struck me and my work colleague who read the stories at the time were the names of the victims- DeKendrix, JaTavious, JaMarcus, Takeitha, Litrelle, LaTevin and LaDarius. Why? I would love to say that these were the most inventive I have heard. But this is sadly untrue. I have heard of a Tanashaka, I know a Shavasia, my friend's son is called Deqwante and I used to teach a Shalyndria.

Now, I would gladly defend my community on a few troubling issues. I would sometimes excuse a lack of foresight and financial planning- it’s hard to plan for a future where the basis point is deprivation and which conspires against you. I would excuse a certain level of posturing- our backbones have been metaphysically crushed so we find any excuse to be the “man” in various situations. I would make absolutions for the absence of structure in our family lives- it is difficult to be a man when your foreparents have only been treated as sires. I would even defend ‘ebonics” and “blackspeak” in the appropriate environments- this is our dialect and our way to appropriate our mental processes and not to capitulate to the The Man. However, on these inventive or unique or downright crazy, awful, made-up, self-harming, stumbling block names , I have to say the buck stops here and I draw the line. Black people, this onomastic vomit needs to stop. Halted. Discontinued. Brought to a goddamn halt. Okay, once again, more politely. I should be grateful if you would desist from making up stupid names and bestowing them on your children. Kind regards. Kimaspeak.

I feel strongly about this, and not because Freakonomics raised the issue of whether children with black sounding names will definitely progress less than children with white sounding or conventional sounding names. There is no reason for our children to be Emilys, Margarets or Kates. Tough. The system will have to get used to Keishas and Imanis in the workplace. I already write emails to a Tenisha and it's fine, liberating even. Besides, Freakonomics shows that the name is not the real hindrance, it is only a symptom of the malaise- the parents who call their children Demetrius and Marquis and Jeondre are often parents with low aspirations for their offspring in the first place.

I feel strongly about this because the art of naming in the African tradition is being misrepresented and shredded to a figleaf of what it actually represents. African naming traditions are important and a person’s name is perhaps the strongest indication of identity and roots. Our naming traditions are varied, but they are all based in reason. Sometimes they depend on the time of the birth and/or the day of the week of an individual’s birth. Hence, among the Akan and the Fante in Ghana, names such as Yaw, Kwadwo, Akua and Abena mean that an individual has been born on a particular day of the week. Some names often depend on the position of the individual within the family and the circumstances of the birth. For instance, the name Idowu means ‘child born after twins’. Some names are fraught with hope and thanksgiving such as Ayoke, meaning ‘one who is blessed’, others are gleeful such as Bayo “to find joy” and others are simple, yet proclamatory, such as “Nailah” which means “succeeding”.

The very act of naming can be in itself deeply symbolic. For example, it is very often that he oldest member of the family carries out the naming ceremony. Amongst Swahili speaking Kenyans, the first or birth name called ‘jina la utotoni’ is given to babies as soon as they are born. This is chosen by an elderly relative and usually refers to the child’s appearance, like ‘Biubwa’ which means ‘soft and smooth’. After up to 40 days, the parents and paternal grandparents choose the ‘jina la ukubwani’, or adult name, for the child. With the Akan Ghanaians, it is the father of the baby who chooses the name of a beloved relative in the hope that the child will grow up to be like the namesake.

In Nigeria, a name takes on a spiritual significance. Each name tells something about the child and the family. The first name is the child’s personal name and may reflect the circumstances of the family. The second name is a descriptive name that expresses the personality of the child, expresses what the child might become, or is an attribute that the child is hoped to acquire. The third name relates to the child’s kinship. It could be the name of the earliest ancestor, a famous ancestor, or the name of items that are sacred to the family.

Given the fact that most black people of African heritage and/or origin were not allowed to name themselves or their offspring and had to adopt the name of a slave-owner, we would think that the act of naming would take on an almost spiritual significance. Condemned to carry the pouch of a plantocrat’s remnant of a name as a constant reminder of who we were not, one would think that we would ensure that the name we give to ourselves and to our sires would stake our pride, loudly proclaim our roots, declare our allegiance to our culture and be a solid representation of where we choose to head in the future. In the 60’s, there were already distinctive black names- Kizzy, Abileen- but they did not verge on the ridiculous- they were proud manifestations of black resistance. Similarly, in the 70’s, Islamic names became in vogue (another blogpost) but at least, they meant something. A child is already the metaphysical joining of its parents- we don’t need names like KelShanique to evidence that a girl is the offspring of Kelly and Shanique. Neither does adding an extra apostrophe or accent carry the hallmark of sophistication- especially, I may add, when the name in question is spelt incorrectly- the name S’hawnté springs to mind and so does Tifphanee (if you can spend nine months carrying a child, maybe it might be advisable to spend at least 5 minutes to check the spelling of his/her name?).

In writing this, I battled with myself because I am a true libertarian- little Mashekonda’s name doesn’t really hurt me so why shouldn’t I just live and let live? Isn’t the creativity of the names a manifestation of our unique culture and way of doing things as a people? Should we be really applauding LaQuonsheetia’s parents? At least they did not go for staid, safe brown paper bag names like Lucy or Anne and at least they did not try to pass of their children for who they were not. No offences to any Lucys or Annes. And isn’t it just psychological profiling and a sign of mental servitude to say that names should not be necessarily created?

I have thought about it from so many angles and I say no, because a name is a proclamation, a name determines what we allow ourselves to answer to and represents us from birth as who we are to others (at least until we change it). A good creative name should not be a name that is stupid. A name should not be an object of ridicule because it means that the owner is then ridiculed. I know that our communities struggle for identity in spite of socioeconomic disadvantages. However showing one’s independence in what is often a hostile environment should not manifest itself by saddling our kids with names that make them sound illiterate and which project an image of a gum chewing, gold toothed, ex-prison father and a mom on welfare. Stereotypes are rampant and perpetuating them is not cute. A unique name can still be dignified and abound in meaning and significance. Let's fix up.

I don't like when you call it Saltfish!

2010-08-24T23:09:00.001+01:00

The Caribbean is not unique in its multiplicity of names for a female’s delicate regions. While at university, I performed in Eve Ensler’s The Vagina Monologues, and I was amazed at the number of names that this single body part could lay claim to. Muffin, monkey, nunnie, chicken, pussy, squish mitten, wolf, Vajayjay, cootch, the love park, Buffy, Kitty- I have heard them all. The company Mooncup ran a competition last year to find the most original words. Some were side splittingly hilarious.

Nothing however strikes home more than the Caribbean names we have for these nether regions-pim-pim, sand sand, fly-fly, pumpum, and coon- coon are but a few (I shudder as I write this). I note that most of them rely on some level of child like repetition- was this some attempt to make them more accessible, approachable and innocuous? Animal metaphors abound- we also use the word monkey and flying fish alongside the almost universal metaphor of the cat. Jamaicans use the word punany and it has now been adopted by the oral dictionary of Common Caribbean Usage but I must admit that the one I find most irksome, the one that has me most curious and the one that I find THE most off putting is probably the word that most Grenadians use most commonly to describe their lady parts- it is the ubiquitous saltfish.

Saltfish the ingredient is traditional salted and dried cod, originally manufactired in Norway. Salted dried cod has a storage life of many years. Dried cod and the dishes made from it are known by many different names, as it gradually became part of the cuisine of many European nations. For example, it is known as bacalao (Spanish), bakaiļao (Basque), bacallà (Catalan), morue (French), baccalà (Italian), bacalhau (Portuguese), klippfisk/clipfish (Scandinavian), saltfiskur (Icelandic) and bakalar (Croatian). In Norway, there used to be five different grades of salt cod. The best grade was called superior extra. Then came (in descending order) superior, imperial, universal and popular. These appellations are no longer extensively used, although some producers still make the superior products.

The popular salted cod was transported to the Caribbean during slavery as a form of cheap protein to feed the slaves. It was rationed to the slaves and bartered in Sunday markets and after some time it was savoured as a culinary delight- in accras de morue in Martinique, saltfish and green provision in St. Lucia, with ackee on a Sunday morning in Jamaica, and as a pungent accompaniment to bake (I say its plural bakes) in Trinidad. Saltfish was known for its firm flavoured flesh and its distinctive, pungent smell. If a neighbour was cooking saltfish three or four doors down the road, one would know.

I am not sure when the association between the vagina and saltfish began: all I do know is that it is strongly cemented as part of Caribbean culture and part of the local parlance. One of the most popular calypsos sung by The Mighty Sparrow, Calypso King of the World was his Ode to Saltfish, which was a very thinly veiled double entendre. He entreated:

“Saltfish stew is what I like/So doo-doo, give me day and night

I like you food, so don't find me rude

My favorite, I sure every man in here already eat it

Saltfish
Nothing in the world sweeter than Saltfish

Saltfish

English, colloquial, Bajans

Saltfish

It's sweeter than meat

When you want to eat

All saltfish sweet

Very well, I like the taste/Though the smell, sometimes out of place

It hard to take, but make no mistake/I want you to know, it's because it extra sweet it smelling so boy it's

Saltfish/Big money does run behind it

Saltfish/man does lick down man to find it

Saltfish/It's sweeter than meat

When you want to eat

All saltfish sweet”

This alleged “Ode” although a guilty pleasure of mine, encapsulates all the reasons that I have against naming and claiming our precious regions after a fish that is hung out to dry without a head. In Italy, and in Sicily in particular, the word baccala (saltfish) is reserved for the smell associated with dried cod fish and by association, a woman’s nether regions with odours. Sparrow’s “Ode” reiterates the very same prejudice- that a woman’s private parts are smelly and dirty. When we use the word “saltfish” to describe the essence of our feminity, we verbally and implicitly agree that our private parts are inherently grimy and filthy. A vagina is not a thing of scorn, is it the birthplace and the fountainhead of humanity. Paul Lai of the University of St. Thomas has challenged this olfactory prejudice in his piece: Stinky Bodies, Mythological Futures and the Olfactory Sense in Larissa Lai’s Saltfish Girl. Allowing our bodies to be characterized and labeled in this way goes counter to the matrifocal spirit of the Caribbean, where feminist emancipation has strode along in leaps and bounds.

And besides, it is just too ordinary a word for our most prized feature. Saltfish is traditionally the dish of last resort. Admittedly, it is much loved and eaten with much relish when prepared but it is also true that when my mother could not find a vendor or a fisherman selling fresh fish, or when we had had enough of chicken or turkey, salt fish was the go-to dish that was scraped up with lashings of onion, peppers, cabbage and garnish to create a simple, ready –go-meal? Is this what we wish to associate with our lady gardens? A fall back, ordinary option that was easily available? I am told that now salt fish is now King Saltfish (at least in the Caribbean) because it is a very expensive commodity due to falling cod stocks, however it still does not change the fact that were someone to visit, it would not be the dish of choice to be served. That says a whole lot. A nickname for our private bits deserves to take first place, centre stage.

Because of this, in the meantime I graciously use the other words, and at times, even the proper noun until someone comes up with a better alternative. Any suggestions? Hint: Something along the lines of fillet steak, Aberdeen Angus or caviar might do the trick.

(Photo compliments Tastes Like Home).

A Deeper Look at Dispossessed

2010-08-21T13:46:00.001+01:00

Dispossessed, according to the meaning ascribed to it by the Oxford Concise Dictionary, is someone or something which is physically or spiritually homeless or deprived of security. It comes from the French- de possesser- which literally means to take something off someone or something. In the strictest sense of the term, it means having nothing. I write this piece because I have always been taught that we should be careful how we define ourselves and each other- in my Caribbean tradition, speaking “on” someone or something, especially if the connotation was negative, was frowned upon- one should never willingly open one’s doors to a sense of the malaise, sometimes even if that malaise in fact exists. This is why us poor folks never swept at night- we would be sweeping all our "riches" out into the yard.

Like many other Londoners, I have been reading about the Evening Standard’s Dispossessed Fund and I too, am deeply embarrassed by the fact that this city of opportunity in which I live has allowed pockets of poverty and deprivation to exist alongside areas where flashy displays of obscene wealth is de rigueur . I have made a donation to the fund and I hope that others will too but by way of constructive criticism I have to admit that I have been reading along with a rude dose of discomfort which I will explain in this piece.

This is not because I deny that persons live in relative poverty in London, but because firstly, I am amazed that this is not already common knowledge. Secondly, I believe that the campaign has been watered down somewhat because the “real life” stories in questions do not really feature the people whom I know who are actually “dispossessed” if I use that term loosely. Thirdly, I believe that individuals who live in what I call “relative poverty” in a First World Country, with free access to health care, education and in most cases housing and relatively cheap food, are not dispossessed in the true sense of the word and should not be so labelled. I would suggest the term “disadvantaged”. Careful what we wish on ourselves.

In a lawyerly way, I will take these points in turn.

First, I am not surprised that poverty and the concept of the working poor actually exist and I am shocked that some people appear to be surprised. Maybe it is because I don’t live in the expected lawyerly up and coming areas of Hampstead or Angel. This is deliberate. The fact that I live in South London, which has no tube, is often perceived with a mixture of wry amusement and brief confusion by my colleagues. I have been told I need to be closer to work. For what? I love where I live. Apart from the fact that I need to live somewhere where I can buy plantains and yams and green bananas and locking gel when those pangs of nostalgia hit like a crazy bitch on crack, I get to see and talk to people who are struggling to get by every day- from my drycleaner whose immigration matter is under appeal, to the Cockney market sellers who sell fruit a pound a bowl on the weekends, to the woman who spends her Saturdays raising funds outside Lewisham shopping centre so her son could have a new prosthetic leg every two years. It gives me a rock solid sense of perspective. Yes, the tower blocks in Peckham and Elephant & Castle are within extremely close proximity to East Dulwich, and the depravity of Deptford lies only a stone’s throw away from Roka and Smollenskys and Carluccios in Canary Wharf. Did people really think all of London went to the theatre and plays in the evening after supper at Pizza Express? I would posit that the cause of the London poor is not new and the yuppies pretending that they have just noticed this are just as bad as commuters who fail to meet hungry buskers’ eyes just because they can’t be bothered to stop and open their purses and wallets to find a one pound coin.

The London Living Wage has always been a cause I have believed in and will unwaveringly support. If a business cannot afford to pay its employees a wage that they can live on, it should not be in business. End of. The stories of people like Sandra Sanchez should send a stiff jolt up the ass to all employees who moan about pay freezes in this economic climate. Present it how you may, a derisory £5.80 per hour in London is not by any means enough for any individual to earn an honest day’s work.

However, while I am grateful for the fact that London is finally sensitised that there are people existing solely on the minimum wage and that companies should be paying employees a living wage, I am not sure that the Evening Standard or Cohen went far enough in its search for London’s true “dispossessed”. He cites the stories of cleaner- immigrants who start work at 4:30 am in the morning, travelling in on London’s nightbuses and who return home by 10 and who sometimes do a second shift from 10 pm. Is an early shift a sign now of being dispossessed? As a student, I did many an early shift with a friend’s cleaning company to earn money. What of the “hairdressers” in Peckham who work in excess of 20 hrs (I am open as long as you come to do your hair), who have no guarantee of receiving even the minimum wage on a day to day basis because rent needs to be paid for their chairs, electricity and products? They come to work on a diet of little more than rice and eggs and stand all day, pleading with potential customers for work. 75% of their income goes towards unscrupulous bosses and sometimes, they do not make more than £100 a week.

The Evening Standard then tells us about Vincent Maduabueke who could not raise nineteen pounds for his UCAS application and who has never visisted a restaurant in his entire life. They hit closer to home here but again, the story falters. Vincent is in receipt of benefit from the State at £1560 per annum. That equates to 30 pounds a week. Surely, if he really wanted to, he could have saved 40p a week to come up with the money for his UCAS application himself? What about my friend in Catford who is not entitled to benefits, who had to drop out of his carpentry apprentice course because he couldn’t afford the fees, and who had to find work as a cleaner in a theatre in Bromley to be able to continue paying those fees the following term? Surely, Vincent, who is 17, could have done what any other lad in his situation could have done, and have attempted to find a part time job. The term “dispossessed” should not mask laziness.

Similarly, Barbara Elliott, another of Cohen’s interviewee who opened her life up to scrutiny, complained that she lives on only £7 a day per child. She is on her 11th child and has a grocery bill of £350 a week, and has Sky and hefty mobile phone bills and so many clothes they are scattered in garbage bags in her house. She lives in a house provided by the State. What about people with mental and physical difficulties who cannot get on a waiting list for council housing? What about women working 2 or 3 jobs and weekend shifts to feed and clothe one or two children? Expecting Barbara’s story to rouse sympathy is a stretch for countless women who have delayed childbirth because they simply cannot afford it, who have always been taught that our own resources should inform our choices. Barbara is not dispossessed- she is lucky that she lives in a welfare state that would assure that her children are fed and clothed. To find the real dispossessed, Cohen needed only walk through the adjoining streets of New Cross and Peckham Rye to find out who were the tenants to a few of the flats. He would find that some families, having no other option and no access to benefits, rent a single room within a flat and that mother, father, and children occupy the very same room. Had Cohen dug deeper, he would have found examples of families outside the safety net of the State.

Occasionally, he got it right. There were individuals like Nabil Ahmed who was left with the charge of taking care of his two older disabled brothers when both his parents died, and Ade, the Nigerian refugee who resigned herself to sleeping in a barber shop with her children and her 79 year old mother. These are examples of persons who do not have the sense of security that is a crying shame in our communities today. By attempting to paint all families who do not have a lot as dispossessed, we do a grave disservice to persons like Nabil and Ade, who do, in fact need our help.

I am also not a fan of the way in which we believe we can throw money at problems. At the moment, the Dispossessed Fund is just a fund. Many of the individuals targeted need more than money. 10 years of Labour should have taught us this lesson by now. These individuals need support, mentoring, and in most cases, counselling. I hate to use Cameron’s amorphous term Big Society but isn’t this the whole point? A £50 voucher a week for Ade, as provided by Kids’ Company will not assist Ade long term. What will assist her is Home Office empathy for her cause and policies that allow women who have suffered domestic violence to be entitled to assistance. The adjunct to the Fund should be a virtual “Army” of individuals who are willing to sacrifice their time and efforts into caring for the more disadvantaged individuals in our society.

I am also worried and afraid of what this Dispossessed Fund means for deprived persons outside of London and outside of the UK in general. It is common knowledge that a poor person in the UK does not live the same life as a poor person in Pakistan. Does this mean that now that we are convinced that poverty exists in London, we are now more than ever focussed on home, to the exclusion of people around the world who are probably more in need of our assistance? We have a common duty to humanity that does not depend on our nationality and/or geographical borders. We must never forget that a little girl in Karachi would literally die to be Vincent and a woman who experienced famine in Niger would give her life to be in Ade’s position. Outside the hallowed shores of the Developed World, dispossessed literally means not to have a single thing- not the right to State assistance, no food in the cupboard or pantry and no roof over one’s head. This is something we should not ever forget nor lose sight of.

Oh, Fantasia...

2010-08-18T23:49:00.003+01:00

That Antwaun Cook is fine as hell. Mocha soft skin, the colour of a brazen cocoa pod in tropic heat, lips that are full, sensuous and perfectly formed, sculpted Grecian features dipped in caramel, mounted on a perfectly chiselled body . Fantasia Barrino surely knows how to pick them. She says they met the former college football player at T Mobile and they fell in love. (Which T-Mobile?) He told her he was separated. Guess what? He wasn’t. He was still married to another woman called Paula. That didn’t prevent her from moving him into her house, tattooing his name on her body, and making a sex tape (allegedly). I am surprised that the shit only literally hit the fan a couple weeks ago. Antwaun soon became bored of playing happy families, missed his children and perhaps Paula’s good stuff, and decided he wanted to pack up his toys and go home. Fantasia, who was clearly in a bad place, overdosed in an apparent suicide attempt.

If I were privileged enough to meet Ms Barrino, I would tell her a few home truths that I have amassed in the little time I have spent on this earth. First of all I would discuss the incendiary topic of married men. A brief recap: it never ends well. Then I would tell her never to go out with a man whose mother couldn’t spell his goddamn name right. I know her name is Fantasia but at least it is spelt right. If a man’s own mother couldn’t be bothered, it says a lot about his upbringing. I would also tell Fantasia what I always tell fellow sisters: we need to stop going for Fine. Beyonce, with all the fame and beauty in the world didn’t go for Fine. Neither did Kimora Lee Simmons, momtrepeneur. Fine doesn’t help to pay the bills and Fine doesn’t pay school fees or set up a 401k plan or pensions. You are Fine’s pension.

Then I would give her a hug. Why? Because Fantasia Monique Barrino didn’t lie to us about who or what she was. In my eyes, she will always be that talented but unpolished young girl from South Carolina, who graduated from the University of Hard Knock way before her time. In my eyes, she will always be that teenager who was raped, harassed and teased and who sought redemption through the birth of her daughter Zion when she was 16. In my eyes, she will always be that young woman with low self esteem who battled the pain of an abusive boyfriend. She didn’t preach to us about how good she was or how much of a role model she was; she admits and confesses that she is trying in her own way to figure things out. I can almost believe Mrs Cook’s version of events as set out in her affidavit that Fantasia taunted her “He don’t want you. Maybe next time you get a husband you will know how to keep him”. She is feisty and rough enough around the edges, but also insecure and naive enough to seek that type of validation, believing that the man in her bed is hand on heart telling her the truth that his “heart is not in his marriage”. I am not saying that she should have believed him, and I do not give her a pass, but my heart bleeds for her. Not only because she is in a place where many of us have been and where some of us reside, but also, and most of all, because she is currently the victim of unfair media treatment.

Fantasia is allegedly in hospital because of some very critical comments in cyberland, portraying her as a hussy, a homewrecker and a slut. However, these very same sources have been welcoming and accepting of my favourite adulterous couple- Ms Keys and Mr Beatz. (It already sounds ridiculous. Will the kids be called Rhythm and Song?). I too gasped at Alicia in her wedding dress; she absolutely glowed But quelle hypocrisie! Fantasia’s affair was treated as cheap, tawdry and dirty- of the type that was suited for a Quality Inn, whereas Alicia Keys alleged (fuck the alleged) affair was painted recounted as a fairy tale- A Princess meeting her Prince Charming , whose love could not be separated by the minutiae of the fact that he already had a wife and three kids (one illegitimate, one legitimate and one unclaimed). If Fantasia’s affair was KFC, Alicia’s was a gourmet meal cooked by a Michelin starred chef. Isn’t it ridiculous?

In Fantasia’s defence, she did not even get pregnant before the ink was dry on the decree nisi- all she did was go on a jet-ski with the damned man. Yet, because she is not America’s sweetheart, she is now pummelled and beat up on whilst everyone coos over Alicia’s perfectly PR’d wedding photos and her bikini bod in her virginal white swimsuit to match. Our double standards are startling. Especially considering that Fantasia, in spite of how the media loves to portray her as “ghetto” has revealed that she has what I call “home training” and has issued a statement saying that she is “heartbroken and sorry for any pain that she has caused”. Alicia Keys and Swiss are still in la-la land, swearing that love conquered all, while poor Mashonda has been pouring her little heart out in Vibe Magazine saying that she genuinely wishes them all the best, even though she would not wish the pain she suffered on any other woman. Sounds like a chick after my own heart. Being a feminist is not just about equal pay and equal rights and working wages and belting out “Superwoman” at the top of your strained lungs- it’s about sisterhood and treating each other as we would like to be treated ourselves. Maybe I am prejudiced, but I didn’t expect Fantasia to have learnt that lesson yet so it does not surprise me that she has found herself in such an uncompromising and painful public position: it is hard to have solidarity with others when you have been battling life alone. I won’t rehash the point but for Ms Keys- to whom much is given, much is also expected.

Some people have called me out on my Alicia Keys’ original post but I make no apologies- I stick soundly by it. And no, age and experience won’t temper my principles- that’s why they are called my principles. What other people do with their lives is not my business, but it becomes ripe for fair comment if they wish to preach and shove their “goodness” and “love and light” down my throat. I can only hope Fantasia finds someone worthy of her love. And I can only hope that Alicia Keys really does not find out what it means to try sleeping with a broken heart. Marriage involves sancrosanct vows. Unapologetically so, I will always be for Team Wife.

Is Wyclef The One?

2010-08-17T23:38:00.002+01:00

Very few entertainers-cum-politicians have succeeded in getting it right. Sonny Bono tried. Jerry Springer was once mayor of Cincinnati. Clint Eastwood served one term as the mayor of California. Arnold Schwarzenegger is now governor of California. Now Wyclef Jean has put his proverbial chapeau into the ring for the presidency of Haiti.

I have to admit that I would not have thought that the leader of the Fugees would be my natural choice for the role of continuing the legacy of Toussaint L’Ouverture in this historic first black Republic, walking bravely in the footsteps of Jean Jacques Dessalines to overturn the legacy of poverty and disenfranchisement left by “Papa Doc” and the Duvalier family, and the debris left by the revolving door of pseudo Presidents- Duval and Aristide. After the earthquake, Haiti needs a Saviour. Is Wyclef Jean it?

He certainly thinks he is. Like Caesar before him, he is certainly not scarce in hubris. He acclaimed “America has President Barack Obama, you have Wyclef” when he announced his candidacy for the presidency. I am not one to flaunt education over experience, but it is probably an understatement to claim qualification on the basis of possessing neither. President Obama attended Yale (edited to say Harvard) University. Wyclef allegedly dropped out of Eastern Nazarene College in New Jersey. President Obama was a grassroots leader and governor before he postured for the Presidency. Wyclef has no history of political experience prior to his throwing his gauntlet into this already fragile ring. unless he wishes to claim experience by osmosis as his uncle is the Haitian Ambassador to the US. Wyclef claims that he is qualified because what Haiti needs is a leader. I am sorry, Haiti needs a President. In a country where infrastructure is limiting, the rule of law is weakened, and where citizens are doing without daily necessities, it is even more important that the individuals at the helm have a firm understanding and are fully au fait with the history and struggles of its citizens.

I say this not to say that I do not enjoy Wyclef’s music. He certainly does not ascribe to the BHP (bitches/hos/pussies) genre that teaches 6 year olds how to pop, grind and back that thang up. Perfect Gentleman is a tale of non judgment- he does not criticise the single mother who might be working the streets or the strip joints to put food on the table. (Although it does leads me to ask whether this will be part of his economic rejuvenation policy?) 911 is a great love story. I am grateful for the fact that he experiments with different Caribbean genres- zouk, compas, bachata and folk, in an effort to integrate them into the mainstream. I am proud of his collaborations with legends like Youssou N’dour, and his Sak Passe album in Haitian creole (kweyol). However, is a liking for him and the Fugees really reason enough to give him my support towards becoming Chief Medicine Man to this ailing country?

Maybe it is just me, but it says a lot that his “official” website is hosted on Wordpress. It reveals a certain level of naivete and a decidedly amateur view of the world. The current constitutional objections also cannot be overlooked-all politicians must act within the law. It is alleged that the constitution sets out that candidates should have spent the last five years on the island. If the rules are broken for him, it does not augur well for Haiti's rebuilding- it sends a deep message that some people are above regulation and above the State. This is, may I posit, dangerous. Then, there are all the allegations of siphoning monies off Yele Haiti. The actual accounts were filed 2 years late, and evidenced payments made to Wyclef himself for appearances for concerts and rental obligations. Stealing or misdirecting money away from poor people is not only a terrible look, it is unethical and unpardonable when these people are Haitians. It is not clear how true these allegations are, and how serious the violations were given that the foundation was only still in its early stages so I won't judge until all the facts have come to light. There may have been some naivete over what was actually allowed, but these sorts of errors leave a certain sour taste in one's mouth that is hard to overcome even with the sweetness of these new promises. It has been reported that one of his houses faced foreclosure and The Smoking Gun also reported that he owed almost $2.1 million in taxes. This would not be the behaviour or qualities that I would expect of a housemate, much less a leader. He doesn’t speak French and his Creole is halting. How will he be able to negotiate with and to speak to his own people? Sean Penn also claimed that Wyclef arrived in an entourage of luxury vehicles in the midst of all the carnage wreaked upon the island by the earthquake, which revealed a lack of tact. I believe it because this lack of tact is typical of the nouveau bourgeoisie- the arrivistes, the “never see come see” emigrant generation who sometimes wish to impress (sometimes non-existing) wealth on the ones left behind. In my eyes, this tarnishes him even more than the corruption allegations- one can never compensate for a lack of true empathy.

I can certainly see Wyclef’s appeal to the young people of Haiti. It is tempting to cast him in the role of Prodigal Son, clothe him with a robe, and hope that he does his best. However, Haiti needs more than hope. Haiti needs a President who understands its laws, legislations and policies. Haiti needs a leader with a clean slate, whose legacy will not be marred by rumours of non accountability. Haiti, most of all, over all other Caribbean countries, needs an action plan and someone with a proven track record who will be able to deliver. The people of Haiti cannot and should not pay for its leader’s apprenticeship.

Pras, his ex- bandmate, and the best man at his wedding said it best:

“As much as I love Wyclef, I want to make this clear: I would rather lose Wyclef as a friend, brother, and save a nation of 10 million Haitians. I'd rather have them be liberated, rather than have them go down off a cliff and not be saved, just to keep a friend”

The more burning question is that if Wyclef is not the one, who is? Michel Martelly, known as Sweet Micky, Kompas music star? He has been working in the community for over seventeen years on environmental protection issues and disaster relief, but is this enough at this crucial juncture in Haiti’s history? He has been extremely friendly with members of Haiti’s turbulent government. Is this the clean break that Haiti needs? Jacques Edouard Alexis was Prime Minister in 2000 and 2001 and he is extremely qualified in Agronomy and Harvest Technology. However his past efforts, such as his failure to respond quickly enough to food riots marked his downfall. Charles Baker, a local businessman, certainly seems honest but does his plans to focus on security, order, discipline and respect sound uncannily like the reintroduction of a police State? Only time knows. This election is important. It is the basis of hope towards the restoration of democracy and the start of the struggle for peace, reconciliation and prosperity. All we can do is hope that Haiti is not let down. Again.

Why I choose Rasta

2010-08-15T22:39:00.001+01:00

I have entered what some call the “ugly” phase in my journey to dread-dom. My hair is not short enough to lie flat against my head, and it is not yet long enough to be calmly assembled into a neat ponytail. It is a cross between funky and mad, and I am perpetually disturbed that there is that one stray hair that is longer than the other and has a mind of its own (it obstinately refuses to stay where I put it, even with a pin), like the one schizophrenic amidst a sea of bipolar patients at a clinic. I use the metaphor because my locs do not conform to the norm- they bend into funny shapes; they are distorted and need treatment. Some are fat at the bottom and thin at the top, others are miniature dwarves that spiral and curl around and stub like a giant full stop. They are still mostly soft but some parts are rock hard.

When I embarked on my journey to natural hair, I knew that this day would arrive. I was pre-warned that this stage was virtually the most difficult and the hardest. Catch me on a day without layers of MAC cream to powder foundation, No 7 kohl, Oh Baby lipgloss and large hoops and I don’t look cool, I just look rough and dirty. It’s hard to bring sexy back with curlicues that just don’t sit the right way behaving like naughty toddlers on a bus.

With this in mind, I decided to remind myself of the reason I decided to write this tonight to remind me of the reasons I chose Rasta. After all, dreads are only one genre of the natural movement. There are many other religions and schools. I could have chosen to sport the Afro- archetypal symbol of the black power movement, I could have gone with kinky twists, or I could have continued to sport a weave or braids. However I felt it was important that I made a choice that not only made me look good, but also made me feel good about myself and my culture and would reflect the message I wanted to be sending to my potential partner and offspring, should I be blessed enough to have any.

I love Rasta because it has always been linked with a message of resistance. I like resistance because I am Grenadian and we are a revolutionary people. I do not even speak of the recent 1979 People’s Revolutionary Goverment. We were notorious long before. King Ja Ja of Ghana was deported to Grenada after a fight in the Qua Ibo River of Benin- he was later fearfully removed to St. Vincent because of the long history of rebellion in Grenada.

Sam Sharpe in 1832 boldly stated “I would rather die upon yonder gallows than live in slavery” and I felt the same. I decided to stop attaching my economic exploitation on my head two years ago so I wanted my hair to make a statement as powerful as how I felt.

The history of Rasta has its genesis in Jamaica, in the Maroon communities in St. Ann’s and St. Catherine’s where the settlements of Nanny Town, Acompong Town, Moore Town, Charles Town and Scots Hall became the first communities that won their freedom through revolt. I can almost relive the feeling of the 220,000 Africans who fought for their freedom in the Morant Bay Rebellion of 1865, as they shouted “Cleave to the black, colour for colour” as they fought to capture the parish of San Antonio. Later in the midst of the poverty of exploitation of the peasantry, Rasta began from the definitive movement to search for the glory of an African past. Slavery, colonialism, the partition of Africa and discrimination left our ancestors so disillusioned and displaced, that Ethiopia, the Kingdom of Abyssinia was so glorified after the victory over Italy at Adowa in 1896- it was the only truly surviving African state.

I love Rasta because every lock vibrates with the PanAfrican message of WEB Dubois. My roots reverberate with the message of Marcus Garvey, his conception of the Black Star Line, and the defiance of Claude McKay who wrote his epic poem

“If we must die, let it not be like hogs

Hunted and penned in an inglorious spot

While round us bark the mad and hungry dogs

Making their mock as our cursed lot

If we must die let us nobly die”

I wanted to have a little part of this big movement within me.

While I am firmly Christian, I love the fact that our people boldly decided to trace their roots to the Ethiopian Orthodox Church and began to learn Amharic, and that they chose to entwine themselves with the Falashas, who carried the Ark of the Covenant back to Ethiopia. I am enamoured by the fact that the idea of wearing locks stemmed from witnessing the soldiers of the Land and Freedom Army in Kenya who wore their own hair long and matted. I love the fact that the central tenets of Rastafari stemmed from a belief in the non material world into a new world order that stressed “Peace and Love”.

I love the symbolism of the Rastaman as Lion. It was a strong demarcation between the Caribbean man as the docile “Quashie” whose character traits made him suitable for slavery, and the African lion- a man on a militant march forward towards maximum and ultimate self realisation and self discovery. At the time it reflected our symbolic yearning for wholesomeness and power to compensate for our powerlessness and alienated existence (Dennis Forsyte).

I do not deify neither do I glorify Haile Selassie but why should we be subjects of European kingdoms? Rastafarianism alone rejuvenated the cultural heritage of the slave. Long before the FDA and the Food Standards Agency denounced the use of sodium and long before the organic, home-grown movement took wings, Rastafarians grew and cooked “ital” meals that were nutritious and good for the spirit. Rastafarians were leaders in the sophistry of dialect, they were widely read and their intellectual discourses were formalised through the chants and paces of the drum to be channelled into what is now known commercially as reggae. Rastafari then moved from a fringe movement to the leading and foremost expression of black consciousness. Rasta became a symbol of defying the establishment and identifying with a counter culture, and articulating social to the power structure of the day.

I love that I am now part of the foremost Pan-African and Pan-Caribbean movement, a movement that makes the external reference point for black people Africa, and not Europe. Rasta is one of the leading institutions for democratic socialism, for a new grassroots politics, for earnest Caribbean integration- “Rastaman vibration is positive!”

(Pic from http://www.holisticlocs.com/)

It's called a date, No I am not splitting the bill.

2010-08-14T16:24:00.000+01:00

I remember my very worst date like if it were yesterday; scratch that- two minutes ago. It was 24 December 2003. Christmas Eve. I remember the intense preparations- it was the year Topshop released the 8 inch skirt and back in the day when I had absolutely no hips I thought that I could just about get away with it with thick tights. I bought a brand new white sweater with bell sleeves in Peckham. And cowboy boots. I know, but give me a break. I was 20.

I knew I should have done a runner when my “date” explained that he had come all the way from Salford by hiding in the train toilets. I kid you not. I politely sat it out. I was asked where I wanted to eat and when I politely suggested that I would prefer if he decided, I was taken to the UK’s finest dining establishment- Burger King in Trafalgar Square (on reflection, at least it was the West End, I could have been taken to Elephant & Castle). As I moved to order a No 7 off the menu (chicken nuggets and fries), I was not so gingerly told by this paradigm of virtue that it would be best to confine my choice to either a Number 1 or a Number 2 (the Whopper or the Fish Sandwich) because those were the only two options that were available on the BOGOF deal on our NUS card. Needless to say, this “gentleman” never saw me again. I am proud to say that I have never again encountered such a creature who serves as the ultimate example of tight fisted parsimoniousness. Although it has been close shave. When still a student, and again, before I gained sense, I offered to pay on a date someone who had a full time job. That offer was taken up with a greater alacrity than Usain Bolt with Tyson Gay sprinting behind him. No second date either I have to add.

These two experiences, and particularly the first, have scarred my outlook on my life. It has led me to the firm conclusion that if a man isn’t willing to provide a treat for me on at least the first few dates, at the first opportunity he has to impress me, chances are he won’t try to do it for the duration of any relationship that we may have. So he gets a big fat 0 and I spare myself the agony.

My hypothesis is that the Modern Man has lost all concept of the fact that a date is a treat and that dating is a ritual. The Modern Man seems to have the deluded idea that all women are gold-diggers who are after their money and leap on opportunities to go out on a date just to have a free meal- never mind that they have no money to speak of in the first place, never mind they still live with their mothers in a flat in East London and travel to work in their George by Asda suits on the 58 bus, never mind that if you were really “gold-digging” you wouldn’t give their tired and broke asses the time of day and would focus on where the real ballers are -Chelsea, Kensington & Mayfair, never mind you have food in your own fridge at home and would happily curl up with Grazia in front of Eastenders. So instead of thinking themselves lucky, as they should, that you decided to give their trifling selves the time of day, they wait, with bated breath at the end of the meal for you to say “Let’s split it”. They argue, it’s only polite, you should at least offer. Fact is, I do, but the speed with which these degenerates leap at the offer, you would think that the chance to save 10 measly squid at Nando’s meant hitting the jackpot. I do offer, but it is part of my psychometric testing. You say yes, or you hesitate over saying no, and it’s over before it has even started.

Why? Because I shouldn’t. I won’t because if you asked me on a date, you are saying to me that you would like to have the pleasure of my company. I shouldn’t because let’s get it straight, I don’t need a guy to take me to a restaurant, but the fact that you are doing so allows you to be a gentleman. I shouldn’t because you asked me out, and I have probably spent hundreds on a new dress/skirt/top trying to impress you, so why shouldn’t you try to impress me? Why should I rob you of this very essence of the dating ritual? Why should I offer to emasculate you? Any man should wish to feel strong, necessary and capable.

Thinking about it, isn’t there something very unseemly about calculating who ordered the steak and who ordered the fish after the peaceful ambience of a romantic meal? Even if a woman decides to go halves, doesn’t it ruin the essence of the dating ritual of man cast in his first role as provider? Truth is, we can all afford that meal ourselves, so proudly and confidently taking up the tab is still a symbolic way to say that that you value our time and our company. There is something to be said for being independent women- we pay our own bills, we pay our own mortgage, we drive our own cars, isn’t it just one step too far in the wrong direction to expect us to offer to pay for our own dates as well? Its not about the price, it is about the gesture. And yes, if you genuinely cannot afford it, offer to cook us a meal, make a picnic, be innovative- that goes a long way.

Just like refusing to give up their seats to pregnant women on the bus, or to any women in general, the Modern London man loves to justify his tightness by reference to the suffragette movement and equal rights, claiming that we wanted to go 50s on all in life. No we don’t, because that’s just not how it is. You still get to have sex. We push out the babies. You go food shopping and come back with half of what’s on the list. We have to do it again. We have periods, pre-menstrual cramps, bloating- you don’t. And you still, on average, earn more money than we do for the same jobs. We still take your names. Most men I know who split the bill are serial daters, they cannot afford not to go halfsies when they had to foot the bill the last few times.

I am not saying that once a relationship is established, that a woman should never pay. In fact the late Jackie Kennedy said she would never pay until she established a man as a serious prospect. My argument is that by then, it isn’t really a date. It’s going out with your other half –it’s your partner, you are a team. I am not saying also, that I would never offer to take a guy somewhere. In fact, I often do, after the second date. I would suggest somewhere nice and I would take care of the bill, if he has shown me that he is charming, friendly, and funny- and if he had on previous occasions unwaveringly picked up the bill. Goodbye cheapskates.

Black Show Ponies

2010-08-06T07:42:00.000+01:00

I can tell you the bed time story of black show ponies.

“Once upon a time there were black show ponies. Feted for their skills since they were but foals, they won medals and awards for leaps and jumps ahead of their class and category because they had to prove themselves to get ahead of the competition. They were often made to ride with those that were bigger, stronger and tougher, and if they first balked at the challenge, with tenacity, it was they who challenged the others. Their gaits were fluid, their confidence child-like and they soon realised that their pace was unmatched. They continued jumping and won plaudits for their skills. They perhaps felt that they had proven their worth. Soon, what became a celebration of their feats became a cartoon- they were used as the feature stories for examples of inclusion, progressiveness and diversity. Little by little, these show ponies became nothing more than parodies of themselves. There was no happily ever after. The end.”

Black show ponies can be found all around in Britain. They are often found in elite educational establishments. They accept only a small number of minorities but these numbers are used excessively and overbearingly to drive the point of inclusiveness home. They are plastered on prospectuses, they are called upon to do interviews for their respective subject areas which might be particularly underrepresented (veterinary science) : they smile at the camera and tell the world that their college/university is a wonderful inclusive place. Then they can also be found in large organisations and companies- they are often trotted out at the appropriate time when there is a need to ensure that that entity represents the EMEA regions, when there is some initiative about Africa and when special mentoring programs involving minority applicants swing by. Black show ponies are minorities who are voted in as partners in law firms with no actual power and with special responsibility for “People Training” and “Diversity”. They are often found as lone writers for papers like the Daily Mail tortuously passing off a tale of inclusion.

Diane Abbott MP is a black show pony. She has allowed herself into a leadership election for the Labour Party, not to win, but to “broaden the debate” (her own words). Her ambition was crippled by the lack of party support to the extent that she has had to receive a benevolent “helping hand” from the party elite favourite to be able to stand. I fail to see how the fact that a black woman candidate could not meritoriously gain the vote needed to stand for the election broadens the debate, in fact, it kills the debate before it has even started and drives an enormous point home, but it appears that I might be the only one who thinks in this way. Many have supported her and in fact, have suggested that it is a strategic move for her as she would be assured of a Cabinet position were Labour to be voted back into power but it says much more to me that in 2010 a woman candidate has to posture, to gain a voice.

In spite of all her groundbreaking achievements in her constituency, she was reverted to the ever existing black stereotype of lazy by her constituents when she tried to juggle motherhood with her role as a parliamentarian. I am not saying that she has not made some silly mistakes- sending her son to private school when she adamantly spoke against the private school system was, in her own words, indefensible but I find it shocking that in spite of her achievements and her Cambridge degree, a lot of people, including her colleagues and her Labour contemporaries think she is stupid. After all, black people are obviously less intelligent according to recent studies. I am annoyed with Diane because I believe that she has succumbed to showponyism on a level that is simply unacceptable in today’s society. Political parties, educational establishments, firms and companies who love to place that one black or female face in their publications, prospectuses and on their websites and publicity material must be immediately called to account. By championing the cause of the token, Ms Abbot has seemingly accepted the status quo. The illusion of inclusion is worse than non inclusion because it is based on a lie. It is misleading and proffers a false impression that we live in a society that is more integrated and diverse than it actually is. By failing to see the “in-joke” that she has been artificially nominated and yet unanimously feted, Diane is feeding the hypocrisy of the nu-Labour machine, and she appears to be taking pleasure in revelling in her celebrity status at the expense of her dignity.

Cath Elliot of The Guardian actually has the nerve to say “so what” to the question of whether Diane’s nomination is a token one. She adds that it is not insulting because what’s actually insulting is “being presented with the same lack of choice time after time after time... and despite years of hard work aimed at opening politics up to those from less privileged backgrounds, in 2010 we're still being presented with the same old same old”. Is it just me, or isn’t it more insulting to stamp a black face onto the ballot with no intention of having him/her win? The old childhood mantra of “it’s the taking part that counts” was always a lie to make us feel better about getting a consolation prize- we all know what is really important.

There is a deeper problem however with black show ponyism apart from the fact that it tells a bare faced lie. The effect on the token black person is deep. He/she becomes an apparent authority on everything that affects the black race. Gun crime, rap songs, appeals for Africa, the whole lot- he or she is thought to represent all aspects of black culture, and at the same time, to be better than it. The show pony is at the same time considered part of the monolith but at the same time, beyond it. What a burden. Take for instance, Senator Biden’s description of Senator Obama back in 2007 as “the first mainstream African-American who is articulate and bright and clean and a nice-looking guy.” Take for instance the cases I call corrective show ponyism- the case of producing a brochure or corporate report with black or female models on the cover, even though there are none within the organisation, or in extreme cases, photoshopping a black face within the corporate picture. Take for instance the condition the Americans call the “one nigga syndrome”- the net result that the one black person monopolises all opportunities and is deeply suspicious of other black persons in the organisation. Did someone say field v house? Something about it all is reminiscent of the South African black empowerment rules. Designed to promote equality, they were instead used as an insurance policy- thousands of black board managers were employed but were only later told they were not required to actually run the organisation or to provide any input.

In my opinion, black show ponyism is the flipside of oppression, and if Diane is not astute enough to recognise it for what it is, it is indeed a missed opportunity. It wasn’t me, it was Martin Luther King Junior who said that lukewarm acceptance is more bewildering than outright rejection.

(Photo from http://www.guardian.co.uk/- all rights attributed to Stephen Bell).

Yes I said it. Hova is Overrated. Fact.

2010-07-23T00:15:00.004+01:00

I will probably be crucified but I must admit my dirty little secret: I really don’t get what’s the big deal about Shawn Corey Carter aka Jigger aka Jay Z aka Hova, the Queen Bee’s sidekick for life.

To clarify, I do not speak of or doubt his cunning and business acumen: it takes a whole lot more than luck and an awful lot of balls to be able be one of the most successful businessmen of all time- I love the fact that here is a young boy from Brooklyn with buck teeth who has managed to amass a net worth of $150 million and a very diverse portfolio- from ownership of his own clubs- the 40/40 Club, to part-owner of the New Jersey Nets to investing in Carol’s daughter, to establishing Rocawear, to becoming CEO and President of Def Jam Recordings, to becoming co-brand director of Budweiser Select. Considering that this is a guy who dropped out of George Westinghouse in Downtown Brooklyn, his career is seriously ill. I am not going to even talk about how he looks. Money makes him look mighty fine to me. I also love the example that he offered to our young people: when you find The One you wife them up- not breed em or shack up.

I speak of his A-game, his claim to fame as one of the best rappers of all time. I am sorry, but this is where I depart from most – his trademark “uh uh” and a “cough” just does not do it for me. Yes, “Hard Knock Life” was my anthem in 1988 and yes, the Blueprint album that contained the trilogy of “Girls Girls”, “Izzo”, and “Song Cry”, was a really good album, but I am at a loss to knowing why Jay Z is so revered among so many die-hard hip hop aficionados to the point that he is referred to as a musical genius. Yes, The Black Album was one of the best rap albums featuring again another great trio “Change Clothes”, “Dirt of Your Shoulder” and “99 Problems” but was it the result of the genius of Jay Z or was it because of the monied combination of excellent production, a kick-ass hook line from the best songwriters as opposed to Jigger’s lyric-busting prowess? I do not for one minute subscribe to Billboard’s analysis of Eminem, Nelly and 50 Cent as the top rap artists in the game but what makes people consider that Hova’s rapping skills are so special, over Nas, Common, Lupe Fiasco?

Hova’s fans always protectively proclaim that he does not write down his lyrics, as if this ascribes him super-nova Superman status in the world of hip-hop. I admire his rhyming and his ability to free-style but to be honest, lots of his songs could have benefited from editing, reworking and redrafting- no one is infallible except the Pope (smirk). A bit more thought would have prevented a lot of his hits from sounding unconsidered, banale and repetitive. I am increasingly ill at ease with spending good money on some rhymes that appear to have been recited before. It is telling that his four number ones on the Billboard Hot 100 have been for collaborations with other artists- Mariah Carey’s Heartbreaker, Beyonce’s Crazy in Love, Rihanna’s Umbrella and Alicia Keys’ Empire State of Mind.

Maybe the fact that he does not write is lyrics down is linked to my second criticism- Jay Z always sings about himself. The theme of Me has been done, redone, overdone, pre-done, in second, third and special edition. A 40 year old man telling me how great he is and how well he has done is, quite frankly, tiresome. I need a new story, a new idea, something to make me ponder and reflect- where is your poetry in hip-hop? Yes, I get that your worked hard and came from Marcy and made it to be a huge multi-millionaire brand, I get that you are not a businessman, that you are the “business” man, but can you probably sing about maybe the effect of having a black President on black America a la Nas, or maybe spit at our underachievement and how the lack of fathers render our kids powerless? I am grateful that at least it isn’t bitches and hos and p*ssies but I cannot settle for the lowest common denominator. Exhibit 1 is Jay Z’s ruining what was meant to be Kanye’s special dedication on “Never Let Me Down”- Jay Z turned a song which was meant to be a tribute to God into a Jay Z Part 101 on how great he was. And because Kanye is still one of his foot soldiers, I guess it would have been rude to simply say “Mate, you are off topic!” I would have deleted his verse. Straight talk: bad manners.

I am admittedly an amateur hip-hop listener but I must admit that the people complaining that Hova’s flow has become ordinary after the Black Album have not really listened to the previous albums carefully. They are all extremely similar so I do not blame his ability on a lack of fire in his belly. I have always found his flow ordinary- when I listen to 1990’s hip-hop it appears to me that Tribe, Wu-Tang Clan, CL Smooth, Souls of Mischief, Lords of the Underground, Redman, EPMD and yup- Biggie and Snoop kept it tighter than the Jigga Man. What I do not doubt is that his marketing abilities far exceeded that of his contemporaries- in my eyes he was the latter day Fifty Cent, trading on a story and songs with great production. I dare say that Kanye West, even though his rap style is commercial and cheesy, appeals to me much more because of the honesty of the emotion, his ability to tackle issues such as consumerism, heartbreak, religion- he straddles all aspects of our lives.

What crowns it all off is that Jay Z hosted his retirement party in 2003 and I bought The Black Album and tried my darndest to go to Rocafella Centre to see him perform for what was meant to be the last time, and now, 7 years and two albums later, he is still rapping- choosing to headline Glastonbury last year and Wireless last week. As CEO of Def Jam, haven’t you already reaped the benefits? Have you not gleaned all there is to be gleaned from the starlights and the status? Isn’t it time to fall back and to give a few of your protégés some shine? There is something quite lame about a 50 year old rapper in baggy jeans (and yes, despite decrying them he still wears them). I am over it.

For the Want of Rum

2010-07-22T04:53:00.001+01:00

"Hey ... listen mister Shankar,
you sayin' I is a drunkard,
you doh want me to marry yuh daughter.
Yuh doin' me a favour,
I ain't want yuh daughter
she too damn ugly anyway.
More rum for me,
more rum for me, more rum for me."

The above are the lyrics to a popular calypso. Rum is an inextricable thread of the fabric of Caribbean life. Just like blistering sunshine, azure skies, warm turquoise waters and the odd chant of "dey-o" from an old man's guitar form part of the mounted tapestries of island life that are sold to the West by slick travel agents and well-heeled tourism companies, this heady fermented anointing extracted from the sweet juice of the sugarcane is an essential component of the islands. When a baby is born, glasses are chinked to celebrate good health. A few drops are made to sprinkle the floorboards of humid rumshops, as offerings to gods that have long been forgotten. At funerals, happy hours are not complete without a traditional rumfest and the ceremony of Nine Nights constitutes a veritable indulgence of lashings of liquor, matched with traditional poor man's fare of Crix and Corned Beef, straight from the tin.

Over the last few years in the Caribbean, we have had our traditional griots, the calypsonians composing odes for the Love of Rum. They are not the first. The rum disciples-Bound to Drunk, Fig and Oil, Waltz, Bughole, and Souse sang these odes almost daily from seven a.m. at Merwin's rumshop- they groaned, the sipped, they knocked back, but they never chased- that would be breaching the code of honour. Like prescription medicine it was one shot every three hours, or whenever they got back from a hard day's mountain toil, scraping the last drops from the worn glasses just as they scraped the earth of the ground to pluck hard yams and cassava, days, hours, moments, before- their memories faltered so I cannot vouch for accuracy. They courted rum with an intensity with which they did not even court their lovers (I call them lovers although I am sure that rum sponged all the love out of any relationship they managed to cultivate). They pursued her sweetness morning, noon and night, they spent their last few dollars on one more shot of Special Dark and they often indebted themselves, or rather, bankrupted themselves in order to ensure that there was always one "last" bottle at home. The calysonians have echoed this unwavering passion in their songs- Poopa Leendi's "Rum Oh" laments "Rum Oh, whey yuh dey? Clarke's Court is gonna kill dem boy.. we drinking rum till we die!" In Trinidad and Tobago, chutney soca is characterised by tunes which feature rum: "Girl you know I was a drinka- you cant change me no way!" and "Bar Man give me a bottle of puncheon". One of the more popular songs over the past few years was Bunji Garlin's " You could bring it in a bottle, you could bring it in a glass, you could bring it in a cup, you could bring it in a flask, I want me rum in the morning, I want me rum in the evening". Rum is our tonic, our spiritual viagra.

The word rum comes from the latin word saccharum- meaning sugar. Others say that it is a shortened form of the word rumbullion- meaning uproar or tumultuous.The first distillation of rum took place on the sugarcane plantations of the Caribbean in the 17th century. Plantation slaves first discovered that molasses, a by-product of the sugar refining process, could be fermented into alcohol. Later, distillation of these alcoholic by-products concentrated the alcohol and removed impurities, producing the first true rums. Tradition suggests that rum first originated on the island of Barbados- a 1651 document from Barbados stated, "The chief fuddling they make in the island is Rumbullion, alias Kill-Divil, and this is made of sugar canes distilled, a hot, hellish, and terrible liquor".

The popularity of rum is undoubted. Its flavours are strong, deep and meaningful, the opposite of vodka. It comes in many different strengths and flavours. Light rums are usually used as the base for cocktails and other lighter alcoholic drinks such as mojitos and pina coladas. Rum can also come golden or spiced and flavoured (ie Clarke's Court Lemon Rum, Malibu Coconut Rum) and it can also come aged, as dark rum with a molasses or caramel flavoured overtone. I am more interested, however, in the lack of popularity in premium rum- carefully aged rums which are assiduously produced. I say this because in the Caribbean a rum connoisseur is known as a "rumbo" and someone who likes rum a wee bit too much is swiftly regarded as an alcoholic of the lower class, part of the great unwashed. The upper classes,even in the Caribbean, tend to drink Courvoisier, Moet & Chandon and more recently, Johnny Walker Black, in the up market clubs and at all-inclusive parties, These spirits are all imported, and their popularity arise undoubtedly because of colonial reasons because to be honest, apart from Moet, JWB and Courvoisier cannot even come close in a taste test when placed alongside the good old sugar cane extract. Is it possible that rum can occupy a hallowed spot in our Caribbean cultural establishments, can we lift it out of the rumshops and into clubs, tikibars and megabars as ubiquitous as bubbly or other fine spirits on the tables of celebrities and rockstars? Will we have rappers endorsing our Caribbean's finest in their hits?

We certainly already have the product. A cursory search on the internet revealed that there are long existing vintage rums. El Dorado Superior is a vintage liqueur. 10 Cane Rum was commissioned by the House of LVMH five years ago - that's Louis Vuitton Moet Hennessey- it uses the copper pot stills legacy of premium cognac and is distilled twice for that extra special flavour. Like cognac, it is aged in oak barrels. It won't be long before each island produces its special blend of premium, high quality, gold label rum. Cuba has already invested in a 50 million distillery for golden aged Havana.Euromonitor International charts a 17.9% volume rise in global rum sales to 119.7m 9-litre cases over 2001-2006, broken down into a 15.9% increase for white rum (to 37.1m cases) and an 18.8% increase for golden and dark rum (to 82.6m cases). Italy and Spain are the market leaders for these exports and there is the feeling that it is the product to replace flagging whisky sales. Rums are certainly sexier, what with the rise of specialist tiki bars that even the royals love to frequent- Mahiki being case in point. It is certain that to take the product to the next level, that our local industries need to capitalise quickly on the premiumisation of the brand that was started by products such as Cacique and Barcello. Are any of our islands investing in the rum industry in a significant way. The smaller islands, with boutique industries, are ripe for producing signature brands imprinted with handcrafted quality. Or are we simply content to let this liquid gold penetrate the market as smuggled goods in overproof form?

And even on a most basic level, can our love for premium spirits be transcended to rum? I mean, after all, it is not in every region in the world that these lyrics would be considered acceptable or even popular:

"Rum kill mih mother,

rum kill mih father,

rum kill mih whole family.

Rum kill mih brother,

rum kill mih sister,

now it want to come and kill me.

But I doh really care what people say...

oh, ah drinking today and ah drinking forever..."

(Pic from http://www.zazzle.co.uk/)

Eedyats!

2010-07-14T09:08:00.002+01:00

“A group of thugs were lying in wait in a car as15 year old Zachary Olumegbon arrived for lessons.

The gang leapt out and chased the youngster and a 14-year-old pal into an alley. They cornered Zachary and stabbed him repeatedly in the chest before chasing the other lad into the school grounds. They knifed him in the arm before fleeing from school staff.”

The Sun.

I usually relish my role as an apologist for young black boys who I believe are dealt a raw hand by British media and British society in general. I deplore and I am usually the first to protest at the myth of the peculiarity of “black on black crime” as often propagated in the media and transplanted into our psyches when we all know that poverty is the overriding determinant. I agree with Professor Ben Bowling that this seedling of an idea -that black men are inherently evil, bestial, inferior, unintelligent, ruled by desire and prone to violence- has been hawked since Elizabethan times and continues to be promoted. I often quote Baroness Scotland, our then Attorney General, who debunked this old wives’ tale with cold hard facts and statistics a couple of years ago: fact is that eighty six per cent of homicides are committed by white people against white people. I use the example that when white Derek Baird tragically shot his brother and many other white victims in Cumbria, race was not a significant criterion- no one spoke about “white on white crime”. I made a written complaint when Rod Liddle, last year, in his Spectator piece asserted that “the overwhelming majority of street crime, knife crime, gun crime, robbery and crimes of sexual violence in London is carried out by young men from the African-Caribbean community” and was glad to see him being fined for presenting his puerile, stereotypical, unfounded opinion as fact. I was happy that Dr Tony Sewell criticised the underreporting of crime when the victim was black.

So convinced I am of the root cause of crime among black youth being social exclusion, I wrote an entire treatise on the subject entitled “The Audacity of Despair”. Young black boys, I argued, are overrepresented in the criminal justice system because they are more likely to be stopped and searched, and three quarters of them are on the criminal DNA database which makes it easier for them to be convicted. I argued passionately that young black boys are disproportionately subject to socio-economic disadvantage and underlined the fact that there is significant educational underachievement and disaffectation because of an educational system that marginalises our young men and tells them that there are regressive and aggressive from the age of 3. To the Tony Blair outburst on taking responsibility for black crime, I countered that our boys live in a society which expects very little from them and which reminds them of this every day. I argued that the absence of fathers and the vacuum in discipline (we are told that traditional punishments are not suitable for Western Society without being offered a suitable alternative for our children) played a very large role in the numbers of young men who joined “posses” and street gangs. I posited that poor housing, the overrepresentation of black families on council estates, the and the desire to earn money by any means necessary in the face of endemic deprivation was a but for cause in the pipes of violence that occasionally spurted on London’s streets. Disenfranchised, without our own businesses to pass down to our children, quality education that would remove them from the laps of poverty and a sense of community, wasn’t it predictable that there would be blood?

I am, however, tired of apologising. My lips are now pursed in a giant “steups” every time I hear about stupid little tiffs and arguments involving black boys over postcodes that in a few years time their parents won’t even be able to afford . I feel embarrassed and ashamed. Is this why Rosa Parks decided to move from the back of a bus to the front? Is this the reason why Martin Luther King wrote that one day little black children would roam the streets freely and be judged by the content of their character? Is this the reason why Malcolm X died? So that young black boys would have the right to join street gangs, to create “beef” over trainers, the colour of their headscarves, a random “diss” and illusionary territories? Just outside the school gates, in my borough of Lewisham, this young black boy, ghettoised as “Lil Zac” and a member of the “T Block gang” was fatally stabbed a couple of weeks ago, by a group of boys. This was the 13th stabbing to take place in London this year. Most involved black youth. Where are the parents in this equation that refuses to be balanced? Have West Indian and Caribbean parents lost a grip of their children? It was telling that this school was a school that was constructed specially for the rehabilitation of excluded children. The teachers and cleaners in that school reported that there were frequent fights, systemic bullying and no respect at all for authority. In short- a mini jail, a prep-school for the University of Prison. It enrages me that the minority of these little boys who engage in gun crime actually have a great impact on our reputation and perception in the UK: these twenty one boys make the nation believe that our families are facing a great existential crisis, hence the reason the media found it derisible that Diane Abbott claimed that Caribbean parents would go to the wall for the children. They should not have or be entrusted with this power.

It has been recognised that many steps should be taken to counter the root causes of exclusion- including changes in the education system and housing allocation. However, in my opinion, it is imperative that whilst we wait for these changes to filter through, radical next steps should be taken to ensure that these silly battles do not persist. It is evident to me that if these boys only had a rich sense of our culture and our history, they would never act in a way to compromise what is our long standing culture of respect for authority. It is obvious that there is no pride in culture and pride in roots- we were never a warfaring people, in fact the black race has always placed a premium on the spirituo-cultural.

Black boys who are at risk should be made to complete a mandatory course in Black History and Culture so they can have pride in something other than the “freshness” of their trainers. This should be followed by voluntary service in deprived areas: earthquake ravished Haiti, the refugee camps in Somalia, so that they can fully comprehend the real battles human beings face on a daily basis and learn that the fight is against something bigger than their own myopic disagreements. I fully support initiatives such as rites of passage for young black males as advocated by The Institutes for Rites of Passage- which would equip adolescents with social, economic, behavioral and other life skills. This would serve as better rehabilitation than any Park Campus school, where all children with all types of behavioral problems are lumped into the same wreteched facilities. Our estates also need to return to the concept of a village raising a child. Community watches and community organisations need to be established forthwith and any evidence of illegal activity need to be reported. For this to be successful there needs to be a culture of trust between law enforcement and residents. And a culture of trust among the residents themselves that rides above lines of allegiances of Nigerian, Jamaican and Somali.

The effect of displacement of fathers also needs to be addressed head-on and right now. It is also true that black men from the Caribbean are still learning to be fathers; most of them never truly learnt how as they themselves probably did not have fathers and their fathers in turn did not know how to be fathers- legacy from plantation life. Child benefit and social housing and other forms of state help should include a criterion of involvement in a child’s life. For young black males who are at risk, this involvement should be made mandatory- at least 5 supervised contact hours a week. This enforced parenting might be unconstitutional but I do not care about the constitution when our society is on the brink of committing a self induced holocaust- this would certainly assist in easing the parenting pressure of black women who work longer hours than any other ethnic group in Britain and provide young boys with some measure of stability and visibility.

These are only my suggestions but I am sure that the experts have many more. The success of any scheme will depend solely upon our collective will. Are we ready to take ownership of our boys and by extension, our streets? Or are we resigned to the fact that they will keep on needlessly killing each other- as Biggie chillingly prophesied: “just another one?”

Do consider giving a monthly contribution to one of these charities that support the anti gun and knife crime initiatives in our communities and support positive mentoring:

The Damilola Taylor Trust

The Disarm Trust

East Potential

The Black Leadership Initiative

Sorry, I don't like Ghetto Couture

2010-07-09T07:58:00.000+01:00

The fashion industry has always been rife with accusations of discrimination. There is a palpable paucity of minority ethnic models on the catwalks of Milan, New York and Paris with the exception of a few household names -Naomi Campbell, Chanel Iman and Jourdan Dunn. This is not likely to change anytime soon, even though Vogue Italia’s Black Issue championed the cause a couple of years ago and was the fastest selling issue of all time. The experts explain the bias as a pure mathematical marketing decision: we are not the target demographic, we do not have significant purchasing power, so there is no demand. Tell this to Next and asos.com who use models of every hue and who posted significant increases in turnover. In spite of this snub, I still fall in lust with the Mulberry Alexa, I salivate and drool over the latest Chanel croc, and I hallucinate over the prospect touching (not even owning) a real-life Birkin: it would be like touching Michael Jackson. Seriously. When did this small town girl who grew up with kids who sometimes placed their schoolbooks into plastic bags pick up this strange luxury goods obsession? I do not know. I am ashamed of it because I really should know better: purchasing these products does nothing for my community, my self esteem and my development. I am working on it.

This is why I was very proud to see black owned businesses getting into the mid market of luxury goods. Finally some brothers with common sense! I hoped that we could learn a few lessons from the Asian and Jewish demographic, where there is a very strong sense of cohesion and community: finally brands I can support and wear with pride knowing that it was for us, by us and that funds would be channelled back into areas that need the investment. Needless to say- for me this has not been the case- I have been consistently disappointed and let down by the persistent and relentless pushing of what I call Ghetto Couture.

Ghetto Couture is what is termed “street fashion” the credo of put-some-bling-on-it-and-black-people-will-buy-it. The designs are loud, brash and bashy. The end result is often tacky. Take Nelly’s Applebottoms- the Apples on the back of the jeans are encrusted with plastic crystals and 90% of the jeans on the website have some sort of gold diamantes pasted onto the back. The rest of the collection consists of various items in coloured cheetah prints and tops and vests in bright orange, pink and blue. Kimora Simmons’ Baby Phat is no better- perfectly good fitted dresses are ruined by a huge golden cat on the back. Gold and bling is the primary theme. The colours are a bit less loud, but only marginally so. Rocawear ‘s handbags thrive on a similar concept- there are often very cute little pieces- but there must be some element of gold or silver logo inspired hardware. In fact, Beyonce’s House of Dereon collection (not the diffusion line Dereon, which is virtually identical in its love of fabulosity) is the only fashion label that I found that offered clothing that had some semblance of being tasteful and elegant.

I don’t like Ghetto Couture because it operates on the assumption that the target black market is obsessed with bling, gold and loud colours, almost perhaps in homage to Big Daddy Kane and the gold infestation of 1990s hip hop. This might be true for some people but it is certainly not true of a lot of people I know. I like my share of fabulous and I love bling - I have my own theories on it- it was our way to claim and stake visibility in a world which often renders us invisible but I hate Ghetto Couture because the collection is always “street”: what about clothing for our professional black women who wish to be stylish at work in a corporate environment? Where are the worksuits and leather handbags and briefcases? What about a cruise collection, a holiday collection? We go on holiday too. Why are we limiting ourselves to clothing that are only suitable for the street or for the club? These are negative stereotypes that we perpetuate ourselves. Are we saying that we don’t deserve tasteful, elegant things?

It is telling that many of the espousers of Ghetto Couture do not wear their very own brands. I see Victoria Beckham marketing her own dresses on every single occasion. I have never seen Kimora wear Baby Phat on occasions other than jogging or walking to the store. Beyonce only wore Dereon once on the red carpet and it was an epic fail. I have also only seen her once or twice with products from her husband’s label, Rocawear. So question is, if your very own products are not good enough or fresh enough for you, why should they be good enough for me?

There is only one other thing that irks me more and that is the new corollary of Ghetto Couture- the championing of brands that we are not paid to market, and with which we have no natural affinity or connection. In the days when Hova was Hova it was Cristal- until the Foederer brand said that it did not wish to be associated with rap artists and that there were dissipating the value of the brand. Then there was Timbaland: Timbs were the go-to shoe brand for people of colour until they started limiting the stock in Harlem and other ethnically diverse areas –they were just a little bit too popular.

Now it is the turn of Clarks- Vybz Kartel has dedicated a Holy Trinity of songs to Clarks- a brand that has no luxury kudos here in the UK-. He admonishes “Clean out ya closet. Deposit de Clarks... every crep get a fling... straight wallabees... deposit the thing”. Clarks, probably not wanting the Jamaican attention and connotation because of all the Chris Coke inspired violence, is on the record as saying that it has not noticed a significant uptake in the sale of its shoes as a result. Unless the versions of the Clarks sold in the Caribbean are all knock –offs (which they very well might be as I have not seen Clarks in those colours in my local Lewisham depot), this is absolute bollocks: it is the latest item that is on all request lists out here in the Diaspora for the past two years. The song tells it all “whey yuh get that new style Daddy? The Queen of England haffe love off Yardie”.

It would be amazing to me, if just as Kartel developed the concept of the Daggering condom, the effort could be placed into designing, manufacturing and promoting his own brand of footwear instead of singing about an old- stuck up label. As long as it is not encrusted with crystals and scattered with random flecks of bling- I would probably buy it.

The Marginalisation of RnB

2010-07-07T16:43:00.001+01:00

Who remembers Brixton in the 1990’s and the early Noughties? This was before black music was called urban, and before Peter Andre was trying to sound like Usher- this was the heyday of sultry TLC, sexy Keith Sweat, and the ballads of Boys II Men. Mary J Blige was not yet in her self-help Oprah mode- she was caught up in the drama and we loved it. Gangsta rap was not quite so gangsta- Jah Rule’s vocals were blended in with Ashanti’s on “What’s Love” and it was Trevor Nelson’s Lick charts which really were The Lick. This was the era of Jay Z – he was not yet Hova or Jigga. If BET was the Holy Grail, Brixton was Mecca. Z bar was one of our favourite haunts, I have memories of Friday nights there spent close to the speakers with a glass of Appleton and Coke (Courvoisier was not yet popular). The air was often fragrant with sweet sensi. We often migrated after a few drinks, when a nubile, promising night was on the verge of becoming geriatric to The Fridge where DJs actually scratched hip-hop records and didn’t reel punch buttons on a laptop linked to an Itunes playlist. We, for reasons I should not confess, were also legless. Brixton, then, had a latent sense of excitement and freedom.

Nowadays, I would not know Brixton if the riots came back and hit me and punched me as hard as a police man’s baton on an unsuspecting Rasta. Plan B churns out a series of rock concerts on an almost weekly basis. Their “exciting new music programme” seems to exclusively feature funk and disco and their music promoters who promise a South London night-time renaissance appear to feature mainly techno and house, with ole-skool hip hop that appeal only to a very select crowd (usually posh yuppies who want to appear cool). Yes, Erykah Badu and Bunny Wailer are playing this summer at the O2 Academy, but this is amidst the choking excess of young indie bands that have become suddenly in vogue. The Fridge Bar still plays RnB but it is dwarfed by The Fridge which caters mostly to a audience. Mass, to its credit, does a fair mix but it is still primarily a live music venue churning out angsty rock and techno hits.

This phenomenon is not unique to Brixton. In central London, clubs that once churned out Usher, Justin Timberlake and Missy as the music of choice are now keeping it confined to the VIP rooms, allegedly because they do not wish to attract a “certain clientele” for fear of brawls. There is no rnb on the X Factor or on Britain’s Got Talent. RnB singers do not headline festivals or concerts. Trey Songz and Jodeci sing at the Indigo2 instead of the main stage at the O2. It is clear to see that there has been a palpable demise in the popularity of rnb but what has caused this paradigm shift?

The people who do not like it (who coincidentally have no rhythm whatsoever) say the combination of predictable, sickly lyrics about sex and love, set against an electronic, mass produced, churned out beat is enough to cause a chunder-fit. Others blame it on MTV for promoting very specific type of songs, which led to listener fatigue. Some say that the introduction of a softer genre of hip-hop (Lupe Fiasco, Kanye West) made rnb irrelevant. Industry loyalists say that the mass production and mass marketing came at a price. Young people are drawn to the alternative and to the rebellious- rnb simply became too ubiquitous. This failure of rnb to appeal to the “cool” kids was evident at the Capital Summertime Ball- the rnb fans were the pop fans- young, immature, squealing kids- too green to appreciate good music. The new school rnb is like bubble gum- chewy and sweet at the moment, but never quite assuaging that biting, griping hunger pang and doing very little to satisfy.
I think that is fair to say that RnB is largely responsible for its own fate, it has committed its own suicide- openly. It is hard to imagine that the R&B began its life as rhythm and blues- birthing songs like Otis Redding’s classic- I’ve Been Loving you Too Long, and Percy Sledge’s iconic- When a Man Loves a Woman. Even when rnb paired with hip hop in the early 1990’s the songs were still meaningful- Nas and Lauryn Hill’s if I Ruled the World was virtual poetry in my eyes. From its halcyon days in the 1940’s to mainstream dominance in the 1960’s with the emergence of Motown which featured the prolific Marvin Gaye, Smokey Robinson and Aretha Franklyn to Chaka Khan and Sade and then through to R. Kelly (before THAT case), Mary J Blige and Toni Braxton in the 1990’s, rnb used to be fiery.

We have now got to the point in rnb when a chart topper is a song that has the title of a goofy OMG- ohmigod- the teenage, illiterate, expression of surprise that could be attributed to anyone or anything. Gone are the days of classic soul ballads: we now have Tiny Tempah’s Frisky to replace these classics. Is it then any surprise that now in the top 100 Billboard charts there are virtually very few rnb songs? The blues in rnb seem to have been replaced with bass- voices are now secondary to the beat. The disdain I have for the electric machine music is only matched by the disdain I have for the industry puppets who continue to be manipulated by media giants. The continual emphasis on cookie-cutter, identikit image over vocals makes the genre weary.

R&B has become a modern day bastard, a whore of a genre in that it has lots of its confidence and mojo and has now cross-bred with so many other types of music, it is fair to say that it is now a cockeyed deformity of its own self: it is not now possible to distinguish it from contemporary pop and the recent tag of the genre as “urban” has contributed to this homogenisation. Rihanna’s Te Amo, for example, is on the Billboard chart as an rnb song although the beat is undoubtedly latin. If the definition of the genre is so fluid and nondescript, it is no surprise that its heartbeat is so embarrassingly weak. All the gloss and ice and bling and video hos and lasers can’t hide the fact that rnb is no longer bringing something new to the table: there is nothing delicious to savour. There is no fresh subculture, no pride, no new style. Same old same old. There are very few charismatic acts. No swing. No rhythm. No syncopation. No blues. In fact, I think it is fair to say that rnb is becoming strikingly commercial and dance-focussed, a smoother version of house.

I am no sooth-sayer however. Like Timbaland, I agree that Coldplay and Radiohead are “ill” but I hesitate to say that this is the end of rnb like Nas predicted the death of hip-hop. A few artists continue to surprise me. Like Janelle Monae who crosses categorisation and who is truly inspirational. Like Erykah Badu, whose album defies the gravity of contemporary music. Like Maxwell and Sade whose albums are critical and commercial successes. The future is bleak, but not one without bright sparks. I just hope that somebody, somewhere, will see it fit to resuscitate.

Can you be Christian and Carnival?

2010-07-07T10:25:00.000+01:00

I am not the most qualified candidate to write this piece. I am the first to admit this. Somebody “pas han’ on me long time- I have a special Carnival obeah that resurrects with each strum of the bass of a soca tune, which persists throughout and during the Carnival season and which does not even ebb away at the end of the festivities, so rabid am I in my enjoyment of the pageantry. I stand resolutely in the pursuit of fun- fetes, all inclusive, drinking, eating, jamming, playing ah “marse”. My (limited) wining skills are tested to extremity by many a reveller.

My religious grandaunt and her best friend Eileen often warn me of Carnival’s pagan origins- they admonish that it began as a spring festival to the god Dionysus and that my revelry is the ultimate honour to the God Bacchus, hence bacchanalia, so ergo sum: it is not at all possible to be Christian and to partake in Carnival. With a fluid wisecrack retort, I remind her of its decidedly Christian appropriation (like many Catholic rites)- it is the extension of the jubilee of Christ’s birth before we say farewell to flesh and sombrely remember his death, as the Romanesque Italians would say: “carne vale” (farewell meat). The tension of the Church and its response to Carnival was epitomised when I was but a wee lass in Grenada- our church had a Carnival band, we sponsored a calypso tent and one of the priests would play jourvert. However, there is always the belief that even if one attends church, pays tithes, reads the Bible and try to abide by all the Christian edicts, one cannot really be a true Christian if one takes part in Carnival. As Granny says- you can’t serve two masters. My response: you are wrong, I am the master of Carnival, it does not master me. I have only one master and that’s Jah/God/Jehovah.

It is true that Carnival became Christianised only after the church realised that it could not be suppressed. Some say that “carnival" really stems from "carrus navalis": the "naval car" or ship, which carried the Celtic and Germanic Sea-God from his Northern abode to the winter feasts. It is mentioned that the medieval Church reinterpreted this as the Ship of Fools, on which all kinds of sinners sail to their death. Others say some elements derive from the Romans Saturnalia, or Lupercalia- traditional festivals with lots of food and drink, dress-up and parades. The societal order was reversed and rules of behaviour were suspended: higher classes had no authority over lower, masters waited on their slaves, men dressed like women. From the mid 1140s Carnival included a host of fertility rites, agricultural and hunting rituals, and forms of sun, river, or mountain worship. A temporary King was crowned and everyone had to abide by his most ludicrous whims. There are others who ascribe an African element to the Caribbean type Carnival, shrouded it may be under the European cloak of pre Lenten festivities. Commentators like Grisso (www.theafrican.com) argue that our West Indian carnivals have decidedly Yoruba roots like the throwing of talcum powder as a disguise and the dressing in similar colours to constitute a band. Others argue that it is linked to the worship of ancestors- the use of colourful clothes and masks were a way to appease the spirits to return among the living and to accede to prayers.

I must admit that I do not care very much about the initial origins of Carnival very much, as I am very sure I do not worship the ancestors when I parade in the streets. I prefer to live in the now as much as possible. Carnival and mass (masquerade) today have little to do with the traditional European Christian celebrations that evolved from the wealthy and landed plantocracy of the sugar estates. Yes, we have returned somewhat to the past as there are balls in wealthy homes catering to a certain class (ie Lara fetes) but it is now fair to say that it has evolved into a festival of abandon, a kaleidoscope and a riot of colour and glamour. Our vestments are no longer elaborate bulky costumes and masks- we are acolytes of the beads and bikinis. We bear staffs instead of candles and we wait in anticipation for the altar of the “Stage” to strut our stuff. Our celebrants are the King and Queen of the Bands and their sermons are delivered by the vicarage of the kaiso and soca artists- jump and wave, misbehave, get on, wine, jook, palance. Religious leaders often condemn Carnival today as promoting idolatry and immorality and a mere excuse for drunken debauchery. The ones who take themselves ultra seriously quote Jeremiah and Ephesians and liken it to the rampant behaviour of Sodom and Gomorrah. They warn us that it will provoke the wrath of an angry God on a nation. Jourvert (Jour Ouvert) they say is the typification of all that is wrong with Carnival- the dressing like black devils at the crack of dawn is true idolatry of Lucifer.

In my eyes, Carnival is a mirror of the society in which we live. If it is immoral, it means our society is immoral, if it is hypocritical and debaucherous, it means that our society tolerates debaucheries. It is true that drink is consumed in copious quantities, but the same could be said of wedding celebrations- sanctified by God. Fact is that in Caribbean society, alcohol is often freely consumed and Carnival day is no exception to the rule of a drunk. Carnival no Carnival some of us do not drink to excess and Carnival no Carnival some of us do. Others warn us that nakedness and “wriggling bodies” are advertisements for sex. Oh save us from the evils of sex that will grasp up in its claws, unawares in a Carnival Band! The last time I checked most of us are thinking adults. It is impossible to ascribe sexual licentiousness to a festival: it is impossible to be sexually loose for one day and to live like a hermit for 363 days. If anyone is free with sexual favours around Carnival time, then it is highly likely that those favours were fast and loose (no pun intended) all year round. Character speaks louder than reputation or even behaviour- in spite of my less than holy Carnival behaviour (memories of those cheese sandwich wines live on), I have never ever been propositioned for sex: the individual in question would be certain to be the subject of a flying kick! To be honest, if one has participated in all the feting and excitement of the day, sleep is the only word with s which will be sought at the end of the evening.

As for J’ouvert, anyone knowing its true origins would be loathe to call it idolatry. It is the ultimate irony : the portrayal of the slave masters as black devils. More than anything, it is a rejection of veneration, a sarcastic and mocking cultural role play of the slaves’ masters at masquerade balls. The criticisms rivalled at Carnival today seem to represent a very colonialised view of culture and is reminiscent of the fears of the planter class who reported after emancipation “ in our towns, commencing with the orgies on Sunday night, we have a fearful howling of a parcel of semi-savages emerging God knows where from, exhibiting hellish scenes and the most demoniacal representations of the days of slavery: then using the mask the two following days as a mere cloak for every species of barbarism and crime” (Philip Scher, George Washington University) when they themselves committed one of the greatest atrocities on humanity. Who were the real savages?

They were fearful of the ceremony of the Cannes Brulées and stamped it out of carnivals in Trinidad and Grenada. Cannes Brulées was the ex-slaves’ nocturnal journey through the streets, burning the canes, symbols of their oppression- a re-enactment of the slaves’ tasks to put out the fires of the burning cane (sometimes set by them) and so dousing their freedom so to speak. Jouvert is the only time of the year when the hoi polloi, the great unwashed, are engaged in satirical political commentary on the rulers of the day through “Ole Mas” : they represent figures in the community and in traditional Caribbean folklore with cunning and tact. The Dame Lorraine, the Neg Jadin, the Burrokeets, the Short Knee, the Wild Indians, the Jab Molassie and the Moko Jumbies all have their own stories to tell. The calypsonians regale the year’s activities and serve as the omniscient narrator of the most newsworthy stories- they were the first bloggers of Caribbean life. Didn’t Jesus come to set the captives free? How can I separate myself from my cultural identity in the pretence that it would make me a better Christian? Or do I simply separate myself from the wining and jamming and what is termed lewd “dancing” that is not at all Christian-like? But isn’t this a part of the general fervour of the celebration?

I pledge allegiance to Carnival because it is a great equaliser. It is the only time of year when superfluous titles of lawyer, doctor, cleaner and politician are all erased and we are all just human. We are unified only by the pulse of music and march onwards with one spirit, together. At the risk of sounding blasphemous, isn’t this the meaning of Christianity- that we are all one flesh? Isn’t it a fact that Ecclesiastes 3:1 says that for everything there is a season and a time under heaven- including a time to dance? The Jamiesson Faucet Bible Commentary believes that this means that there is a time for all earthly pursuits. And isn’t Carnival simply the polar opposite of the solemnity of the Passion of Christ?

True Christianity is to live as Jesus lived. Jesus walked. Among all. He came for all men- Jew as well as Gentile, slave as well as free. Maybe it’s my image of this man as a free spirited individual, chanting “fire burn” on the Scribes and Pharisees, overturning the tables of the den of thieves in the temple, rolling twelve deep – with some close “brethren” for disciples, getting more wine when it ran out at the wedding in Cana that makes me feel that he does not appear to be a self righteous, prescriptive, egoist.

Review: Good Hair

2010-06-30T08:26:00.002+01:00

I spend a lot of money on my hair. I was going to say comparatively speaking, but I realised that that was a bare faced lie. I spend a lot of money on my hair period. I was then going to say “spent” because I no longer have a weave habit but to be honest- remaining napptastic still requires a lot of effort and a lot of cash. You would be amazed. The price of being a weava-diva used to be high. Getting good quality human hair for a weave required at least two packets of extensions at £30- £60 a pop. Installation ranged from £40 (my homie Fulana in Peckham) to £90 (From the Root, Lewisham). Then there would be hair sheen or curl spray (another £10) to take care of the shedding, the shine and the matting that happens when the hair on your head doesn’t really sprout from your scalp. I must admit that I loved the glamour of it all but I decided to give it up once I decided to give up the “creamy crack” otherwise known as hair relaxer aka sodium hydroxide aka lye that can disintegrate a can of Coke. Now that my hair is natural, it is probably as expensive- £50 for each retwist every four weeks and then £40 to £100 for a “full head unit” for work. Compare that to a haircut every three months for my European friends and a colour and blowdry probably every six months.

Chris Rock’s Good Hair is erudite and candid in throwing up all these facts and more. Did you know that black people comprise 20% of the population but purchase 80% of all hair and hair products? That the hair industry is worth more than 9 billion dollars? That in spite of this, black people are disenfranchised and that the black chemical straightening industry is owned mostly by super corporates such as Revlon and L’Oreal? And that the Koreans have a monopoly on the hair extension industry; that they refuse to sell to black distributors because the profit margin on hair is so high? That human hair from India is worth more than gold, kilo for kilo? Rock brings to light all of these interesting facts and polemic discussions, via interviews with a diverse range of black personalities who offer special insight on all aspects of the hair industry- from Reverend Al Sharpton, the civil rights campaigner (who perms his hair) to poet and writer Maya Angelou (who didn’t have a perm till she was 70), self confessed weave addict and hip hop video-ho Melissa Ford, singer Eve and actresses Raven Simone and Nia Long.

This film is a must-see for all races as a study about race, gender and the perception of beauty. It will be informative for people who are not of colour to see why we explain going back to natural hair as a “journey”, why hair seems like an “obsession” and why a black woman’s hair is such a complex and contentious issue (for those who let it be that way). It was disturbing to see human hair being scraped of the heads of babies for the sacred ceremony of tonsure in India and the deep convictions that this was a holy sacrifice to the gods, only for these locks to be bartered over on shop shelves only a few days later. Chris Rock’s hilarious commentary made me realise that it was actually not that funny that ordinary working class people were not purchasing property and investing in education and were instead on “lay away” plans for hair units that did not look even better than their natural hair or the ordinary hair in the beauty shops. What a tangled web we weave! The expense of hair extensions for the average black woman ($1000 upwards) could put a black child through private school. It broke my heart when young people in Harlem still thought that an afro was not “groomed” enough for work. In 2010. No one put it better than Al Sharpton: “we are attaching our economic exploitation on our heads”.

On some levels, I wish Chris Rock could have focussed more on the facts instead of paying what I felt was disproportionate attention to a largely entertaining- but not much else- hair show in Atlanta. I wanted him to speak to scientists and research analysts about the effects of sodium hydroxide on human scalp over a sustained period of time and to investigate whether there had been any substantive studies on the health effects (I found only such one study that related to breast cancer only, and none in the EU). The production budget seems to have been strained- I would have wished him to not only confine his study to Los Angeles but also to visit Africa and the UK and the Caribbean to obtain perspectives on hair and attitudes to it. Maybe he would have encountered the natural hair movement and presented a different side of the coin. In that way, the documentary would have come across as more balanced- there are a lot of black people who wear their hair as is and who do not spend thousands of dollars on weaves and hair relaxers and straightening products. Where Chris Rock equates black with “weave wearing” he makes an expensive generalisation that risks pissing people off as not all black women eschew intimacy and swimming in favour of hair (I don’t give a rat’s arse) and spend hundreds of dollars to maintain it, or expect their men to take care of bill. This risked perpetuating a very dangerous stereotype.

Similarly, the interviews with the members of the community seemed to be based in only a few hair shops and barber shops- it would have been useful to obtain the view of a few professionals and their perspectives on hair in corporate America. His attempt to be funny in selling black hair fell flat but I felt that this could have been tackled as a serious issue: if Afro type hair existed on the scale that we see Indian hair and Malaysian hair and Remy hair, would there would be a market for it for those of us who wish to embellish/lengthen our own tresses? I would have also liked to see him source and question the distributorship networks and the managers of the companies manufacturing “kiddie perms”.

The documentary is amiable, funny and incisive but I think that Chris Rock had the capacity to make it even funnier and even more incisive. Hair after all, is no different from any other beauty industry- it is based on an unattainable standard. My spirit soared when actress Tracie Thoms said just what I explained to a friend over lunch yesterday; it is a shame that “to keep my hair the same texture as it grows out of my head is revolutionary”.

Waka Waka to all our Black Stars

2010-06-27T13:30:00.000+01:00

A few days ago, I read the Evening Standard and in the middle there was a heart warming feature about a very kind South African man who decided to return to South Africa to build a house for his black nanny-coincidentally he had two spare tickets going for a World Cup Match, and rather benevolently, he decided to provide this woman- Joyce Mbolo with a ticket. She was ecstatic, but kept it quiet, because many of her friends had wanted and planned to go to a World Cup Match, but could not afford it. The feature was touching in the sense that there was this young white man in South Africa, quietly making reparation so to speak, in the midst of all the noisy frantic celebration. It read like a piece on Holy Communion in the middle of the bacchanalia of carnival. It’s nice to see that there are still some good, grateful people around. In that feature, however, there was a comment which caught my attention and which stayed with me – Joyce when deciding to pick a team to support between France and Mexico, decided to back France purely “because they had black players”.

This led me to think about the way in which I aligned my position in the World Cup. When supporting teams in the World Cup, does race occupy a privileged position? Is it almost like tribe, trumping nationality? With the African teams it is very easy- who could ever forget the goading of Eto’o with peanuts in Spain and Italy ( to imply that he was a black chimp- yes only a couple of years ago) and his brave retort of dancing like a monkey and his defiant fist cuffed in the instantly recognisable symbol of black power? I will root for this man for whatever team he plays for because of his tenacity. I would have cried. The fact that this was the first World Cup on African soil made it all the more right to will an African team to win. So I backed Nigeria, Ghana, Ivory Coast and South Africa with gusto and felt that I was almost duty bound to do so. Algeria was a bit more difficult. Yes, it is on the African continent, but those of us who lived in France could never forget the sense of difference cultivated between us and them- Arab and Black, as different as A &B even though in some ways we were both patients, suffering the same disease. Still, Africa is Africa. They get a pass.

On the home front, I found that while I support England wholeheartedly (except when commentators mention 1966) I am especially proud when I see Ashley Cole defending, Emile Heskey deflecting, Jermaine Defoe scoring, Shaun Wright-Philips tackling, and David James saving the team from defeat. The Rob Green scuffle? I was gutted for him but just glad it wasn’t a black man who was the fall guy (for once!). Why shouldn’t I be? It was not even 50 years ago that Jack Leslie, a black man, was selected to play for England but was not afforded the opportunity to get on the pitch because of the colour of his skin. It was only in 2005 that Ivoirian Marc Zoro was reduced to tears on the pitch, and as an act of protest, took the ball and threatened to leave the field because of racist taunts from Inter Milan. Bravely, he was convinced to finish the game, but explained later that he had been playing for Italy for three years and that he encountered such daily. It was also only in 2004 that Ashley Cole and Shaun Wright Phillips were taunted with racist insults- the Spanish FA was fined £44,000- peanuts. I have read about the abuse that Paul Canonville faced as the first black player to play for Chelsea from his own fans shouting “we don’t want the nigger” and the bananas landing at his feet-I have no doubt that the almost holy black allegiance to teams like Arsenal and Tottenham stems back to this. Paul explains that this went on for more than two and a half years and even when he scored his own fans shouted “it’s still 0-0 the nigger scored, it doesn’t count”. Notably, his career ended when he got into a pre-season fight with a teammate who called him “a black cock”. He was transferred to Reading.

For all other teams, I am afraid that I do feel the same way as Joyce. Indeed we have come a long way- for example in England, Paul Ince was the first black captain of the England team in 1983 and this weekend we just saw Ashley Cole become the most capped black player for England (80 caps). However, whenever I do not have any particular allegiance to a team, it is true that I support the team which has the most black players. I am sure that there are worse reasons. In fact, I could not think of a better criterion. There are a few genuine multiculturalists who love to say that we now live in a post racial society but they need only have a quick look at the Daily Mail’s vitriol against Germany’s “foreign team” who despite being born in Germany are labelled not true Germans. Also, France’s exit out of the World Cup which was largely blamed on Anelka led to a blanket statement of condemnation from senior ministers of the “scum who grew up on council estates in the banlieue”; he could not have been speaking about any other players other than the players from poor and yes, black, backgrounds who inhabit the cites at the edge of Paris- the same “scum” mind you who brought them to victory no less than a few years ago. In the Caribbean, we have has always appeared unwavering in its support of Brazil- this possibly stemmed from the rise of Pele and his ascendancy as a top player of African hue taking his place not among the best, but as the best. However, whilst I have tremendous respect for the Brazilian side, I must say that their almost caste-like reliance on colour for social ascendancy does not sit very well with me, so my support is grudging.

This is why I shared an almost universal pride for Ghana when it trounced the United States of America yesterday. This one was for Africa, for us. And it was particularly telling that it was the proverbial Black Stars who achieved this- based on the Marcus Garveyite Black Star on the Ghanaian flag- symbol of post colonial liberty. When I visited Ghana I was so impressed by the resilience and warmth of its people, I am not surprised that it is the team charging the way forward. Trite as it might seem, it is really a symbol of what the developing world can do, on near equal footing. Were the game not so passionate, I would say it was probably part of the political machinery to ensure that at least one African team was left standing, and that one African country would charge forward as a beacon pilot project for illustrating the benefits of democracy. Jerome Boateng, who is half German and half Ghanaian, and who opted to play for Germany whilst his half brother Kevin-Prince Boateng played for Ghana must be bereft. I read that the players gathered in the hotel to drum the djembe and sing African battle songs. Our stars are indeed ascending.

A Stormy Future in the Caribbean Basin

2010-06-23T23:20:00.002+01:00

On my last sojourn home, I looked out of the windows of the noisy, claustrophobic 747 expecting to be greeted by the youthful but full bosom of green mountain peaks, garlanded by lush green vegetation, almost like nature’s necklaces across the rich forests. Instead my island looked forlorn- a rustic, dry harmattan brown which painted so sorrowful a disguise that it only confirmed what I did not want to accept- my island in the dry season was a skeleton, a veritable arsonic corpse of its former self.

“You are now free to leave the aircraft. Please take all your belongings with you”.

As if I would leave anything behind me for these wretches who didn’t even want to give me extra peanuts! I leave the airplane, only to wade through the thick, almost impenetrable air that swamped my nostrils and crept over my throat at MBIA- the air was so balmy it didn’t feel like air. Asthma threatened, I struggled to breathe for about one minute. Get a damn grip I told myself. This is your country! Smoky wafts of heat escaped from the pitch.

I jumped in the car where I found my mother waiting, eagerly. “Oh gawd it dam hot” I exclaimed. “Don’t swear” she admonished. I love my mum. She often complained about the heat, but I paid her no mind, neatly filing her complaints about the heat into the miscellaneous “menopausal” cabinet in my mind- it was the cobwebbed compartment that held other complaints- the time it took to drive from Victoria to St. George’s, the little munchkins who stole her carefully tended corn, fencing, and the high mortgage interest rates at the Public Service Credit Union. I started the engine and began the one hour journey across Grenada that was so pleasurable each time I did it when I returned as I was able to see what was new and to hail old, familiar faces. “Plenty plenty jacks coming up- if you see jacks”, was my mum’s commentary as we passed the fishing mecca of Gouyave, referring to a particular species of fish, similar to sprat, that was usually plentiful and was the staple of island life. Jacks were usually very abundant but that year there was an over abundance. Boatfuls and boatfuls of jacks trashed onto our coast and over spilled, to the extent that fishermen could not manage a sale and some were left rotting. Too many jacks to dry, too many jacks to buy- too many to clean and to corn.

Something else was new when I stepped outside and entered my house and the small room that I outgrew a long time ago- there was a persistent vuvuzela-like droning, and I only managed to work out who were the culprits when I noticed purple and red welts on my now ultra sensitive arms and legs. I was insulted that I had stayed away so long even the mosquitoes (and their progeny) did not remember who I was! These wicked beasts, along with the vicious biting sandflies were in full bloom, almost resplendent in their plentifulness and splendour, were I not aggravatedly scratching and itching away. I took a glass of cold water out on my verandah and asked my mother- was it always like this? I do not remember my island to be this hot, the sun’s rays to sting so harshly, the air to be quite so muggy, the ocean so rough, the climate so steamy? It confirmed what I began to suspect. Had we already succumbed to the perils of climate change and global warming?

We have already learned that 2005 was the hottest year on average since records began. Apart from the warmer seas causing more extreme events and activity, warmer waters are already damaging our coral reefs, causing bleaching. The UK Guardian reported on 24 June 2008 that warmer seas and a devastating hurricane season resulted in more than half of the Caribbean’s coral reefs being destroyed. Interestingly, according to a presentation given by Ulric D’Trotz (PhD),developing island states only account for 1% of emissions but will probably experience over 50% of the effects of climate change. In fact, low lying small islands are reported to be the most vulnerable group, and the least adaptable. As such, since we have no control over global mitigation, the strategy seems to be one of resigned adaptation. What a cop-out! Predictions in 2008 were dire: in the next few years we would see sea levels rising- saline intrusions in freshwater aquifers, coastal flooding and erosion. We would also see increased temperatures, increased vectors and vector borne diseases. Our rainfall patterns will change drastically- we would see extended periods of droughts and extended periods of heavy rains. There would be decreased fresh water availability. Storm activity was also expected to be more intense. What is shocking is that a mere 2 years later, some of these “predictions” are already our experiences.

The effects can be far reaching. Apart from an ecosystem that is messed up, this can result in the direct loss of our agricultural and tourism revenues on which almost all Caribbean islands depend. The region would lose its attractiveness and in fact, the milder winters in the North might obviate the need for a retreat to our climes (which might be considered a health risk because it would be infested with mosquitoes anyway). Jobs in the industry would be lost as hotel rooms go empty. Insurance costs of promises close to the shoreline will soar. The Adapting to Climate Change Project for the Caribbean has gone some way to sensitising the public, strengthening technical capacity and training, and developing a business plan to contain the risk. But there seems to be an overwhelmingly complacent attitude of “there is only so much we can do”. Never mind that over 1.4 million people might lose their livelihoods and possibly their lives, due to flooding.

Although the Caribbean Community Climate Change Centre has planned a series of projects to assist in managing the crisis and has launched a series of practical strategies in partnership with the University of Oxford (including Caribsave), there has not been much pressure placed collectively as a region on the more culpable parties (probably because we are too busy prostituting for aid). How much more louder we could have spoken in Copenhagen if we had only one envoy and spoken with one voice?

Strategists consider the costs of inaction to be in the region of 75 per cent of GDP in countries like Grenada, Haiti and Dominica in 2100. This means that unless we come up with alternatives, we are creating a serious crisis for our children. The pundits tell us that all we need is time to come up with viable solutions. I am defiantly cynical. Chances are, with our current track record, the Caribbean will become uninhabitable and time will be the only thing left.

(Photo from triniforums.com. All rights reserved).

Paper Chasers

2010-06-21T08:13:00.001+01:00

The word paper is fairly neutral. When we were children, we scribbled on it. We used it to paint, to draw and to create art, with varying degrees of success. I was rubbish at art but I loved paper as there was nothing quite like a clean sheaf on which to scribble my ten year old thoughts. As we grew older, the word paper was adulterated to become synonymous with the cold hard face of currency. Today, the plural form of the word takes on a special significance in the vocabulary of the immigrant. Papers are a whole new currency- it is a hot commodity representing a passport to the right to reside in the developed world. The value of this currency never fluctuates.

There are paper chasers on the streets of Paris: the processions of sans –papiers of Cameroonian men and Ivory Coast women in Barbes-Rochechouart fill the churches of Saint Denis to pray to a God who would wash away old lives and give them new documented ones, in the same way that they fill the bank accounts of unscrupulous avocats who promise every year, next year they will have the legal right to reside and to remain. There are paper chasers in London- Nigerian men and Jamaican women who have overstayed the duration of their permits, armed with either a false British passport or a fake residence permit, or both. They work cash in-hand in hairdressers’ salons in Peckham and on construction sites in Hackney. There are thousands of paper chasers in Brooklyn, New York- Grenadian men and Guyanese women who have literally given up solid, reasonably well paid jobs in the Caribbean or brighter prospects at home, to become one of Patterson’s invisibles- they babysit in New Jersey literally cleaning up the shit after affluent ~~slave-owners~~ employers, they try to fleet in and out unnoticed in Caribbean hair shops and nail shops and takeaways. They make us believe that all is okay with their combination of Baby Phat, lace front weaves, Clarks and Timberlands or all of the above.

Paper chasing has its own rules, its own honour code of conduct and regulations, which vary according to the host country’s norms and mores. I quickly learnt that in the United States, a sophisticated money marriage system exists and it is rare to find a paper marriage for free. When it comes to marriage, there appears to be an irrefutable presumption of illegitimacy. I explained to a friend that someone I knew got married. The immediate question was “Papers?” Wedding photos on Facebook are gossiped and whispered about. More often than not, citizens are paid for their time and trouble, often to sums topping $5000- $10,000. This is presumably to represent the cost of the hassle- mere green card holders do not have permanent rights to reside, so often these arranged marriages subsist for over 7 years to ensure that the deal is seen through to completion. The United States’ Citizenship and Immigration Services is often swiftly on the heels- they require photos showing evidence of long marital life, and I have heard, anecdotally, that the questions they ask require intimate knowledge- what colour is your husband’s toothbrush, what was the colour of the dress you wore on your wedding day? A marriage for papers therefore requires forward planning- an easy familiarity with spouse’s family members and background- it is not for the faint hearted. However, many are unperturbed. I know of citizens who have married three times over to allow spouses to obtain rights to reside. I have heard of couples who plan to migrate and each to marry US citizens to obtain that elusive green card, and then to marry each other after the ordeal. I hope it is worth it and it lasts.

In the UK, there is a more covert, laissez faire approach to paper marriages. There is almost always the ruse of love, and even in cases where there is no ruse- overstayers use the criteria of citizenship to filter out any potential marriage applicants. It is the ultimate economic cost-benefit analysis. What good is it falling in love with someone who cannot help? Older women are often targeted. Lots of Eastern Europeans in economically strained circumstances consent to these marriages and contract them for sums as low as £1,000.

Nothing really surprises me about green card marriages in the US anymore except for the profile of those who overstay and who seek to undertake them. I probably expect them of persons who are unemployed in their home countries or those who really have nothing to lose. College graduates really should know better. Is at home so bad? The bourgeois set from the Caribbean/Africa whose parents sent them abroad every summer. Surely during their many sojourns proper research could have been undertaken as to the myriad ways to enter and to remain legally in the West. Up to two years ago, the UK offered working holiday visas and nanny visas to Caribbean nationals, yet thousands still chose to come through the system illegally. Is it the thrill of the chase or is it pure ignorance, the failure to question and to be informed, accepting this indignity of crouching low in another man’s country as the only way? Papers are ascribed an almost mythical significance- "she ehn fix up yet". Someone I know referred to a mutual friend with a BA, MA and PhD as "not having shit" on the basis that she did not yet have the permanent right to reside. This, to me, is incredulous.

Many who migrate do not tell us the real story, they present a skewed picture of what they romantically term the “hustle”. They do not tell the truth- that the hustle is really a sale. It is a trade in peace of mind for economic gain, without which many of our families would probably not have advanced, but this does not make the choice any more viable or sane. They do not say that the wheel of the hustle is notoriously difficult to climb atop because there are thousands, if not millions of hustlers running along for that chance, to do the job for longer hours than they would, at a pay vastly cheaper than they would, and yes, probably better than they would. They keep quiet the fact that not many employers would take the risk so that for every yes there are maybe one hundred no’s. That to pay bills and to keep on top of rent and demands at home, the hustle becomes two and three and even four hustles, with no time for rest. They keep it on the down low that they are often paid less than permanent residents for doing the very same job. That unscrupulous rich families in the East side would try to hold on to their passports and make them work for more than their contracted hours because they knew that they do not have a choice. That every hustler knows of at least one mother or father whose sons or daughters died whilst they were abroad and that he/she could not come home to bury their own children. And that yes there are no taxes, but undocumented there is also no NHS, no insurance, no services if you happen fall sick. That the hustle may also involve having sex with a man you do not like or love. That very often you learn to love the man you are having sex with, because only that offers a way out.

I do not judge our paper chasers. I envy their audacity and their resilience. I could not do it. I have too much pride to eat at the crumbs that fall of the table of another man’s country whilst its citizens dine Michelin-style. I judge instead the failure of our own countries to harness the skills of its citizens, to create employment opportunities, to encourage initiative among our people so that it won’t be necessary for us to leave. If all the “hustlers” hustled at the same rate in the same way in their home countries, the Third World would be buzzing with vibrance and economic actitivy. I judge the developed West with its McFoods and McJobs and McEducation that lure us with McPromises. And I hope, that by the Grace of God, I would never be placed in a position where all I feel I can do is to paper chase. No one should.

(Pic from www.paperchase.co.uk. All rights reserved. Paper Chase has nothing to do with paper chasing or illegal immigration).

Oedipus Usher

2010-06-19T11:03:00.000+01:00

We will all probably remember the story of Oedipus – the young protagonist in Sophocles’ plays, the mythical Greek king of Thebes who fulfilled the prophecy that he would eventually kill his father and marry his mother, Jonasta. The tragedy features many moral maxims on marriage, so much so that Sigmund Freud employed the use of the term Oedipus complex to explain the origin of certain neuroses in childhood- that the male child longs subconsciously for the exclusive love of his mother.

Usher Raymond IV, son of Jonetta, has an uncharacteristic fascination with mothers, and appears to have succumbed to MILF power. Not for him his contemporaries or the ever widening trend of dating women a decade younger. After a two year relationship with mother of one Rozanda “Chilli” Thomas, he moved on to 36 year of mother of three Tameka Foster (with whom he had two sons). There was a messy divorce in 2009, and he is now reputed to be in a relationship with Grace Miguel, 46. He clearly has a thing for mothers although tellingly, his own mother Jonetta Patton was reportedly not happy with any of the aforementioned ladies in their assigned roles as mate to her beloved son.

The showbiz industry is unkind to older women. The focus on youth and the emphasis on unencumbered transient relationships do not easily fit into the older woman mould. Even when Usher dated Chilli, who was famous in her own right as part of girl group TLC, the media were still very critical about her age and the fact that she already had a child by another man.

The venom spewed at Tameka was especially vicious, although there was some measure of flack because their relationship did not begin in a conventional way (she was not yet divorced). She was accused of being too old, too ugly, and yes, too dark notwithstanding that taking wealth and fame aside, she was the more physically attractive party in the relationship (yes, I said it- I always thought that Usher looked like a black Ninja Turtle). Ignoring the fact that she had her own property and business as a celebrity stylist, she was accused of being a gold digger, and her less than perfect body was ridiculed on the internet, which probably led her to go to that dodgy clinic in Brazil where she almost died. Tameka was unflatteringly teased Maneka, and when her and Usher’s wedding was called off a barrel of secrets floated up on the internet- attitude problems, criminal records, the whole lot. When it was on again, she valiantly fought a losing battle.

It is telling that Usher Raymond had no relationship with his father- it is reported that his dad left when he was only one year old. He was raised by his mother, guided by his mother and professionally managed by his mother. It was probably the longest meaningful relationship he has had in his entire life. In a situation like this one, it is easy to go along with the Freudian analysis that the father having disappeared (metaphorically killed), the relationship he seeks is an oedipedian one where he is essentially mothered by his mate.

Usher’s story is perhaps not a singular one. Millions of males, black males in particular are being raised by females only in single parent families. Studies commissioned by morning paper Metro in the UK, show that 48 percent of black Caribbean families in the UK are single parent families and 36% of black African families are single parent families. Among whites, this figure is 22%, and this figure is lower in Asian populations. Nine out of ten single parent families are headed by mothers. The figures are very similar in the USA and much higher in the Caribbean where more than half of families are headed by single parent women.

The effects of coming from a single parent home have been studied in the context of the likelihood to obtain a degree, the capacity to earn a high paying job, and the penchant towards a life of crime and homelessness. However, there have been hardly studies on the human side of this phenomenon, on whether the attachment that young men develop to their mothers in the context of the single parent home leads to unorthodox relationships where the females they seek as mates assume a maternal role. What is the percentage of men seeking mother figures? Is the cycle perpetuated? Are sons of single parent mothers less likely to form lasting relationships in their own homes? Does it result in a tacit emasculation of our men?

I would really love to know.

Nollywood Dreams

2010-06-17T08:19:00.002+01:00

As I write, I am watching a Nigerian film “My Wicked Uncle”. Like any melodrama worthy of its name, it features death, jealousy and cunning. In it, a man dies and his younger brother decides on an ingenious way to inherit his wealth: to sow the seeds of discord between his children and his wife. There is a beautiful introduction, a jaw biting climax and a successful denouement. Such a plot would not be out of place in Hamlet. The same goes for Games Women Play which I watched an hour before- it is a solid tale of treachery, betrayal and the use of feminine wiles that likens itself to a Greek tragedy.

My experience belies the fact that it is tempting when thinking of Nigerian movies to only think about the end product- the mass produced DVDs which hold over 7 “movies” each, usually bought from a street seller on the corners of Harlem, Peckham and Accra. In fact, this is the image held by most of the snobbish bigwigs from the West, who held the Fespaco African film festival in 2007 and did not invite a single Nigerian film maker. They believed Nollywood to be the poor languishing relative in the corner, but in fact, truth was that Nollywood was unable to fit within its self imposed brackets of pseudo-intellectualism.

Truth is Nollywood is big. $236 million dollar big. The second largest film industry in the world big. Nollywood now produces more films than Hollywood, and is second only to Bollywood in terms of numbers of films produced annually. This is no easy feat for a cinematographic industry that began less than ten years ago, moreover for an industry in which actors and actresses often have very limited professional training, shoot from no fixed location, where filming equipment is minimal at best, where there is only one professional film studio and where minimal government support and investment exist. Nollywood manages to churn out hundreds of titles a year (over 800 to be precise) that manage to knock Hollywood blockbusters off the shelves in Africa, the Caribbean and in the greater black Diaspora.

A Nollywood film shop

It is a modern day example of what Africa can achieve were it given the chance. Today, Nollywood (whose films are not commercially distributed) is responsible for a wave of entrepreneurship in Africa- the film industry employs over 300,000. Hundreds of thousands of men and women sell and resell popular titles in a vast distributorship network. Thousands of African men and women now have jobs as script writers, photographers and many more rent films and are involved in the sale and export of titles. All over the Caribbean and Western, South and Eastern Africa (I do not use the term sub Saharan Africa because I think the use of "sub" reinforces stereotypes) , women and men gather to be entertained by films such as Keeping Faith and Engagement Night. Although the stories are set in Africa, I am often am amazed at the universality of the themes and lessons- the role of the extended family, the triumph of morality over money and vanity, religion as a panacea. However, this is ultimately for-Africa-by Africa, a decidedly home-grown product, and the market is ripe.

Someone I know really grated on me by poking fun at these movies, emphasising that the standard was subpar and hinting that the people who watched them and enjoyed them somehow had questionable tastes. For someone like me, however, who savoured the early books of Samuel Selvon and Earl Lovelace and VS Naipaul primarily because the characters ultimately reflected my experiences, the reality is certainly different. I can only imagine the delight and the comfort that the African community feel when their own storytellers tell their own stories. For every Blood Diamond and Last King of Scotland, told from the voice of an outsider, there are now hundreds of DVDs recording everyday urban life in Africa- the supernatural, the romance, polygamy, economic struggles, rivalry- all told without pretensions and presenting a gritty unpolished truth. The painting may be crude, the hand may be shaky, they may sometimes shade outside the lines, but as a picture of the potential for business in Africa, it makes an indelible mark and is truly inspirational. These films mark a definite break in the over intellectualised didactic Francophone film making that often attempt to present Africa as a study and a sense of other. Africa has never been pretentiously serious. By letting the story triumph over the form, Nollywood appeals to us and unapologetically (and rightfully) so.

It is true that at times, the acting gives rise to pantomime howlers and the technical, sound and lighting skills are markedly amateur. However, even Hollywood, with its hundreds of years of cinematographic history behind it produces a vast number of shoestring films with amateur technology, bland chick flicks and action movies with predictable story lines based on its own popular culture (Kill Bill, Iron Man). Why is it then that when African cultural exploits take centre stage, they are immediately seized on and interpreted as being sub standard? A Nigerian government minister recently complained that there was a penchant to focus on voodoo, crime and advance fee fraud, and that this has harmed the image of Nigeria. Why do our own people indulge in perpetuating an inferiority complex- these films simply mirror some aspects of Nigerian life- a few even elevate to the level of social and anthropological criticism. Class conflicts, racialisation, tribalism and the struggle of immigrants in the West are all attacked with clarity and humorous insight- surely this should be encouraged.

I found it heartening that in a report commissioned by the World Bank and produced by economists Ismail Radwan and Pierre Strauss, I was able to see that the Nigerian economy is not driven by oil (18%), as is commonly perceived- but by industry, agriculture and the service sector. Creative industries lie at that crucial intersection between business, technology and the arts and are recommended as a key area in developing exports, creating jobs and driving the economies of developing countries.

The quality of Nollywood films would definitely improve if there was some investment in film making, training and production and if the legal framework could be ameliorated to protect the intellectual property rights of film makers. The fact that the African film industry has been underinvested is chicken and egg with the lack of availability and high quality.

Nollywood films not only serve as inspiration to other film makers from the continent and beyond as a mere business initiative, but are also an example and a reminder to us that we are the ones who should be telling our stories. Why should Joanna Lumley be taking us on a trip down the Nile? Why are BBC news readers and commentators explaining South Africa to us? Nollywood shows us that our stories are important, and the identity of the author is pivotal- only then perhaps we would see Africa and our cultural identities as they really are, and not as what others with preconceived notions expect them to be.

Yes, I am from the Caribbean but No, I don't smoke weed

2010-06-15T10:14:00.000+01:00

The first dinner party I hosted in Europe with a Caribbean theme took place within the my miniscule room situated within the secluded loft of my leafy college, for a few fellow student union members. I remember assiduously cycling to Mill Lane to purchase ripe hands of over-yellow plantains, pungent bottles of caramel browning and jerk sauce, hoping to impress with pure guesswork, my then unhoned culinary skills and a few bottles of overproof rum. It went well – meaning no one was violently and instantly ill) but there was a dip of disappointment as everyone looked expectantly in my direction for the perceived traditional Caribbean petit four of some wacky backy: high grade, home grown weed. I think I was too embarrassed to say that I did not smoke, and I concocted a half hearted excuse of having none “at the moment”. I was petrified to admit the bare truth: I had never smoked weed in my entire life.

Since then, however, I have been surprised at how many people expect me to be a ganja connoisseur. “Surely you were surrounded by it”. Yes. “Is the weed in the Caribbean stronger and purer?” I haven’t the foggiest but I suppose so- we do everything better in the Caribbean. “Can you post us some when you go back?” Heck no. I would probably know where to get it, but they would probably refuse to sell it to me, and then tell my mother who would give me a proper licking, even at my age. So would the woman at the Post Office.

A guy I used to date briefly once complained “You are so goody-goody, so square”, and tried to persuade me to try a cigarette. Asthmatic that I am, I was puffing and huffing at the sheer odour before the darned thing ever had the front to get to my lips. The constant requests for sweet lucy probably means that I have been probably been very unsuccessful in harbouring home the fact that although the Caribbean has a deserved reputation for being ultra cool and chillaxed, the easy-going attitude of its residents has nothing to do with cheeky cannabis. Many are surprised to know that in general, Caribbean culture is very conservative, in fact almost prudish when it comes to attitudes towards drugs and alcohol.

For example, away from the cannabis analysis, beer is not considered to be a woman’s drink. Nice girls would never drink beer. At parties, fetes and social gatherings, most women would have the sweet barley based non-alcoholic malta. For those feeling a bit adventurous, maybe watered down rum and Coke; the more well-heeled would have a glass or two of wine. A woman bearing a Heineken or Carib or Stag proudly (except maybe at Carnival) would be looked upon oddly. (Personally, I don’t care. There is nothing like a beastly cold beer on a hot day.)

Weed, on the other hand, is another thing altogether. It is strange because I quite like the smell. I can match certain childhood memories with its fragrance permeating the air, almost like nature burning her incense. My neighbour was a heavy smoker and he often congregated on the walls of the old battered bakery behind our house with his pals, lighting up several ounces of spliff at a time and ruminating on obscure topics in the indolent and sluggish way that only men who are high can. Smoky billows wafted across, under the gospo tree, and over the wooden fence to provide the sweet-smelling olfactory footage that accompanied me while I was doing my homework. My neighbour across the road sold it and the number of heads that disappeared in between the two stone houses on a daily basis, was like a Catholic procession. The weed disciples would leave the trading temple, stoned, eyes bloodshot but displaying lackadaisical signs of peace. The pungent aroma was never far away on big celebratory occasions and activities. To be honest, on most Sunday afternoons. I often saw large trays of dried marijuana at the home of a friend, whose father built up a steady relationship with la marijeanne. I was somehow, never tempted. I was never presented with it (it would be an affront), and the idea of smoking even a cigarette was so preposterous to me, that it never crossed my mind. None of my friends smoked. Cheeky drinking was more daring, and yes, more acceptable.

Fact is, Caribbean countries’ attitudes towards cannabis varies. The Holy Herb, revered by Rastafarians, occupies a unique musico-cultural and historical significance in Jamaica, for instance. It is by far the largest manufacturer and exporter of marijuana. That is not to say that the official stance is not decidedly miltant, to comply with European and American big stick anti-drug policies. I would say that there is an attitude of grudging tolerance. Contrast St. Vincent and the Grenadines, which after the collapse of the Caribbean banana industry, has occupied a singular place as having the largest and most systematically cannabis fields in the Eastern Caribbean. The topography of hilly mountainous land and the liberal attitude of Prime Minister Ralph Gonsalves easily lend themselves to covert farms in the inaccessible north. Mr Gonsalves was elected on a mandate of “Rastafari, I am your friend” and he currently leads the charge for the decriminalisation of marijuana in the region, especially for those who use it for religious rites. In Grenada, and many of the other Caribbean islands, weed is readily available and sold on the black market although there is a faux militancy about its use and cultivation. A few ganja farmers’ plantations are targeted sporadically to appease the Christian religious communities.

I have a fairly level-headed attitude towards consumption of marijuana. I believe in its decriminalisation for personal consumption for the mere reason I think law enforcement should be freed up to deal with child abuse, sexual abuse, incest, cocaine trafficking and other more serious and harmful offences.. After all, Bill Clinton, David Cameron and Barack Obama all admit to smoking weed and they have not turned out too shabbily.

I do not think it should be legalised, primarily because it would ultimately become useless for income generation, as with all other products, India and China will ultimately flood the markets. There is a hope that perhaps, Caribbean grown cannabis can become like Habanero cigars, a luxury product but the debate on legalisation will come in a subsequent blogpost. For me, however, I am a risk-adverse person so I am unlikely to touch it, especially having heard of and investigated the link between ganja and paranoia, depression, long term memory loss and schizophrenia, especially among young black people. No thank you very much. I can’t help thinking that I might just be that one person who goes off the rails, thinking I can fly after just that one spliff, and I am too much of a scaredy-cat to justify the jeopardy. Let’s just say that the number of young, potentially productive persons I have seen walking around like lethargic zombies, red-eyed crusts of their former selves truly startles me. Call me dull, call me wet around the ears or boring. I can do without this high. Please can I have a bottle of Ruinart instead.

Where are the black WAGs?

2010-06-13T08:34:00.001+01:00

For those not in the know, a WAG is a wife or girlfriend of a famous sports personality, usually a Premiership footballer. The Queen of WAGS is Victoria Beckham, followed hotly on the often Jimmy Choo-ed heels by Cheryl Cole, Coleen Rooney and Alex Curran. The acronym suits. Puppy-dog-esque, like tails, they are the appendages to these footie animals.

I know that my question seems like an odd one to ask, especially when the nation is undertaking the ostensibly more serious enquiry of why there is only one female politician in the Cabinet and whether black female MP Diane Abbott's nomination is mere tokenism. After all, can we really moan the fact that there are no club-hopping, hair-extension wearing, acrylic-nail toting, designer-handbag sporting, Manolo-pointing shallow and dim ladies at the sides of some of the most shallow and probably most promiscuous males in Europe? It’s not as if we are moaning about the lack of black people in the professions, or in business, or even in the fashion industry? Isn’t this debate a bit puerile, I asked myself?

It all started when I saw a black WAG for the first time on reality TV (Chantelle Tagoe, the traded in younger model -wife of Emile Heskey on Come Dine With Me) I wondered, why it was, when three quarters of the Premiership is black, I could not name 5 black WAGs. In fact, I could not name 3. Is it overreaching to find some sort of trend? Does anyone else find this strange? I do not think that the question is an illegitimate one- were the football boot on the other foot- if most English players were all going for black women as soon as they reached the top, we would definitely see a few raised eyebrows. Fact is most people tend to marry and date people of similar backgrounds- what is it about these footballers that make them different?

I decided to start some investigations. I found out that out of all 8 black players on the national England team, only Emile Heskey had a black partner. It definitely isn’t just because white women are perceived as more attractive. Exhibit 1 to disprove this- OOO Jude Cisse- overweight, overbearing and old. Exhibit 2- Rio Ferdinand’s wife. Nuff said.

Uche Nworah, in his very strongly worded 2006 piece “Black Brothers and their White Chicks” on the lack of black female wives and girlfriends, asks what is it about white women and successful black men because he perceives a definite cross over once “brothas” reach the top. He questions whether it is results from a low inferiority complex and poor self esteem, in that a partner is used as access to an ultra conservative English society. He affirms that it should be black women who should be crawling the West End’s boutiques and Soho’s clubs. He lambastes Thierry Henry, Jermaine Defoe, Rio Ferdinand, Christian Therembeau. I share Uche’s curiosity but I must admit that I do not adopt his conclusions. (Nor do I think that either of the aforementioned are good catches). I do not think black women should be fighting for the indignity of crawling clubs after a philandering man or wasting cash on designer labels, (not when they could be raising funds to assist the villages of many of these players' home countries). I also question his access theory- the societies that many of these WAGS belong are not ultra conservative (in fact just the opposite) so it is unlikely that they would be getting the proverbial step up to the polo and golf playing set. I am not sure how dating Jordan and siring a child with her could have possibly improved Dwight Yorke’s self esteem.

I, personally, do not think this is a phenomenon only encountered at the richest end of the spectrum. Statistics show that 50% of black men in the UK are involved in interracial relationships. Perhaps it is merely the culmination and the net effect of being bombarded with pert pink breasts in Nuts magazines (instead of hefty brown ones) and with blonde blue eyed babes being the ultimate objects of desire in most television programmes and films It might be as simple as a question of circumstance. I hardly see any black women in the VIP sections in Mahiki, CC Club and Boujis. Is it just that they cannot pick from what they do not see or encounter?

However, David Matthews, in his Evening Standard piece “Why I prefer to Date White Women” adds a few other factors in the mix. He argues (forcefully) that it has nothing to do with identity issues, unhealthy predilections, self hate and black effacement as some black women wish to allege. (Really?) He states simply, that it primarily is because black women give men a hard time. He cites approachability as the main factor influencing his choice. I must admit that I have seen it sometimes myself- we go to a club, screw when a man comes up to us, check him out surreptiously, ask our friends what they think, all before we decide to accept an offer of a drink. No footballer will put up with that, not when there are a bevy of women, fighting for his attention. Is it because we have too much attitude, too much swagger? There is a good chance that he has a point (although as usual, this is a very sweeping generalisation).

David Matthews also complains that in spite of the sexual posturing of the hip hop videos, most black women are not very comfortable with owning their sexuality and are sometimes even conservative or prude. He moans that we are surprisingly old fashioned. By contrast (he said it, not me), white women are more daring, self assured and adventurous in the bedroom. He adds that our conservatism extends to the dating ritual, making us “scary”. He says most of the black women he meets are obsessed with a man’s earning power but admits that there is a stereotype that most black women are confrontational and belligerent.

Does David Matthews simply mean that black women are less free with sexual favours? This might be a dealbreaker with footballers who expect to bust a nut on the first night, so if this is true, then it might be a factor. However, I must say, from personal experience and the experience of my friends, I think David speaks of a generation 20 years previous. The black women I know are confident in their sexuality and own it. I have also met many conservative white women. I hate stereotypes. He might be right in that because of religious and family backgrounds, we are fairly conservative in the dating ritual- we expect to be treated like ladies, and there is nothing wrong with that. I am not going to apologise. There are, however, many of us who are ladettes and give men a run from the money from the word go. We are not a monolithic group of people. On the “obsession” with money, the number of black women who hold down a home by themselves far exceeds the national average. A single black woman needs a partner not a burden. It might be that we may be more direct about a man’s earning power but from the reality TV shows I have seen, nothing about Danielle Lloyd’s shopping habits suggests that she is any less obsessed.

I suspect the truth lies somewhere in between. As a pro footballer earning 80,000 pounds a week, you probably would want the best car money could buy, live in the best house money could buy, and by extension, shag the best women money could buy. All of these things depend on perception- the best car is the one everyone wants, the best postcode is the most enviable one. The definition of that "best" woman necessarily depends on societal and peer expectations. Men feel like men when they are dating the one everyone else wants to date. Black men are no different. It may also be a product of circumstance. There are very few black women I know of (other than Charley Uchea) who would put themselves out of the way to visit Faces in Essex to be picked up by a footballer. There are even fewer who would put up with the behaviour of these men. I honestly cannot see a black woman in the role of a longsuffering wife who would maintain a stony silence in the face of blatant philandering a la Tony Poole, Coleen Rooney, Cheryl Cole and Victoria Beckham. There would be a lot of aggro and yes, aggression.

At the end of the day, people love who they love and I am cool with that. As long as preferences are not justified by the assertion that black women in general are lacking in some way, I am happy. In the grand scheme of things it really does not matter but it did put a smile on my face when I saw Shaun Wright-Phillips had a black girlfriend- Sian Owen - professional ballet dancer.

That Kenywn Jones married his childhood sweetheart Avalon (to the right) and they have three beautiful children.

That Andy Cole married his girlfriend Shirley in 2002.

That William Gallas is married to Nadege Gallas.

It might seem unimportant to some but when reports are rife about the broken black families in the UK, it helps that a few of the idolised few at the top are proving that there is nothing wrong with us or with having a black family.

What will the Equality Act 2010 do for Us?

2010-06-11T08:24:00.000+01:00

'Someone said to me, you are a lawyer, why not write about legal things? Because I ponder on legal things for my living. Because writing on legal issues makes it seem like work. Because most legal topics are fairly dry. Because there is already lots of commentary on legal issues in the UK. I feel strongly that my writing must be like an orgasm- a short and sweet, pleasurable, gushing, release.

However, I decided to make a short foray into this arena as the press went wild last week with a report that 2 jobs out of 670 on a council were reserved for black applicants. Given that positive discrimination in the United States has received such bad press (never mind they have a black President and we have Diane Abbott and Oona King), I thought that it might be useful to analyse how far Gordon has pushed the debate on equality with the passing of the new Equality Act 2010 in the wash up before the elections. In particular, I wanted to focus on what real advances it represented for us, people of colour.

I say this because the Race Relations Act did quite a lot to advance the rights of ethnic minorities here in the UK. I will never diss the 1965 (and the 1968) Act because at its time of enaction, they were indeed revolutionary. The Race Relations Act made it illegal to refuse housing, employment and public services to people on account of their ethnic background. This was in direct response to the “No Blacks, No Dogs” posters which featured on many To Let signs in London and in many pubs and restaurants and came after Enoch Powell’s Rivers of Blood speech. It was an answer to the Notting Hill Riots where white “Teddy Boys” displayed hostility to and attacked Caribbean immigrants in an attempt to “Keep Britain White”. It came after the Bristol Bus Boycott where residents of Bristol honourably defended the rights of black and Asian immigrants to work on the buses in the City.

However, unlike the affirmative action movement in the United States, the Act was negative in nature- prohibitive instead of prescriptive. While the UK Race Relations Act merely prohibited discrimination, the United States introduced a policy that organisations and bodies should take race, colour, nationality, religion and sex into consideration in employment, education, housing, public contracting and health programs. This was to encourage organisations to comply with the provisions of the 1964 Civil Rights Act. Since the introduction of the Race Relations Act, there has been no equivalent policy in the UK, to ensure that UK organisations are compliant. So has the Equality Act 2010 finally taken a step towards encouraging diversity instead of merely prohibiting discrimination?

To begin, it is useful to state that the Equality Act 2010 is aimed at streamlining and rationalising discrimination law in the UK. Instead of having one law for women, another for people with disabilities and yet separate legislation for discrimination on the grounds of race and sexual orientation for example, the new Act aims to address all forms of equal treatment before the law in the same way. The Act is therefore very wide in ambit and deals with many significant changes in the way discrimination is defined. For example, it introduces the issue of gender pay reporting (following reports that showed that women still get paid almost 17% less than men for doing the very same job), strengthens protection for disabled employees (including indirect disability discrimination) and makes third parties such as employers who condone harassment liable. I am sure that these advances will be welcomed by all, regardless of political persuasion, gender, race or creed.

There are, however, a few provisions that are likely to have a significant effect on persons belonging to black and minority communities in Britain.

First of all, direct discrimination now covers discrimination by association and discrimination by perception. The law now recognises that a person can be discriminated against based on the perception of others, even if in fact, said perception may not correspond to what is actual fact. The quintessential example is that of a woman who wears a headscarf. She may not be Muslim, but she may be treated differently or unfairly as if she were Muslim. Interestingly for me, this may also cover the discrimination faced by persons who sport dreadlocks in the workplace. If it can be shown that this person suffered discriminatory treatment on account of the fact that others believed that he or she was Rastafarian (even though that person had never in fact smoked the sensi), then it might be that a valid case of discrimination can be made out without having to prove actual religious belief.

Secondly, the Act allows cases of dual discrimination to be brought at the same time. Under the old laws, cases involving say a black female who believed that she was discriminated against at work (let’s just say for the sake of controversy- given lower quality work than her male colleagues, or being put on less challenging deals/matters than her female colleagues) would have had to show that she was discriminated against because she was black, and then, under separate test, because she was a woman. This made discrimination very difficult to prove because of the requirement to satisfy two different tests. This proved a problem in environments which suffered from a paucity of ethnic minorities and the fairer sex. Many times there were no comparators. What do you do if your organisation has no other black people in it? Or no other women? Very often these perfectly valid claims failed. No more from April 2011.

Thirdly, and most importantly, the concept of positive action has now been introduced in UK law. The Act states that positive discrimination remains unlawful. Positive discrimination means giving more favourable treatment to someone because they have a protected characteristic (of a certain age, race, religion for example). Positive action on the other hand is lawful, but is now restricted to action such as training designed to encourage underrepresented groups to apply for particular jobs. The Act will allow employers to hire or promote someone from an underrepresented group, but only where they have a choice between two or more equally qualified candidates. This is not a form of positive discrimination (which would favour the less qualified black person over the more qualified white person). The Act calls it 'Positive action: recruitment and promotion'. It is worth noting, before the Daily Mail politburo gets at me, that the Act does not require such positive action- it merely permits it.

I do have, however, some concerns. The Conservatives indicated that they would repeal several parts of the Act if they did win the elections, particularly the sections on positive action. It may not be worth then heralding a new approach to inclusion until we can see if these sections in the Act are not likely to die a swift death. In addition, the question of what being 'equally qualified' means is not defined. Will it require roughly equivalent grades at Oxbridge? Or will good marks from a London redbrick suffice? No two experiences are ever able to be equally defined, especially when persons from BME backgrounds are less likely to attend better schools and universities. There is also the issue of whether or not the provisions will be actively used and promoted. Will employers actually use the sections on positive action to justify their choices in recruitment or promotion? Or will they be afraid of being accused of positive discrimination (illegal under the Act). The line seems to be a difficult one to draw so it might result in most employers fearful to hold the pencil.

The majority of provisions in the Equality Act 2010 are due to enter in force in October 2010.

(Image from globalemploymentlaw.com- all rights reserved)

A Blow Dealt to Chris Brown

2010-06-09T20:08:00.004+01:00

Chris Brown was denied entry to the UK yesterday and I could not be happier. Not because I think he is an awful person and because I think he is beyond redemption. Rather, I could not help being happy because I think this decision sends a strong message that domestic violence is a serious offence, and that the perpetrators should (rightfully) be called to full account. And by full account I do not mean a bullshit scripted apology, two months out of the public eye and then back with an album, singing, dancing and grinning away on a jet ski like you are the next Michael Jackson. It sends a strong signal that hitting, punching and kicking a woman is not acceptable, by any means whatsoever and that it does not matter who or what you are and what you have achieved.

The trivialisation of Brown's treatment and the pseudo apologetics saying that "maybe Rihanna looked for it and that she instigated it" really bothers me. I also hate the stupid trotted out "you don't know what happened". Maybe I don't, but maybe I don't need to know because when during an argument one sexy-ass looking girl comes away looking like The Elephant Man, with visible bite marks on her arms and a bloody nose and lips- while the other party looks intact, I can form my own views, thank you very much. The circumstantial evidence is enough to convince me beyond reasonable doubt.

I am very (you might want to say ultra but I don't mind) sensitive towards domestic violence cases and victims. First of all, I hate the term "domestic violence" as I think it diminishes the idea that the matter at hand is violence- adding the word domestic in front does not make the matter any less acute. I prefer the term violence in the home or violence towards partners because this trivialisation is perhaps the root cause of the issue. Clinton Brown reports his son's criminal assault as a "situation, a stumble". No, it isn’t. Many people trot out tired ass clichés telling us that we shouldn't judge. Yes, I do not apologise: I will unreservedly judge a man who beats a woman in a gown on one of the most important days of her professional life and walks away while she is nearly unconscious.

The number of seemingly intelligent women who has come to Chris Brown's defence astounds me. It goes to show that a degree and higher learning does not always confer common sense. Sources on the ground in Barbados admit that this was not the first time there was abuse in that relationship. Rihanna admits that the relationship was a "continually abusive" one. Her statement reveals that he went ballistic not over the fact that he was accused of sourcing a "booty call" but that she faked a call to a friend hinting that the police would be present. In short, she was attacked for intimating that she would seek help- like prolific women beaters, he muffled her attempt for aid by beating her with his fists. What a coward! Rumours are that her scratched cornea at the 2008 American Music Awards were on account of a previous incident and her friends have reported that she has sometimes appeared with mysterious marks and bruises. After the incident he changed his facebook status to "She will show her true colours, believe it". What colours? Black and blue? Fact is that irrespective of the circumstances, there is never a good enough reason for assaulting a woman, and the fact that this idiot could not face up to the gravity of the offence, suggests he is a knuckle head who needs to learn what true contrition is.

Maybe I get angry because we run a Domestic Violence Unit at my firm and the number of cases that I have worked on where women in what we call the First World with careers and high flying jobs are afraid to speak out lest they are ridiculed are too many to mention. Women are being choked and scratched and beaten in secret. They are being flung around like towels, slapped and punched and hospitalised for their injuries. Some die. This is no Bossip/MediaTakeout/PerezHilton/DListed issue. This is some serious shit.

Maybe I am even more sensitive because I was brought up in a Caribbean community where domestic violence was commonplace, especially when men were drunk. Rihanna herself remembers her mother suffering violence at the hands of her alcoholic father. Alongside cheating, it was usually the feature of local gossip that filtered downwards as I sat between the legs of the woman who was tasked with plaiting my hair. Sports personalities featured heavily, assaulting their women often in public places such as local community parties and fetes.Violence often moved on from relationship to relationship but I still know one woman who remains stuck in the cycle for over 20 years. Instead of kisses, she welcomes blows every evening and almost every contrary word is met with sharp, angry fists. She was rid of him for about a year, during which he lived with another woman I knew, but she, too, got tired of the violence, and threw him out of her house. It was extremely commonplace and almost normal for a man to show who had the upper hand by throwing punches.

Sadly, it was often interpreted as love :"If my man doh beat me, he ehn love me" was often used as a feeble explanation. The ferocity of the argument and the vigour of the blows were wrongly interpreted as fits of uncontrollable obsession, okayed because they were born of passion. It was not only the working classes- there were hushed whispers of doctors, teachers and civil servants silencing their women, and police officers were particularly notorious for dealing their women serious blows. One woman I knew, in an abusive relationship with a policeman, was called stupid by her peers, for leaving his house to move back in with her parents.

Nothing has changed significantly in my town. A mother pleaded with me to talk to her daughter who left her parents' house to live with the father of her young baby. Her mother told me that her daughter's boyfriend would beat her to distraction. I confronted her and pleaded with her to go home. She told me "I am not saying he doesn't put his hand on me, but he doesn't beat me bad as in how they saying". When a teenager appears to being okay with being hit "from time to time" by her boyfriend -this is to me, a serious cause for concern. It shows tacit societal acceptance and early indoctrination that women can be put in their place with "licks".

Amnesty International, in a study on the Caribbean in 2004, reported that it was a serious cancer that ate away at the core of Caribbean society. Professional organisations in Barbados, Antigua and Trinidad, in particular, notes that the problem is particularly acute as there are very few women's shelters and support networks offering refuge. Economic dependency and the presence of children in the home often militate in favour of sticking the abuse and staying put.

This is why I applaud Rihanna's decision to walk away from an abusive relationship. Her attack has removed some of the unfair stigma from being a victim and maybe more women will feel confident in speaking out that they too, are suffering. She has broken the cycle. Most women return to their abusers at least three times before they make a final decision to leave. There is an almost sick desire to protect and to heal the perpetrator.

By making the decision to move on, Rihanna has set a powerful precedent, a precedent that is in danger of being eroded if Chris Brown is allowed to go on with his life in the same direction as he did before, as if nothing happened. Even his statement after her interview with Diane Sawyer had me reeling "I only hope that others in similar situations can learn from our experience as well. Abuse of any kind is always wrong. The rest I leave it to God". Since when his attack has become a shared experience? Why not own your abuse instead of talking about generic abuse of any kind? What is there to leave to God? Please do not take the man’s name in vain. There was no accountability, no sincerity, no absolution. These open statements suggests some detachment towards the issue and hints at blame towards the victim. I was very angry with his people for allowing him to distance himself from the assault in this way.

I am no psychoanalyst but part of me really believes that the women who defend him have either been hit, or have seen parents or relatives hit and they do not wish to indict him because it would somehow be indicting that parent/man/boyfriend on a subconscious level. I can only wish they would get some help for their scars.

As Rihanna herself said in her interview with Dianne Sawyer:
The thing that men don't realize, when they hit a woman ... the face, the broken arm, the black eye, it's going to heal. That's not.... the problem. It's the scar inside."

Who really pays?

2010-06-07T22:24:00.004+01:00

Cost of living in Grenada is higher than Amy Winehouse in St Lucia, crawling on the floor searching for alcohol, crack and Blake. Quite frankly, I do not know how people manage.

Transportation has skyrocketed. A one hour trip from my tiny village to the town of St. George’s in a cramped minibus stuffed between the fat legs of and a bucket of fresh jacks, costs upwards one pound sterling. Taxis are rare and their prices are unfixed and often vary based on whether or not clipped English or mellifluous Grenadian pours out of the speaker’s mouth. Grocery stores selling American products are inflated to almost combustion point. Tropicana Juice for instance retails for $24 EC (6 pounds sterling). Basic items like dental floss can cost upwards $9 EC ($3US). I weep at the price of bog standard French wine, comforted sometimes by the fact that Californian Zinfandel is okay and tastes a little bit like Sauvignon Blanc. Accommodation costs are eye-watering. A hotel that would only just lick at the edges of two or three star status in Europe sells for $90US a night, with maids who moan about guests returning about second helpings of limp bacon (the cheek!) and whose lips are constantly stretched into the perpetual fiasque of kiss-teeth. These days, lunch at a fairly nondescript restaurant no longer comes with added rice, macaroni pie or potatoes as inclusive, dishes have now moved to a pay as you go model, making the average price of lunch near $20 EC.

Yet still, nubile young bodies are berobed in the latest maxidresses, with shoes, purse, beads and earrings to match, attending the latest entertainment incarnation of bingo, Fish Friday, FoodFest, dance or fete, without complaint. Japanese cars saturate narrow roads to bursting point. Hundreds of tumblers clink in rumshops every day, every hour, every minute. Local food joints burst at the seams, keeping up with orders of fried fish, stewed chicken and rice and peas, at an astonishing rate. I often wonder, where oh where does the money come from?

This is why I was glad to take a look at the recently released List of Persons in Grenada hired by the Government and their salaries (something which was kept under lock and key by the last administration). In most developed countries, the salaries of public servants are often published as public, but in small island states like Grenada, where patronage and politicisation of appointments play some part, it is interesting to see the value we accord to certain services on the island. This list is not representative, especially as a vast majority of workers are hired by the Public Service Commission whose archaic salaries and even more archaic rules seem like a particularly bad joke, especially when compared to the modernised and seemingly index linked salaries I noted.

I was shocked that quite a few people are not being paid a living wage. Caretakers of public bathrooms (do they exist in Grenada still?) are being paid $43 dollars a day, just over $800 a month. Many people are earning just over $800- $1000 a month, included a vast number of clerical workers, who made $1380 per month. It is hard to believe that as a teacher in Grenada, I did not earn much more than this and managed to save some of it. How did I do it? How can transportation costs and food be provided for within this small sum is now beyond my comprehension. If one has to pay for rent, how is this sum a fair living wage? Especially when compared against the against the $5000-$8000 salaries of senior policy advisors?
There were notable exceptions however. A driver/security officer in the Ministry of Trade was paid $2000 EC a month, almost $700 more than a Human Resource Officer and an Outreach Officer in the Ministry of Agriculture. A glaring anomaly. Nothing has changed. Like the riddling of the lists with individuals and relatives and friends of the ruling party in the administration before, the list is littered with individuals who constitute the noblesse oblige of the ruling party. The son of a Consultant to the Prime Minister. The daughter of a friend of a Trade Advisor.

The big cash, however, lies in Ambassadorial positions. A basic $59,000 p.a. salary seems minuscule when taking into account an uplift of $102,000, entertainment of $6,000, and a housing allowance of $69,000. This can also include a clothing allowance of up to $1,500. Lawyers are not doing too shabbily either. Average salaries range from $5,000 EC with an uplift to stay within the public service instead of going into private practice of up to $3,500 per month. Inducements of up to $3,000 a month and travel can also be claimed. Plus one gets to live near a beach, in good weather, every day, paying minimal taxes. It is good to know that life can be negotiated to be sweet. What is not so amusing are the starting salaries for junior doctors. After almost 7 years of training, the salary starts at a meagre $3500 with inducements of up to $1500. Comparing the time invested, and the hours worked, I am not sure that this is fair. Especially when considering that salaries of up to three times more in teaching, nursing and the professions are paid by countries such as Trinidad & Tobago and St. Maarten.

I suspect that some of the low salaries are without doubt, the result of the bloated list of workers that fill its pages. Some Ministries have over 20 Technical Workers. Doing what? I have witnessed, with my very own eyes, individuals in the Botanical Gardens pulling out crochet needles during working hours. The government has become the paterfamilias in a system that rewards wastage and does not place a premium on performance, even at the highest levels. It is true that some workers take the proverbial piss; their lunch hour is sacrosanct and dare not be messed with (get off it lazdies and come to the real world where you grab a sandwich in 10 minutes) and the needs of customers are sometimes met with confusing indignance. The remedy however, is not employing a battalion of workers on low wages that are not sufficient to cover the cost of having an average life. The answer is promoting entrepreneurship and having the civil service only employ the best.

It has been reported that the Caribbean Diaspora provides a very useful safety net to cushion the blow. Their remittances of cash and food and household items go a long way towards improvement of life of Caribbean people- this is indeed admirable. However, the fact that there is some indirect welfare based on the bounty of relatives almost seems to obviate the will of government to make any lasting changes to the appointments system, and to modernise the wage structure of island states. This causes the prospect of lasting reform to fester and die.

Meanwhile, we continue to live in a land where the have- nots suffer the indignity of wages that do not allow them to break the cycle of dependency, where the job packages of senior officials are swollen by travel and inducements, where a weird system of contracts (of which I may be the beneficiary in future, let me not knock it too hard) exists alongside a dysfunctional public service, and where results-based packages are not used to incentivise senior policy workers. In other places, there would be mutiny or a strike, or some sense of uneasiness. But this, after all is, Grenada. We amble along, dress up, we do not complain. It is how it is.

(Photo from farm1.flickr- all rights reserved).

Everybody hates... Ashley Cole

2010-06-04T07:35:00.001+01:00

Why does everybody hate Ashley Cole?

A black cab driver who took Cheryl Cole home once, told me that when he got to Cole mansions, he saw a strange man lurking around the manor. He shouted “Careful of that guy- he looks dodgy”, as Her Royal Majesty, “Nation’s Sweetheart” stepped out and made to enter. “Don’t worry” she reportedly chirped nonchalantly. That “dodgy” guy was Ashley Cole, Cheryl’s husband. Whether this was because Ashley Cole had a generally dodgy demeanour or whether it was the fact that he was a black man hanging around a posh house, I do not know but what I do know is that he seems to have a chronic case of an almost pulmonary hate-attack.

Even Facebook users have got in on the action- the group I hate Child Rapists has 171 members, , the group “Ashley Cole, what a wanker!” has over 90,000. The jokes are relentlessly cruel. I recently read one that went: “Ashley Cole goes to borrow a book on suicide, what does the librarian say? Keep it Keep it”. Fans want blood- on football discussion boards they say that they want his eyeballs out and that he deserves to die a slow death. Yes, I kid you not. A lot of people I know say they have “haters”. They make me laugh. No one is hated as much as poor Ashley.

I had not realised it was that serious because the allegations that follow Ashley are not any different to the allegations faced by many other Premiership footballers, notably David Beckham, the demi-God, when he was accused of bedding Rebecca Loos. It was curious then that the British media blamed Victoria- she was the one who refused to move to Spain, she looked too fake in her too long hair extensions and she was too skinny. There was no mob baying for a divorce. Victoria was encouraged to look beyond the alleged affair. As a forceful retort, we saw her 9 months later, bloomingly pregnant They then moved to the USA to live in wedded unperturbed matrimonial bliss. Even Wayne Rooney, who most women could not bear to shag (even if he asked nicely) cheated on then girlfriend Coleen with a prostitute. More recently, John Terry has been accused of bedding the mother of his team-mate’s son and forcing her to have an abortion. He also tried to gag the press not to speak about the matter via a super injunction. Indeed, he was stripped of the captaincy due to the controversy, but he was also given “compassionate leave” to sort the matter out on a sun drenched beach in Dubai and his forgiving ~~doormat~~ wife posed lovingly. By way of contrast, Ashley allegedly tried to cheat on Cheryl with a woman in a cheap Primark dress (he was too sick to be really successful) and sent a couple of nude pictures. When there were further allegations that he actually cheated with five other women, he got fined by Chelsea and was publicly divorced by his wife, mere days before the World Cup.

(Cheryl knew the marriage would not last so she only splashed on half a dress).

To disclose my ambivalence, I must say that I am not a big Cheryl fan. I like her enough on the X Factor and I think she is pretty but something about her strikes a discordant chord with me. Maybe it was the fact that she was mean to a toilet attendant. Surely the irony must not have been lost on Cheryl that there she was, an award winning singer, involved in a physical altercation with a woman who had to work in a loo for a living. She allegedly called the woman a “black bitch” and “a Caribbean jigaboo” (although she was cleared of racially aggravated assault) but even if she just called her a “fucking bitch” as she claims, I cannot square that with her saccharine mixture of Haribo and Barbie Doll sweet television persona. It seems fake.

Football fans say they hate Ashley because he is an ungrateful, disloyal git. They hate the fact that in his autobiography, he nearly “swerved” and hit his car when he learnt that he was only going to get paid 55,000 pounds a week by Arsenal. This is a strange thing to include in a book that would be read by people wishing they could earn half of this figure in one year so I am also wondering if his agent is not also secretly in on the hate-fest. However, when considering that most top players are being paid almost double this amount, I find it difficult not to justify his indignance. I don’t know about anyone else, but I would be mega pissed off if I found out that my colleagues were making double my wages even though we did the same job. They said that he had no loyalty to Arsenal, yet Wayne Rooney, who left his beloved Everton to play for Manchester is revered on the pitch. Fact is, football has a short shelf life and an injury in any game can mean the end of one’s career, so players always need to act in their current best interests. Ashley Cole has done anything any other footballers had not done in the past.

It has been posited that the intensity of hate directed towards Ashley is in equal proportion to the love directed towards his wife and the more exposed profile of their marriage. People seem to believe that Cheryl has probably become the Lady Diana of the Twenteens. I am not convinced; Cheryl is no Di, not in style, not in taste, not in charity, and not in the opinion of lots of people, I dare say.

Based on my perusal of the message boards and press, it seems like many people, feel, quite simply, that Cheryl has married beneath her, despite the fact that she really can’t sing if her last supper depended on it, despite the fact that she is just an average dancer, despite the fact that she only left school with a few O’Levels, and despite the fact that underneath the veneers, hair extensions and L’Oreal hair dye, she is not that stunning. There seems to be a feeling that no one would be stupid enough to cheat on Cheryl Cole. This, mostly from men, who would jump on anything that had a heartbeat. I am not so optimistic that there are not even more stupid men out there. On balance, I think Cheryl did quite well for herself. Not being the brightest Crayola in the box, the girl managed to marry one of the most talented sportsmen in the world, and arguably the best and most visible left back with an earning power that exceeded her album sales at the time. And yes, I am going to go there. Is some of this targeted hatred towards Ashley Cole based on the fact that here is this “half-caste” half black man, who has been handed the best of the English rose on a gold plated platter and he has decided that the head chef has not served him up enough? Is there some latent feeling of wanting the nigger to know his place?

It is clear that Ashley is quite simply a talented and not very intelligent young man who has made the very same mistakes that lots of moneyed and talented men in the UK make and will make on a daily basis when confronted with more money than common sense. Excerpts from Ashley’s book actually show, that deep down, he is still a little boy looking and fighting for approval and craving the attention. He was gutted that no one was screaming his name on the pitch and it seems like he tried to seek validation and attention wrongfully, outside his marriage. However, making him into the “baddie” is rich, especially coming from the media personalities whose very own lives, if held up to the same scrutiny, might be found to be replete with scandal. However, unlike a lot of other “celebrities”, Ashley never lied to us about who he was and what he represented. He has always been a stupid lad who picked up women at the CC club. And Cheryl Tweedy, at the time, was happy enough to buy it.

(Main pic from kameraloud.wordpress)

Is SuperHead really SuperSmart?

2010-06-02T08:10:00.002+01:00

Karrine Steffans McCrary is known as Super Head.

Like duh, this is because word on the street is that she gives really good head, super head.

I am intrigued by this woman because she has managed to build a solid reputation on the ability to master a skill that we have all had from the womb. I am even more amazed that she has managed to build an entire empire and industry around it. Karrine calls herself a Video Vixen, because she has starred in many a two dollar-a-ho videos replete with women with long weaves, mammoth breasts and Hottentot asses, but we all know that is only the politically correct name for being the mistress/side piece of greasy industry executives and rappers on crack. I have always been fascinated by Karrine because I want to know how is it that a woman from admittedly modest beginnings in small St Thomas, US Virgin Islands, who is cute but not the prettiest woman in the world by far, has reinvented herself to become a thrice time New York Times best seller, bona fide actor, life coach and mentor, with an appearance on Oprah to boot. Is her milkshake that good? Whatever Karrine Steffans has between her legs, I want her to tell me the secret (sorry, sell me the secret, chicks like Karrine will give you nothing for free) because although it is very easy to be a trick, it is not easy to be a multimillionaire trick.

Karrine, in her interviews, does not come across as the 21 year old chickenhead that the media loves to portray- she is not the caricature of the celebrity hopping single mom (“where the party at?”), high on false promises and lies, consumed by crack and alcohol and riddled with debt. In interviews and press releases she is always erudite, introspective, confident and self assured (almost cocky), with a “so what” attitude that keeps me inwardly rooting for her. After all, she has completed the biggest trading coup of all- making money of a merely repackaged asset. She is the archetypal example of a subprime product- sold as a solid repackaged investment, but digging deep, you find out it is just ordinary debt. But men just don’t seem to care, or to give a shit.

In my opinion, Kareen’s career can be seen as an instructive case in solid business planning and projections. Like a car salesman, Kareen peddled the goods in Confessions of a Video Vixen, dishing the dirt and capitalising on our innate inquisitiveness by selling us the salacious stories of her sex lives with the blacktocracy. However she savvily chose which bed partners she wished to reveal in her first book- Usher, Xhibit, Diddy, Vin Diesel, Jah Rule, Shaquille O’Neal, Jay Z- and chose to leave those out who she thought would still be amenable to giving her a leg up later on in life. A ruthless efficiency calculation. Spread betting. With mafiosa style honour, she protects the identity of her benefactor- Papa. She delivers a sizzling product that is filled with just enough juice to purchase but leaving out just enough detail to create a sweetener that would leave us reaching for our purses the next time round. There were no secrets. She was the precursor to the Kim Kardashians of this era. Her forthrightness and honesty were based on the old adage – there was nothing called bad publicity. She was happy to be dragged on to the Tyra show (who accused her of being a two-bit whore- "you too" she retorted), to confront Bill O’Reilly on FOX and to appear on MSNBC to defend her decisions and her lifestyle. By then we were hooked. Her book debuted at Number 7 on the New York Times best seller list and peaked at Number 5. It remained there for twenty three weeks.

Like a Madoff Ponzi scheme, Karrine realised that she needed an encore to keep the paying consumers paying. She needed a change of tack, a new spin on her product. She debuted the second instalment of her “novel” this time dishing as little dirt as possible on her supposed suitors- Eric Benet, Jamie Foxx and Eddie Murphy; the book reads instead as an attempt to assuage the reader’s sensitive side, as it explains away her supposed love towards Bill Maher. We fell for it- clap and trap. The Vixen Diaries debuted and remained at number six on the New York Times bestseller list for over twenty weeks. Meanwhile, Karrine was busy. Gone were the overtly sexy pictures and images, these were replaced by standard black and white photos and she became Ms McCrary (married to Eddie Winslow to you and me)- lecturer and panellist at the Essence Music Festival, feature speaker in the Sexuality and Gender Week at the University of South Carolina, and celebrity author at the Harlem Book Fair. She now lives in a mansion in LA and her son is attending one of the best private schools in California. She has done the usual lad’s mags (FHM, XXL and Playboy) but she has also been featured in Marie Claire (Australia) and British Elle.

The media, especially the male dominated print and television media tend to wish to paint women as Ms McCrarey as sluts. In fact, her appearance on The FoxxHole- Jamie Foxx’s show was riddled with puerile jokes and comments about fellatio, condoms and oral sex. How ironic, when these are the very same men who facilitate the stories and the tell-alls. These are her enablers because they can never keep their nuts bolted. Without men who were tempted by cheap one night stands, Karrine Steffans would have no story. I do not say this to say that I endorse Kareen’s “tricks” as a valid profession but I do endorse the way in which she has switched it around for herself and has managed to create a livelihood and a business structure out of her experiences.

I, and most of my friends who went to good universities, are still struggling. We get paid decent salaries, but surely not enough to afford to wear Fendi, Gucci and Prada (I ain’t gonna front) and we still cannot afford to buy apartments or houses in Chelsea or Notting Hill. We sometimes bring our sandwiches to work and eschew the work canteen on grounds that it is too expensive. We treat ourselves to lunch at Carluccios, not The Ivy. We often work 10 hour days and some weekends. We promise ourselves that we are going to write that book and get on the New York Times bestseller list someday. Someday, we will party with celebrities on a yacht in St Tropez or hang with Clooney on Lake Como.

I don’t know about my friends, but when I see that I have my firm’s print room, and not a publishing agent on speed dial, I know that I am serious when I say I am off to buy Karrine’s next book as she just might have something to teach me.

Review: Joe Turner's Come and Gone at the Young Vic

2010-05-30T11:29:00.003+01:00

London has been blessed recently to have a rash of visiting conventions of amazing plays featuring playwrights from the United States (Hallelujah for that!). Cat on a Hot Tin Roof (at the Novello) Ruined ( a visionary tale set in Congo now playing at the Almeida but sold out due to high demand) and The Mountaintop at Trafalgar Studios (my personal favourite), are but a few of Broadway's best exports to the West End. All these plays have been playing to packed mixed audiences, defying the stereotype that black people don't like theatre. We do not need special Arts Council grants to go to plays. By our patronage we are telling the West End that we will attend, if there is something on that we can relate to.

Joe Turner's Come and Gone was playing at The Young Vic and I leapt at the chance to see it, given that it won many awards including the NAACP award, several Tony Awards and was lauded in the New York Times. Written by August Wilson, it is a powerful drama set in 1911 that features the lives of a random sample of black people one generation removed from slavery, who are thrown together by the terrible circumstance of displacement. The protagonists have moved from the South to seek a better life only to find themselves victims of discrimination and to face a different kind of struggle. The overarching theme is movement and dispersement- the play is set within a boarding house, a transient space. Everybody is searching for something or for someone.There are lessons to be learnt- only Seth and Bertha- who chose to follow a fixed life to become entrepreneurs are truly free. The play has been the recipient of many awards but I must admit that at first, I found the characterisation of Bynum and his subsequent interaction with Herald Loomis in the context of healer and voodoo man distracting. A black man expressing his pain does not need to be possessed or crazy to do so. It was only at the denouement, that I found that the play was indeed a brave one when in in the interaction between Martha Pentecost and Loomis, we found the words of the traditional faith healer to ring more true than scripted Christian words:

MARTHA: Jesus bled for you, He's the Lamb of God who takes away the sins of the World.
LOOMIS: I don't need nobody to bleed for me. I can bleed for myself.

Delroy Lindo, who originally played Herald Loomis in the first few stage productions in the United States, was a fluid and convincing Bynum. He transitioned between grounded and spirit filled with amazing alacrity. Seth, played by Danny Sapanim, was powerful and convincing, as was Petra Letang as a vivacious, confident Molly. I was not thoroughly impressed by Kobna Holdbrook-Smith- the part of Herald Loomis seemed at times too big for him. I felt that the dialogue consumed him. He was great at playing the vacuous empty man but when he was required to be flooded with emotion, there was a strange sense of disconnect. Likewise, Adjoa Andoh- who was brilliant in Invictus, played the part of the engaging Madame with almost too much enthusiasm. Just a little less gesticulation and emphasis would have made her just that smidgen more convincing. The intimate layout of the Young Vic meant that the audience were privy to every little detail so there was no need for over dramatic flourishes.

The play is a powerful play because it gives some insight of the new America at the cusp of industrialisation and fixes our attention on the plight of the ex slaves as they seek to forge new identities and seek their worth as free men. However, as I left the theatre, I asked myself, how far have we come since then? Do we still carry the pain of displacement and separation? Have we come to a position where we are reconnected and reassembled, or are we like the Matties and Mollies and Heralds, still looking, still searching for something?

(Joe Turner's Come and Gone is at the Young Vic from 27 June to 6 July. Tickets 22.50 but 15.00 in the first two weeks. There is apparently a Metro offer for 10 pound tickets).

The Caribbean's Cocaine Aristocrats

2010-05-29T12:04:00.007+01:00

My neighbour was found dead in the Town That Never Sleeps (except that it now does because all the revellers are too old). He had no job but he had a lot of money.We shared the same family name so we must have been related somehow but I knew nothing about him except that he lived next door in a very small house, that he had many children and that he was found lying face down, shot and hauled like a beached whale into the yellow green and gold verandah of his best friend in the town of Gouyave. A salutary warning perhaps. We asked no questions. There were no investigations. Even now, for no reason, I shudder as I write this. Pen mightier than sword. Pen mightier than sword. Or gun. I repeat it. I remind myself. I comfort myself. They don't know where I live. At least I hope so.

In small sleepy Caribbean towns and villages, there would always be a man who has a big heart and an even bigger pocket. He would be self made, of not too wealthy stock, and his background would not provide any explanation as to where his new found capital might have originated. The government of the day would be on side. He would have friends in lots of high places- the police and the armed forces. He would be responsible for entertainment events that bond villages, communities and towns and supposedly nurture talent. He would sponsor a few sporting and cultural activities. If he did not do so, he would be reputed to have properties in the UK and in the US. He would own a few legitimate businesses and companies that employ a number of people in the community. Through these, he maintains a veritable laundromat- dirty money is washed whiter than white. This man is venerated and idolised. Everybody is grateful. He maintains power and control over his microcosm and maintains it with strict orders. The wife and mistress and girlfriend are loyal because they are all kept in a certain manner- weave, shoes, clothes. Other bitches are damn jealous. He has cult status, so lavish is his spending, so profligate his giving. He imports European vehicles. If he smokes, he only smoke Cuban cigars. If he drinks, he only drinks Johnny Walker Black.

He is generous with his platitudes because they are the platitudes that the people who support him value- fetes, passa passa, more fetes and more parties. He will probably kill a cow or a sheep now and again for the village- a sacrifice to the gods? His venues overflow, his reputation is consolidated, no one bats an eyelid or asks the important question of where this flood of investment capital comes from. Sure, there are whispers but no one dares to state the obvious. Meanwhile crime rates increase, there are stories of people who are found dead off small islands and guns appear to be swarming small fishing towns.

The Caribbean's position of being the Vortex of the Americas and its proliferation of small inlets and coves make it ideal to facilitate furtive, illegal transactions. Some Caribbean countries, like St. Vincent, have over 600 islets and states like The Bahamas are archipelagos consisting of more than 700 islands and 200 cays. Drug consumption is not rabid in the Caribbean- the epicentre and the controlling minds are in the West. Caribbean people are the proverbial middlemen in this new triangle trade. In the land of the middlemen, some get to be king.

Jamaica has long been key to the drug trade, given its long coastline, its proximity to the United States, the high number of ports, harbors, and beaches, and its closeness to the Yucatan and Windward Passages. Although the epicentre of the cocaine trade is Colombia, Jamaica’s west and south coast are the most popular areas for air trafficking. Middle men who are responsible for importing drugs to the West are appointed as local lords. Christopher Coke (is this a joke? Is his middle name Ganja?) seems to be one of the cocaine aristocrats that was so beloved by his flock, that they gave up their lives for him. It appears ironic that the greatest love, as defined by Jesus, to lay down one's lives for one's friends, was accorded to a known drug dealer. It is sad that his disciples did not make the link between the bitter gangfights in their communities or the abject poverty and violence that featured in Tivoli Gardens with a business that sucked the life out of their towns like ladiablesses taking souls. The drug trade pays no respect and pays no taxes. It is a system based on exploitation and does not reward hard work. Lives are dispensable. Children are customers. It is sadder though, that ordinary community minded individuals are so disenfranchised and abandoned by government, that they are left to be ruled and to be dependent on an illegal trade that operates above the law. Who will be their advocates?

To be honest, given the suspected link between Coke and the government, I doubt the veracity of the evidence of the supposed honour bullets. I am not sure that these people actually gave up their lives- how are we not sure that they are victims of a shoot on sight policy, to destroy any evidence of any governmental collaboration or support? It seems very much like the prison fire cover up before a similar extradition many moons before. It has now come to light that the Government's party, the JLP, hired US firm Manatt Phelps &; Philips to request that the US government put in further information to support the extradition request. I must admit that I would not ordinarily be shocked at opposition to an ordinary extradition request. Small islands are fiercely protective of their own sovereignty and my instinct was to say who the hell is America anyway (Obama or no Obama) to request extraditing a man who walked the streets of Brooklyn but who they lost track of? We are past the era of Manifest Destiny. In any event, Dudus' kilos of cocaine and informal network pales in comparison to underworld crime on the streets of New York and Baltimore.

I was more shocked and appalled that it was the national, incumbent political party that would choose to fund and instruct Counsel to lobby the US government to oppose Coke's extradition. What was the impetus and basis for this level of involvement? Investigations show that the funds came from Coke's business- Incomparable Enterprises Limited and went through the government's Tourism Enhancement Fund. The lawyers in question are alleged to have met with Mr Coke and knew directly that these funds were coming from him. What message does that send? Who is really running Jamaica anyway? It is also reported that Mr Coke is very benevolent to the Government of Jamaica and recently hosted a party for the present Attorney General.

Rest assured, this is not only happening in Jamaica. With no accountability and no lobby for freedom of information in the Caribbean, this situation is only the top of the coconut tree. When we vote political parties in power,we do not know about the levels of illegal funding, kickbacks and deals that are made behind closed doors and about dodgy bequests that are not entirely above board. For now, given that more than 60 people have lost their lives and this man still cannot be found, it seems like the cocaine aristocrats are the ones who are in charge of our countries.

(Photo copyrighted and used from caribbeandreamstv.com)

Will you be rolling up the tassa, Bissessar?

2010-05-26T22:51:00.001+01:00

My memories of Trinidad are undoubtedly gastronomic.
Trinidadian food is hot- pepper of the scotch bonnet variety is a basic ingredient, and condiments and dishes all have big bold flavours. Kutchela, Anchar and “Mother in Law’ pepper sauce all find their way to my London cupboard. Among the dishes that I love, which include the delectable compactness of a zesty chicken roti and the colourful cacophony of meat and rice that constitute a pelau, there are two dishes in particular that would have me chomping at the bit in a sensory bud orgasm- doubles and souse.

Doubles has been referred to (unaffectionately) by Trinidadian doyenne Rachel Price as “fried flour” but the reality is more subtle. It is essentially a fried sweet bread that is turmeric flavoured, filled with piquant channa (chick peas or garbanzo beans) and tasty dhal (split peas). It is served best topped with chutneys of mango, cucumber and tamarind with a dash of "slight" pepper. Souse, as its name reveals, is a much more robust dish. The unwanted parts of a pig or cow or a chicken (usually their feet or skins or bellies) would be boiled and then pickled in a mixture of wine vinegar or lime juice, seasoned in salt, garlic and thyme then garnished with peppers and cucumbers and left to marinate. It does not sound it but it is very yummy.

It is often assumed that Doubles evolved from the Indian Dish Chole bhature, Chole (Chana masala) which is cooked spicy chick peas and the Bhature (Poori) being a fried puffy bread, a dish commonly eaten in north India. Souse is an undoubtedly African inspired slave dish; its manner of preparation is very similar to Southern cuisine and it is typical of the curing techniques used on the plantation. Souse is therefore creole or afro in origin and doubles is East Indian. An interesting fact about souse and doubles is that they are each nice on their own, but they do not go together. Likewise, the story of Indian and African cohabitation in the small island of Trinidad is complex.

When slavery was abolished in 1833, almost 200,000 Indians were brought in to Trinidad to service the plantations under a system of legalised indentured labour. Historians such as Hugh Tinker called it a new system of slavery but I would vehemently oppose this categorisation- even if for a pittance, the dignity of working to earn (laborare est orare) already gave the Indian population a head start over the Africans who were by then idle and displaced and left with an aversion for labour. The Afro population were already by then also dispossessed of their language, culture, religions and customs. The Indian population, by contrast, were left culturally intact, and segments of the Indo Trinidadian grouping were sometimes awarded portions of land in lieu of a return passage, to encourage settlement. This led to some uneasiness and resentment on the part of the old Afro population.Indo Trinidadians are now the largest ethnic group- they now make up approximately 40% of the population. Afro Trinidadians make up 37.5%. There are about 40,000 European settlers- smaller groups of Chinese, Lebanese and Arabs and 20% of the population would describe themselves as mixed race (often dougla- the particular mix of Afro and Indian).

Trinidad, like mainland Guyana, has experienced some degree of conflict between its primary ethnic groups. Despite its motto "Together we Aspire Together we Achieve", class structure and political systems are often organised along ethnic lines (Professor Moses Seenarine, Introduction to Caribbean History). This is because, according to Professor Seenarine, racial stereotypes developed early in the two colonies. British planters characterized Africans as physically strong but lazy and irresponsible. East Indians were stereotyped as industrious but clannish and greedy. He notes that these views that are still present today. To feel sleepy after eating is referred to in and around the Caribbean as having "niggeritis", a direct allusion to the laziness of Africans. To some extent, these stereotypes were accepted by the immigrant groups themselves. The stereotypes provided a false explanation of behaviour and justified competition among groups. Africans were described as indolent when they refused to work for low wages or make long-term contracts with the plantations as the Indians had. East Indians were considered selfish when they minimized their expenses to acquire wealth.

This is illustrated, for example, in the very popular politically incorrect playground ditty "Coolie coolie run for roti all the roti done. Ah nigger man pick up a machine gun an all de coolie run" (coolie being the derogatory word for Indian). My Trinidadian friend confirms that their version went - "coolie man come for roti, roti dun, mash potato, mash potato, half past one, when the nigger pull the trigger, ole man coolie run". Out of the mouths of babes. The stereotype of the violent destructive Afro islander vs the curry-eating greedy Indo islander perpetuated the status quo. Meanwhile, whilst many of the Afro population were becoming “saga boys” laughing at the Indians working on the plantations, many Indo Trinidadians were savvy and astute and established themselves commercially. As a result, many of the land owning Indians were, and still are outperforming their Afro counterparts in business, economic endeavours and education, still inspiring some latent resentment.

In much the same way, support for political parties appear to fall along ethnic lines with the PNM consistently obtaining a majority Afro-Trinidadian vote, and the UNC gaining a majority of Indo-Trinidadian support. There has, in the past, been a deep racialisation of political consciousness. It first began with the split from the Butler Party (Butler was Afro-Trinidadian) when the PDP (majority Indian) formed their own political organisation. The African populace was fearful of this new Indian formation and Eric Williams then formed the People's National Movement (the PNM) which ruled Trinidad from 1956 to 1986.

Racial issues continued to obfuscate and destroy any lower class solidarity. This continued well into the twenty first century. In fact, Patrick Manning, former Prime Minister, ascribed his 1995 defeat to the rising Indian consciousness stimulated by the 150th anniversary of Indian Arrival. Manning even argued that he had lost support because it was felt that it was time for an Indian Prime Minister. Afro Trinidadians continued to document through calypso and in newspaper columns, Basdeo Panday's hugely charged racial encounters. Under the UNC, it was alleged that black CEOs of companies were routinely fired and replaced with Indian supporters and there was a perceptible Indianization of the public service (Professor Anton Allahar, UWI). Vice versa charges have been fired away at Patrick Manning’s administration. There have been several allegations of anti Indian discrimination.

Therefore it is a bittersweet, nervous occasion for me. On one hand, I am happy that the Trinidad & Tobago electorate saw it fit to elect a woman. I whole heartedly congratulate Prime Minister Kamla Persad-Bissessar, particularly as she was able to rise above the unfair stereotypes targeted at women which would never be used as an indictment against men. The fact that she liked a drink or two (a woman after my own heart, bless) made her a drunk (a man would be deemed merely sociable) and her sympathetic nature was interpreted as vulnerability (a man would be called sensitive). With her victory on Monday, Ms Kamla Persad-Bissessar has now successfully laid a salutary stone in the edifice of female political leadership ably commenced by Dame Eugenia Charles of Dominica and Portia Simpson Miller of Jamaica.

On the other hand, I am wondering if the UNC can really make a definite inroad in healing the racial divide after Patrick Manning did much to exacerbate it. This process had already commenced with its now very fashionable idea of a coalition. It was heartening to see that in these elections it has been reported that persons actually voted across the manufactured lines of race, class and ethnicity. It is a good start. Maybe one day when I go to a certain Trini fete in London, I won’t see a paucity of black people featured in the photos. Maybe I wouldn’t hear comments next time I am in Trinidad that it was surprising to see Indo Trinidadians mixing with the Afro population.

Maybe, just maybe, Kamla will be different.

(Pic compliments guardian.co.tt)

Why I Don't Get Nude

2010-05-24T23:25:00.001+01:00

I don't have a problem with naked. I like to think that I am free and confident in my own skin. Sometimes clothes can be a veneer, masking my much loved imperfections (a tummy that reveals a love of wings, home made pizza, cheese, white wine and cake), a carapace that can be restricting and confining.

I do, however, have a problem with nude. The very particular colour palette that is often used to describe an indistinct pale pink, the "in" shade for this season's frothy dresses in a middling shade of cappuccino that falls somewhere in between faint tan and English rose. I have been taught that words on their own have no power: it is the meaning we ascribe to them that weigh them down. Nude, therefore, as touted on the pages of Grazia and emblazoned in glossy Glamour is meant to create the illusion of flesh toned nakedness. I have long known that this nude is not meant to refer to my flesh. Nude bras and "natural toned" tights had already disabused me of my preconception. This was, however, recently brought to the attention of mainstream society by the US press.

The polemic arose out of the fact that Indian designer Naeem Khan designed the dress featured above for Michelle Obama and described it as a "startling silver sequin, abstract, floral nude strapless gown". I was first of all perturbed that one dress required so many descriptive aadjectives. Then it appeared that the word nude had been added almost as an afterthought, to impress the fashion mafia by stamping the dress with this season's magic word to ensure automatic entry into the stylistic megaclub. For the record, the dress, by any stretch of the imagination was far from nude- maybe a jaundiced nude but not healthy fashionable nude. No need.

Naeem (who really should know better) subsequently described the dress as "champagne coloured" but this probably caused it to lose some of its je ne sais quoi- although not to me because I love champagne. He did not escape unscathed, however. This ignited a debate about the use of the word nude and whether this was legitimate. Some sections of the press even asked whether the word was unassumingly racist.

A word cannot be racist without a context, whether historical or current. This debate on legitimacy misses the point. There is nothing wrong with the word nude. There can be nothing wrong with a words on its own. There is nothing wrong with developing a colour palette the effect of which is to provide the illusion of nakedness. It isn't even a question of the appropriateness of the word when the colour is used on a darker skinned person. The word nude is only the affirmation of the status quo- that I can never walk into Marks and Spencers and find the correct shade of skin toned tights and I have to purchase them on Sundays in Lewisham market, that I can never purchase Clinique at Boots because they don't sell my shade so I need to buy higher priced Mac and Bobby Brown and that the skin toned bra in the Next multipack looks very weird against my skin.

In that respect, there is nothing shocking about nude. What is shocking is how little progress we have made in convincing multinationals of the power of the black pound (or dollar). If, we had, I am sure that there would be multiple shades of nude, reflecting a long list of different shades- from brown to coffee to caramel to beige to espresso. Getting down to the bare bones of it, this is not to underestimate the power of words. It is not a ridiculous suggestion that the word nude reinforces the status quo- the power of suggestion is insidious. And that's the naked truth.

Sex on the Beach

2010-05-22T12:54:00.001+01:00

“...We helped ourselves, to these green islands like olives from a saucer,

munched on the pith, then spat their sucked stones on a plate...

What the white manager mean

to say was she was too rude, cause she dint take no shit

from white people and some of them tourist- the men

only out to touch local girls; every minute-

was brushing their hand from her backside so one day

she get fed up with all their nastiness so she tell

the cashier that wasn’t part of her focking pay”

Derek Walcott, Omeros.

Time has moved on since Walcott wrote about dear Helen. Now, the bulging flights arrive from Sweden, the UK and Germany, depositing sediments of middle aged tourists, but they are not the brute male Lancashire clods of yesterday but instead, economically liberated, independent women. Caribbean female sex tourism is in full bloom. Hordes of financially generous Western women flock to the Caribbean in droves to assume Stella personas, hoping to get their grooves back. They are non apologetic: they are seeking island boys. However, it is never that simple and there is often no HBO special ending as Terry McMillan would testify.

It is a fact that on many of our island’s beaches, transient sexual relationships are courted by young men hoping to begin a liaison with a woman looking for a good time. Many of the women are invariably older, sometimes overweight (but not all the time) and are open to anonymous, casual relationships. A few openly state that they wish to overcome the taboo of dating black and to experience the appeal of what they call “The Big Bamboo” but I would say that the vast majority are lonely and unhappy and come to the Caribbean to seek love and romance. These women are more than grateful for the regular sex and constant attention and to a certain extent, they are happy to pay for it. They prize the young mysterious loafers and blissfully ignore signs of latent intent. They overlook signs that some of these men are prepared to missell their motivations and to peddle lies in order to land a profit. Many of these women delude themselves that they are falling in love, not knowing that many of their island boys are in search of any opening, any opportunity, and any plane ticket.

The sensibilities and sensitivities in this sex trade tourism have never really been explored. It is often presented as merely a form of reverse sex tourism. In the Caribbean, the reputation of the English in this new world trade precedes them. For example, in Tobago, there has been a marked decrease in the idler population since Virgin Atlantic began its frequent flights to the island- many previously wandering loafers have migrated abroad after phallic sojourns that have gone extremely well. My 20 year old friend in Grenada pleads with me to introduce him to an English girl, commonly seen as the easiest prey. Canadians spend the most, Swedish are the prettiest and the English are the neediest. “Desperation Days” is the disdainful term awarded to the days when BA and Virgin make weekly flights to the islands, so eager and willing are these female barterers. In Jamaica they are crudely known as Milk Bottles (white and in need of filling); those of the black variety known as Stellas. The men amusingly refer to themselves as working for the Foreign Service. In Martinique, it is telling that locals refer to incoming flights of Air Canada as "Air Coucoune" — French for "Air Pussy."

Sometimes this reputation is deserved but contrary to the casual liaison stereotype that is often presented in the press, I am not sure that a lot of these women know what they are letting themselves in for. I recently met a friend in the departures queue for a flight back to London. As I languished in the Economy class line, he whisked past with his “Sugar Mommy” to Upper Class, after having spent two weeks in the finest resort in the island at $2500 a night. Only last year he was selling craft on the beach. He fully intends to divorce his wife after the now compulsory two year period set by the Home Office and to take steps to bring his Grenadian girlfriend and child to the UK.

His story is representative of the fact that local liaisons can be bought in the currency of the latest gadgets, promises of a better life overseas and of course, cold, hard cash. Michael Seyfert attempts to explore this in his Jamaican documentary- Rent a Rasta. These exchanges are never express, however. They are set in the context of a romance. The transactions have no fixed prices- they are shrouded in the language of pretence- the locals feign undying love, a tourist provides the goods. The cyclical holiday season means that there are often repeat customers. The men in question, who hang around amidst the sea gliders and power surfers, are the beneficiaries to a very base contract. The offer is no strings sex , intimacy and companionship which may or may not come with expensive restaurants, an Ipod, Nike Airs and a mobile phone. Who would not accept? A Sex on the Beach liaision is very strong security in the international market; it can lead to marriage, permanent immigration status in the West, in short, a better life.

The Montreal Gazette ran a very interesting piece on the topic. They reported that by some estimates “ 600,000 Western women have engaged in travel sex sometime over the last 25 years, many of them as repeat customers, returning to the tropics every winter for some sun and some action” . Dr Joan Phillips, a researcher, who was quoted in Annan’s Boodram’s piece on Sex Tourism, argues that female sex tourism is based on romance, remuneration and entrepreneurship. She goes on to say that “it is based on racialised sexual fantasies of the black man...it's the new commodity on sale for the tourist dollar and the newly liberated in search of the post-colonial Mandingo."

I am not sure that I agree fully with Joan Phillips’ assessment. It is very easy to paint Westerners as exploitative and locals as innocents but not all women are out to fulfil a post cultural stereotype. Some are lonely and unhappy and are genuinely seeking love. For others, it is a simple economic trade off. It is very easy to denounce the parties who engage in this trade, perching from our pseudo moral pedestals, but if both individuals are of age, disengaged and involved in a symbiotic exchange of mutual benefit, and they both feel happy with the arrangements, then who am I to judge? Will the market not balance out itself without my interference? Should we then not be concerned and write it off as just a bit of fun? Or is this a new saga in sexploitation which should be stamped on his head? Who then is the real victim? Who is really taking advantage of who?

On one hand, I empathise with the locals who make dying declarations of love. They are merely seeking their own interests, because circumstances force their hands- they live on islands that do not offer much in terms of prospects and where there is no welfare state to cushion the blow of poverty. However, I also feel sorry for those women who are often manipulated into providing expensive holidays and who offer a life abroad, only to find that they do not feature in the long term plans of their lovers. It is always a pity when a woman feels that she needs to travel to another country to feel affirmed and loved.

(Photo from media.canada.com- all rights reserved).

Something to Talk About

2010-05-18T23:44:00.003+01:00

When I was a child, I found this anecdote that was told to me about my two neighbours in a bus in the early 1990s quite funny:

"Mave I get the thing"
"Elsa, what ting?"
"De f"
"What is de f?"
“De ting I tell you about!”
“I aint know nothing you supposed to get starting with f”
"Steups. The phone!"

I found the story poignant, not because of my neighbour's poor spelling ability but because of her excitement over a telephone. It was an excitement I knew and lived because although I grew up in the 1990's, this was small-town-in-the-Caribbean nineties where a fixed line was a luxury. I remember the precise day Grentel (as it was then called) came to install our telephone line. We watched the men clad in yellow in admiration. They were heros.These were the days where not everyone had a refridgerator so those who did sold gigantic blocks of ice set in huge pan buckets. Where hair grease and butter were sold by the ounce, rice and sugar sold by the pound, and oil and rum sold by the eighth. Where there was no cable television and local television was so grainy we chose to read books and play football and cricket in our village pasture instead. It was a time when the local government school was haunted by bhakus and jumbies. My seven year old nephew has told me it still is.

The Caribbean has moved on a lot since then. Now, our use of mobile phone technology has surpassed our own expectations. Fixed lines are now depassé and declassé. Cell phone mania has struck and it is with us to say. The first sign that I had of cell phone usage becoming out of sync with reality was in 2008, when I saw one of my neighbours walking down the street with a cell phone clipped to his back pocket and another tied to his shoelaces. Other signs of mania are inevitably present. My twenty year old neighbour does not have a job but chooses to sport an Iphone. Blackberries, which cost upwards $1000 XCD are increasingly de rigueur with schoolchildren no less. The use of mobile phones is also profligate. In buses one can often be privy to an entire thirty minute conversation based on nothing more than "I am on the bus" and hours of juicy and salacious but mindless gossip. “Yes she throw de chile, she man beating her”.

In lots of Caribbean countries, the number of active handsets and numbers exceeded the population so it appeared that a significant number of people in the Caribbean have a phone on both networks (Digicel and Cable and Wireless in Grenada, TSTT and Digicel in Trinidad). I found it telling that the highest mobile penetration rates in the whole of Latin America and the Caribbean in early 2009 could be found in Jamaica (115%). This should be taken in the context of the fact that mobile penetration in Latin America and the Caribbean on the whole was approximately 80% in early 2009, well above the world average which was about 58% (Telecoms Market Research, May 2009). The mobile phone market is quoted as being the most rapidly growing of all consumer electronics in the Caribbean (Entrepeneur Magazine).

Further statistics on consumer perception are astonishing. The Ericsson Consumer Survey on ICT in the Caribbean based on 40,000 interviews shows that there are a significant number of phone users who constitute the mainstream materialist and mainstream youth market: their characteristic justification: "My phone means I belong among my peers" and "I want a phone that makes me look good even when I cannot afford it". Shocking but not really surprising. I have actually heard a woman on a popular call in programme recite three different mobile numbers (all hers) whilst soliciting funds over the radio for her sick child’s hospital fees. When questioned why she was requesting assistance yet had three mobile phones she was rather non apologetic, explaining that she needed one on each of the competing networks and that the other had been a gift.

It is true to say that the Caribbean region has been a hive of activity over the past five years as markets have opened up. The key beneficiary to date has been Digicel, which has aggressively targeted incumbents generally run by Cable and Wireless. Digicel, run by Irishman Denis O’Brien, much to my chagrin, is seen as the saviour to the poor, saving us from a mobile free life, even though we can scarcely make two ends meet. It is telling that when Grenada chose to implement VAT on cell phone use last year, this issue stirred the most debate (even leading to a pop up Facebook group) although taxes were implemented on other essential, and arguably more important items.

I am not saying at all that the explosion in the use of cell phones cannot be used to harness development. It is certainly important that the gap between the information haves and have nots are bridged. Mobile phones can be used to stimulate business, for money transfers (Jamaica is a shining beacon) and for equally other laudable objectives. However, there are a few issues that concern me.

First, is the ongoing reliance on the pay as you go model. The pay as the go model, which relies on the availability of credit as and when one needs it, promotes a top-up culture. Top-up culture is now a part of Caribbean life. Transactions are bartered in telephone credit and support for services are sometimes expressed in terms of telephone cards. It is not uncommon to have someone ask for a ten dollar card in lieu of actual hard cash or a transfer of a dollar’s worth of top up credit. I do not like top up culture because it does not rely on reasonable forecasting, budgets, estimates and use projections. It relies on the blissful lack of awareness of how much one really spends on telephone calls as there is no bill, no breakdown, no account, and so there are no checks and balances. Top up culture is part of the culture of want it now, get it now, without regard as to how one decision might impact on others. Top up culture also prevents the building of any lasting relationships with a brand which is typical of the relationships built with mobile phone giants in the US and in the UK such as TMobile and Vodafone. Contracts exist, but without a strong contract culture, lots of customers do not get the additional tie-ins that many abroad take for granted such as inclusive minutes and text messages and a free-at-the-point-of-purchase handset. This means that the market is still young and relatively immature.

Secondly, I have a problem with what I consider the exorbitant charges paid for telephone calls and telephones in the Caribbean. Persons on developing country wages are being charged developed country rates. For example, Digicel’s Flex rates for St Lucia are 75 cents a minute from a Digicel to Digicel telephone (almost 20p) when in the UK a network to network service is either free or 5p a minute. Calls to fixed lines are 80 cents a minute (the equivalent price in the UK). Surely, mobile phone prices should be linked to the purchasing ability of consumers? Then again, I have never heard a complaint about call charges so perhaps it is affordable and I am becoming a stingy, mean Englishwoman. I have the same complaint on the price of phones. The Blackberry 9000 comes in at an eyewatering $2400 XCD (600 pounds). This telephone retails for 305 pounds without a contract in the UK.

Thirdly, I have a problem with the iconisation of the mobile telephone as a status symbol. In my eyes, one can never be as well dressed as when wearing a hat and gown and there is a great status symbol in a degree hanging on one’s wall. The mobile phone is at the end of a long list in status symbols that we, the poor, try to emulate as a sign of supposed progress. Cheap clothes, brand name sneakers and yup Clarks, fall at the front of this category. Having a nice phone without having a steady job and a good education is akin to building a house and putting cable TV in before running water or buying a dressing table before a bed. Sporting the latest Blackberry, Nokia or Samsung will never hide an empty brain or an empty pocket.

Finally, it is worth noting that Digicel sued Cable and Wireless for almost 300 million dollars for allegedly impeding its entry into the Caribbean market. This means that Digicel believes that a proportion of the Caribbean market is worth 300 million. The corporate social responsibility projects of these telecom giants do not reflect the significance of this market. Donations to individual artists and education and culture never reach the hundreds of thousands. Considering that the income of all the telecommunications companies come from the pockets of a struggling populace, it would be great if the companies come together to sponsor telecommunication projects and education schemes in the Caribbean islands that would empower our people. Then, and only then, will I have something to talk about.

(Image: Digicel Barbados, all rights reserved).

Does Kinky Hair Bring the Boys to the Yard?

2010-05-16T12:18:00.000+01:00

My early hair memories are painful. I recall hair washing days that were tinged with distress. I have memories from the age of 4 or 5 wearing a Mothercare apparatus so that soap wouldn’t tear my eyes but nonetheless, tearfully shrieking that washing my hair was not a good idea because I knew it would become brittle, dry and knotted. I feared the inevitable comb-out , which did not take place while my hair was still wet and soft, but occurred after all clothes had been hand-washed, the Saturday meal of callaloo soup finished and the bread was in the oven by late evening. This meant that my curly hair shrunk and became an impenetrable mass of forest, that was hacked into with a pickaxe of a comb, the only other weapon being masses of petroleum jelly.

I was often told that my hair as a child, was the finest grade of “goo goo lamier”- a fruit that was tough and hard, rivalled only by the local “campeche” wood. My kinky coils broke Camel combs, combs that were especially made for tough, black hair- my combs always featured missing teeth like the old miserable ladies who told me that my hair needed some “softening”. It did not help that my “douglah” cousin who lived with us had hair that was very long and soft, causing unfair comparison. It also did not help that I wanted my hair to form neat ringlets and bunches that my other cousin, who also had soft “mixed hair” had: my aunt always had to tactfully remind me that it was just not possible. My mother said she could not really manage my hair so many a Sunday evening was spent between the legs of aunts, neighbours and teachers, taming this wild hair into corn rows. At secondary school, I wore my hair natural but the hardness of my hair was notorious. I remember many a Friday spent getting my hair into an Afro puff or a bun- an ordinary brush just did not do the trick- my tools were hair grease and a scrubbing brush (used for getting stains out of heavy clothes like jeans and carpets).

I wore my natural hair until aged 16, and although I had my fair share of crushes and boys up until then, I was a book geek who was not really that interested. So, from the age of 17 onwards my formative men years so to speak, I wore my hair in a series of hairstyles that ranged from braids, weaves, and relaxers that led me to ask myself when I was transitioning to natural, would men find this hair that I find so free, attractive? My friend Makeda then floated the idea for this post, and I decided to do some preliminary research on the subject especially as many a time with a 16 inch Janet Collection weave, I would be propositioned by so many Rastafarian men with dreadlocs, which seemed almost akin to blasphemy. It’s amazing what some men will do when they encounter two packets of $59.99 Remy hair (another post).

A question posed on topix.com on whether men preferred hair either relaxed or kinky saw several men saying that they really did not mind, but they liked hair that was long. At least one man said he preferred natural hair but found that many black women did not choose to wear their hair natural. K is for Kinky’s blog actually had a post on how she found more and more white men (as opposed to black men) affirming her new look:

“I cannot tell you how often i catch white men looking at me when my hair is all out and about, blowing in the wind in all of it’s (sic) kinkiness. Actually, for every black man who tells me “I’m not into natural hair”, there are 2-3 white men who love it all”

Many African men seemed to encourage women with natural hair stating that “natural hair tells me that the sister is smart, prudent, and she believes in Afrikan aesthetics and consciousness”.

It was not all gravy though. A few people complained that men found that when they wore their natural hair, men instinctively judged them as pious, not up for a good time and definitely not a sex object (I wonder if that had something to do with the way they dressed cause trust me, I rock the hell outta my new hair with some gloss on my lips and a lil dress at my hips!). Other stories are truly heartbreaking. The Afrospear blog contains comments and stories of husbands and boyfriends who were so displeased with natural hair- they thought it was nappy and unkempt and unattractive and were displeased to the point of purchasing tubs of relaxers for their companions.

From my experience, kinky hair is a filter. Wearing your hair natural already means that you have a unwavering sense of self esteem and that you are confident enough to go against the grain. These qualities will exist in the kind of members of the opposite sex you will attract- persons who are confident, socially aware and more politicised. They appreciate depth and substance over veneer, and they are not afraid of a woman who is bold and proud with her own choices. Kinky hair has lots of personality and a sense of vah-vah-voom and I have rarely met weak, boring men since I started my locs. By contrast, my hair has now become a great talking point and an important way to affirm who I am and what I am about from the outset.

So no, kinky hair does not bring boys to the yard. It brings the men instead.

ConDem Nation

2010-05-14T07:59:00.002+01:00

Con Dem Nation, on its face, seems easy and affable enough. A coalition led by two nearly identikit leaders, posh boys from the Home Counties, youthful faces not yet lined with worry, smartly turned out in blue suits, both gently mannered and privately schooled, ambling down the garden path of Number 10. These two men, raised by two upper middle class parents and who both read the two easiest subjects at Oxbridge secretly reserved for those who are not that clever, appeared sufficiently comfortable in each other’s company to even joke about the precariousness of the alliance- “I’m off!” Clegg joked, “Wait, please don’t go” Cameron gagged. It was unbelievable that only two days earlier, Clegg accused this man of having a very “unbearable sense of entitlement to govern”. Cameron, when asked what was a good joke he had heard recently, responded “Clegg”. Clegg and Cameron now seem as thick as thieves, the Ant and Dec of British politics, to the extent that it almost seems like a strange game of Spot the Difference: Clegg’s suit is just a tad less blue and a smidgen more worn, and his tie is a sickly shade of yellow.

I am amazed that some Liberal Democrats are surprised that this deal has been negotiated. In the later stage of the elections, this is exactly what Clegg said he was going to do- it was when he said he would not speak with Gordon Brown that I took hold of my senses- I literally saw Red. But for the many who voted Lib Dem to keep the Tories out, it must be a bitter pill to swallow because in my opinion, the veneer of affability masks the true nature of the “co-operation” between the parties, a blue tinged unequal exchange that appears to have eroded the very concept of liberal democracy to a fleeting shadow of itself. Have the Liberal Democrats truly been Con-ned?

According to the Coalition Negotiation Agreement, the Lib Dems appear to have managed to hold on to their promise of an increase in the personal allowance for income tax, focussing on those with lower and middle class incomes. This, however, has been agreed on the basis of the Conservatives' National Insurance increases. Surely boys, they must have taught you at Eton that 1-1=0. So ultimately, we are right back to where we started. The Conservatives have also stuck to their foxhunting guns over cutting Inheritance Tax for high earners and transferable tax allowances for married persons. The Horse and Hound pack must be preparing to buy new horseboxes with the windfall.

Only three lines in the agreement are dedicated to immigration, the biggest issue of the campaign. It either shows that their respective views were some measure of pre-election posturing or how far away Clegg and Cam really stand on the issue. Nick has chosen to sacrifice his strongest selling point of an amnesty for illegal immigrants who had lived peaceably in Britain for a number of years. Cameron preferred to have them undocumented, in the UK illegally, not paying taxes and working less than the minimum wage in breach of the Working Time Directive for unscrupulous employers, and so we now have it. There will now be an annual limit on non EU migrants admitted to the UK to live and work. I wonder if I should have packed my bags already. A brilliant Facebook group sprung up just after the coalition was announced: Cameron is the next UK Prime Minister, Last One to Leave the UK, Turn off the Lights.

Young Nick also seems to have capitulated to the euroscepticism of the Tories. Sure, joining the euro does not seem a brilliant idea right now, but should Britain’s decision on whether it should join the single economic currency be based on the capriciousness of how badly or how well sterling is doing against the euro at the moment?

The only major coup for the Liberal Democrats is political reform – they have half succeeded with their plans to put the alternative vote to the people, as it has been agreed that a referendum will be called on alternative representation. I am not sure, however, that the idea of the alternative vote has the backing of the electorate. Most of us do not really care about it in the same way that we care about other issues like the economy, the NHS and immigration. Elections only happen once every five years, we live every day with MRSA in hospitals, extensive waiting lists, a non functioning welfare state, chronic unemployment and trains which do not run on time. This therefore means that the only thing Clegg managed to get out of the agreement (in addition to air passenger tax per plane and smaller class sizes) seems doomed to fail before it starts.

It also appears strange that a Democratic arm and a Conservative Party (who are proudest of Britain’s unwritten constitution and mores) would be the ones to fetter democracy and the prerogative of the Prime Minister- apparently elections will only be allowed to be called every 5 years and a reinforced majority will be needed to overturn this rigor mortised decision.

I must admit that I am unrepresented in this male, middle class, white Con Dem Nation- there are only a few things I can fully back- no third runway at Heathrow for instance. After Clegg’s sell-out I feel that no one really speaks for me.I feel betrayed. This is not the progressive movement we felt came with Clegg’s fresh enthusiasm. Overall, I am left with the feeling that Con Dem Nation seems less like a quickie marriage and more like a drunken affair, the kind that never lasts beyond the initial almost amnesiac fumbling sex after one too many G&Ts. This is a typical friends with benefits arrangement. One party fucks the other, and after a while, the other ends up feeling cheap, dirty and used, skulking back home in yesterday’s gladrags.

(Image from telegraph.co.uk- all rights reserved).

Conception Island

2010-05-13T08:39:00.002+01:00

“Ay, long time I ehn see you- I didn’t know you pregnant again’

“Girl dat is the last one, Boyo saying de chile is not his”

“ Same ting yuh say last year when ah see you. Ent Boyo say that about the two before this one?”

“Yes but they have he mother features. Is me first two children and the one ah have for Redneck that doh favour him”

The history books tell us that when Christopher Columbus sighted Grenada in 1498 he called it Conception Island. It was an uncanny prophecy. Maybe he spotted the virginal white beaches with sand softer than a SilentNight mattress, perfect for clandestine night-time rutting sessions. Maybe it was the hidden hills that is now Old Fort, the ideal backdrop for furtive meetings prized for being outside of the view of persistent gossip. Maybe he observed the narrow inlets and coves that constituted Quarantine Point and saw its potential as secret mating grounds.

The island of Grenada, with its undulating hills and lush green vegetation is rich and fertile. Its people, too, are fertile but not so rich. In the year 2000, Grenada had an average birth of four children per woman (IFAD, 2000). This compares with 1.2 in developed countries. Bronzed, young, nubile bodies swell each year, tenacious yet audacious, to deliver more mouths to feed into the homes of parents who already do not have enough. Fathers are sometimes absent or disputed, but this might, perversely, be in the young mother’s best interest because if he lays claim to his seed, chances are that the following year, she will be pregnant again. Older women, three and four children in tow, meet new men who promise a better life, but who cannot be expected to contribute to a new family’s upkeep without having their own interests in the home, so a child is born, and then another, to counterbalance latent feelings of resentment of having to take up the slack of an ex lover’s responsibility.

“So how you go make out?”
“Ah ehn know nuh. It doh have work. I was waiting on some travaux but dem people giving who dey want yes”
“An what’s about yuh first chile fadder in America, he helping yuh?”

“He does send something now and then”

“You went an talk to the nurse about the contraception I tell you about the last time?”

“Me? dat does make people sick and big and full up. Plus dat nurse fass to much- she like to mind people business”.

Children are the opium of the poor. IFAD (the International Fund for Agricultural Development- a specialised agency of the United Nations) tells us that 51% of the very poor in Grenada were under age 20. It is a cyclical cause and effect chain. Teenage or adolescent pregnancy was featured as one of the primary causes of poverty (along with unemployment). It was reported that many young mothers go on to have more children by different men and that this was particularly acute in rural areas. I do not think in any way, that only people of means should have children, but the lack of choices and opportunities available to the pregnant poor in Grenada, makes the thought of bringing more children into these circumstances alarming. Families survive on less than $5 US dollars a day. There is no welfare state to cushion the fall of poor housing and inadequate resources. Substance abuse features as strongly as the aged grog that is drunk by the populace, rendering lots of relationships abusive.

The statistics are frightening, but I do not need statistics to tell me that one out of every 5 Grenadian teenagers will have a baby before age 20. I did not need a UWI report to let me know that my neighbour’s daughter, who looked oh so promising, will be perched on the steps of her parents’ aspiring house, baby in hand next year, telling me that “children hard to mind yes” as if she didn’t know from her parents’ own recent experience. That the mother who spent years selling drinks/roast corn/fried chicken to local patrons or who cleaned the houses of more well to do neighbours and who harboured hopes of daughters becoming teachers and nurses and professionals, is still selling drinks/roast corn/fried chicken because her three daughters are now parents themselves and it is a tight squeeze in the little house she struggled to build. That at least one CXC grows every year in the tummies of the students of the local secondary school. That private abortions are used with alarming regularity. That one of the first things that one can expect is a pregnancy when a girl has left school for one year or even two. The Grenada Government’s National Strategic Health Plan for 2006-2010 states that a study conducted by Dr. Everold Hosing in a private clinic in 1994, suggested that for every 400 live births to teenagers, there are approximately 200 abortions. This is shocking.

“So many of de young children belly big too. An some of dem belly like mortuary. D pharmacy stop give de tablet, dat is why they pregnant all over de place. Me, ah too old for that”

The Grenada Planned Parenthood Association lays blame on the institutions of church and school, which continue to preach abstinence, even where the evidence is clear that teenagers are already sexually active. Some blame lies squarely on the shoulders of these catholic styled organisations but, the influence of school and church on the viewpoints of teenagers are very limited- teenagers have sex in any event even though they are told not to, why would they listen to school and church on the sticky issues of contraception?

I am more inclined to believe the study done by UWI and the United Nations which put forward that a combination of gender stereotyping and a lack of challenges are underlying causes. Manhood tends to be measured by the number of sexual partners a man has and the number of children that result from those relationships. As I mentioned in one of my earlier posts, breeding, a measure of virility, is also a measure of masculinity. Fatherhood is often equated to manhood. The report also states that at the same time, girls are offered few challenges or supports for their self-esteem outside of relationships with men and their domestic role. I take some issue with this because I know that women have been encouraged and have, over the years, continued to exceed menfolk in education and the arts. What is clear, however, is that childbirth certainly seems to offer some measure of validation and acceptance to those who perhaps have no other way of attaining such. These women breed to feel wanted, desired and loved.

“An yuh ehn hear me first daughter pregnant? She making ah chile for Jean boy by the pasture”

“I thought she was in college, you tell me she get seven subjects no?”

“Yuh ever see more? Not to say she ent see the situation”

From my experience, many of the pregnant poor want or actively desire children. This may seem bizarre on first blush because the presence of a child has significant constraints on income generation. However, particularly among young people- contraception and especially oral contraception is viewed upon negatively. “She on family planning” is often recited with distaste. An admission of using the pill, is a tacit admission of having regular sex, so it is preferable to rely on nature and the gods and to take one’s chances so to speak. Children are also the cement to relationships in a society where marriage is not the litmus test of commitment, and bearing a child is a tentative approach towards a long term future. Those of the pregnant poor who do not want children appear to be insufficiently informed about contraceptive options and rely on methods that are not foolproof.

Some of our women, especially younger women, do not have sufficient say over their bodies- men dictate how they have sex and when they have it- they are not independent or assertive enough to demand the use of some form of protection. Sex happens when it happens and children, too, happen when they happen. From my experience, planned parenthood initiatives and reproductive clinics are not sufficiently outsourced into the rural areas – they are based in the capital-and they do not work alongside the already struggling family units. Family planning also has a negative reputation about being only about pills and injections and coils, the holistic approach of timing is often never broached. The agencies often intervene when it is already too late. The result? Aborted education, pre-term families, stuck in a quagmire of poverty.

“So give me a change nuh, yuh know how things hard already”

“No I ent know how it hard cause it look like yu having more regular sex than me” (chuckling)

“Ay... yu ehn easy nuh. Doh watch that man. Children must mind”