Les Miserables

When you look at a guidebook on Paris and France, they don't tell you that Paris can be a shithole.

They don't tell you that behind the gilded, sparkling edifice of the Eiffel Tower, the money-green Prada counters of Printemps and Galeries Lafayette, the creamy yummy ooziness of a La Durée macaroon de pistache, the self indulgent architectural expanse of the Louvre, the story book quaintness of the cobbled streets of the Marais, and the raving bacchanalia that occurs in the bars of Bastille, lie stories and lives so poor, so excluded, so caked in shit it can actually make you sick.

I arrived in Paris in 2003, literally wrapped in cotton from dewy Cambridge, eagerly grasping this once in a lifetime chance to live-Paris-and-die. My professors sold me the dream and I swallowed it whole: I was lucky to be able to do a Maitrise in the best law university that topped even the Sorbonne. I was conveniently not told that the same establishment had a rich tradition of an extreme right wing student union which only recently had organised an attack on a couple of left wing students, burning them with cigarettes. I appreciated very much going to the only university in Paris with armed security.

My home was not a grand old apartment with a view overlooking the Seine as you saw in the last episode of Sex and the City (I did have views of amazing piles of dogshit) but a miniscule room in the College Franco Britannique of the Cite Universitaire. There I was taught my first lesson in segregation- we were housed by country of origin echoing the economic world order- the American House first with an outward facing view, the British College second and as life imitates art, the levels of amenities decreased as one went further and further down the GDP scale. No one wanted to live in the Maison de Cambodge. My first few months in this great city of culture and world class gastronomy were therefore not spent munching croissants aux amandes in continental cafés: they were spent having a 3 euro meal of greying beef and spaghetti at the CROUS (the student cafeteria), served by a few ethnic Albanians, quiet Algerians and bustling Cameroonians, all of whom had spilt dreams and washed out stories in a grand old building that smelt of bleach.

No one had told me before about Chateau' d'Eau and Strasbourg- St Denis, mere minutes from the Centre Georges Pompidou- these quartiers that would make Peckham look like West Hampstead and Flatbush look like 34th Street.  Where a young girl named Aimée braids hair for less than 15 euros in a rotting building that houses six other "hair salons" and out of this sum pays for her chair, and for a tout who would congregate with the other crushing Senegalese, Ivoirian, Sierra Leonean bodies to accost and jostle and plead with you as you exit the middle passage of the metro station with shouts of "Tissages- Pas Cher (Cheap Weaves) and Ongles (Nails"). No one had had the gall to explain that a mere 10 minutes from Gare du Nord, on the way to Stade St Denis, I would find a crumbling banlieue rich only in the lies of ministers that it would all be addressed come the next election, a generation of youth whose unintelligible verlan dialect reflected their lack of assimilation and integration into mainstream French society. They don't tell you in the guidebooks that young Martiniquan boys in Clichy-sous-bois have never been to the Orsay or would never be able to point you to the Rodin museum; they hang out instead in "Chatelet", the underground monstrosity of a shopping centre in their new "baskets" (sneakers"). There, they eschew raclettes, confits de canard and fondues for buckets of greasy KFC. These boys from Douala and Pointe a Pierre live in Paris but dream of America.

Paris also has a serious case of Tourette's: it is uncomfortable and restless with itself and as a result, is frequently in an eruptive state. For starters, Paris is filled to the brim with the overeducated unemployed. Take my fellow graduate friend Thomas for instance, after having completed a Licence in law, his Maitrise, a DEA and a DESS (doctoral level studies), he struggles to find a job and is considering moving to Switzerland or to Brussels "Il n'y a rien ici" he mutters. France is perhaps the only country in the world where an education costs less than a plane ticket- 400 euros pays for a year's tuition - but perhaps the only country in the world where it is usual to work for free for 6 months at a time to obtain an elusive placement. Unemployment benefits can reach up to 60% of salary but nothing can compensate for the feeling that you have wasted your time. Those who are not unemployed strike. For just about anything. The SNCF can cripple Parisian society in one day.

Paris is also like a surly child - very suspicious of strangers. Arabs known also as "rabeurs" (Algerians, Moroccans and Tunisians) were part of the first wave immigrants to reside near Paris in suburban congregations (cités). These cités have become completely lawless. The French government is notoriously apathetic- they openly say that to defend the law in these suburbs it futile and dangerous. A friend, Malik, complains that "the system favours French citizens with French sounding names and French physiognomy": he has no job and in a city that requires him to list his address and name in every job application and to attach a photo with his CV, he has resigned himself to the fact that he may never have one. The French principle of laicité (no privilege on the grounds of any affiliation) prevents any recognition of special rights and privileges based on minority status so the government remains distant, powerless and  content to proclaim "liberté, egalité, fraternité".

Liberté, egalité, fraternité. Paris does not feel very fraternal to Claudine, whose parents (fully French, the Parisians boast) have travelled from the "perles" of France (les Antilles- the West Indies) to take low paying jobs in the Metropole. Her parents' contemporaries, who left France to settle in Martinique, are paid subsidies for the "inconvenience" of living in the Caribbean. The anger at such unequal treatment fueled the uprisings of February 2009 in Martinique and Guadeloupe. Martiniquais and Guadeloupians were furious that these “Bekes”, the descendants of the old French and the economic migrants to those islands retained a privileged status, and continued to economically exploit the indigenous minority through their monopoly over land and business. The islanders marched through the streets “Guadeloupe is ours, not theirs” they chanted. Even so, my friend from Gabon "sans papiers" (without papers), envies the Antillais. "Why are they complaining? At least they can work". Claudine slants her eyes "We are French. We are not black. We are mixed".

This méfiance of strangers is not confined to immigrants; Paris is suspicious of all foreigners who are not tourists. Tourists they can cope with- they are going back. To be fully French and resident means you can have it good- generous benefits, subsidised housing, free healthcare. An anglosaxon American is likely to face the same barriers as a South African, a Canadian, a Japanese national when trying to rent an apartment or opening a bank account- in Paris to be French is a specially reserved privilege.

Another not so well kept secret is that Paris a city of grandiose paper pushing bureaucracy. Like a decrepit old lady, it struggles to keep up with itself. Obtaining a carte de séjour, a task that should be a mere administrative formality, becomes almost like going to confession- a weekly monotonous visit to the Mairie or the Prefecture where one is reprimanded for not following the correct form. The beauty of Paris is ill reconciled with the city that can frustrate you when trying to open up a bank account, apply for a mortgage, or a credit card, in fact when you are trying to do anything remotely useful. France does leisure very well, too well. On the rare days that the banks are not closed for a two hour lunch break or there isn't a national strike, the sheer rudeness of the assistants can make you weep. This is the city where shop assistants will look in disdain at your shopping and tell you to put back the sweets because you would get fat, where a bank manager would clear your account and hand you back the cash when you request an overdraft, where you can wait up to one hour to post a single letter.

I was twenty and not feeling it. This was not the Paris where Thomas Jefferson lived with Sally Hemmings, where generations of intellectuals congregated to taste freedom -Josephine Baker, Sidney Bechet, James Baldwin, Richard Wright. This was supposed to be the Paris of the Grand Hotel on the Place de l'Opera where W.E.B. Dubois organised the first Pan African Congress in 1919 and the Paris I lived was not it.

I returned to France in 2008, nervously, for six months. I lived in that grand old apartment with a view overlooking the Seine, two metres away from the Atelier de Joel Robuchon (he trained Gordon Ramsey). I spent my evenings having crusty baguettes and St Marcellin and carafes of Beaujolais three steps from the Champs Elysees. I spent weekends in the champagne region and Saturday afternoons browsing the Louis Vuitton shop at Le Bon Marché. I called Thomas. He had found a job as an intellectual property lawyer. Malik was going back to Algeria. Claudine was doing a second Master 1. Aimée was in the same shop, still plaiting hair...


*Dedicated to the city I love to love and hate all at the same time*

Why I won't be buying Alicia Keys' New Album

Alicia Keys begins her artist description on Twitter with the tagline “Light bearing Artist”. Well, I want to know what light she was bearing (must have been candlelight) when she decided that she needed to sleep with (and steal) Mashonda Tifrere’s husband Kasseem Dean otherwise known as Swiss Beatz.

I usually do not get involved in internet rumours (let’s leave that to Mediatakeout and Bossip) and I usually remember my dear Tan Phillipa’s voice uttering while she squeezed her chaplet “all have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God” but I felt particularly betrayed by Ms Keys (I take that back, Alicia, I am losing the Ms).

I remember being hooked on “Falling” as we all were- a canerowed, authentic down home New York chick, a husky contralto voice almost easily creeping over tuneful piano, no overworked lyrics, she told it as it was “Sometimes I feel good, sometimes I feel used, loving you darling makes me so confused”. She was a witness for the 2000's, a throwback to the days when music had soul and passion, sold to us as the real deal, very dissimilar to a market-driven, manufactured and synthesized Knowles production, she was the one we had been waiting for. When she sang Superwoman, I felt like she was singing it for me and my sisters and my mothers and my best friends and it was my anthem for a few weeks (much to the consternation of my then housemates). She reminded all the trifling-ass men of what we were capable of in A Woman’s Worth “she rolls the mile; makes you smile, all the while, being true don't take for granted the passions that she has for you”. She was Oprah’s chosen one and heiress, founding member of “Keep a Child Alive”, her voice strained, imperfect and raw at times, but ultimately real.

I should probably say to disclose my conflict of interest that I am not one of the many women who understand the fascination or the thrill of the chase with breaking up a family and ultimately with having someone else’s man. The old clichés are often trotted out “It was meant to be’. Not it wasn’t, if it was, he wouldn’t have been already married. “They fell in love’. You choose who you want to fall in love with and contrary to Disney movies, love isn’t fairy dust and magic sparkle- it’s a passionate choice. “The marriage was already broken- you can’t break something that’s already broken”. I have spoken to people who have been married for a very long time and they often say that their marriage breaks at least 20 times during its course.  Marriage is hard work. You feel like you want to quit. You quit sometimes and start again but ultimately, marriage vows are sacrosanct. Who is to say a broken marriage cannot be pieced back together. Who are you to stamp on it further?

Maybe I just don’t get it because I was an only child. I am used to having my own things. I don’t like to share. I like being able to go to dinner and not have to sit out of view in the back of the restaurant. I like making plans openly and to walk down the street with my man’s hand held in mine without fear or secrecy. I like spending lazy Sunday evenings on the sofa with my boo and not worrying whether I am eating into someone else’s family time. I am also of that wise old age when I know that men lie. A lot. So they will say when you meet them that they don’t have a girl, that they are on the verge of moving out, that they are still with the mother of their child but they don’t love her anymore, that they are only there for the sake of their children, that the marriage exists on paper only, that they have a really good relationship with their ex (which includes sleeping over for the sake of little Junior), that they can’t leave yet because it is a bad time to sell the house. Yawn. I have heard it so many times before and yes, we all fell for it when we were eighteen and stupid but to fall for it when you are twenty nine, one of the best selling artists in the whole world, who has seen firsthand the state of black families in America, who claims to be a light bearer, who tweets “love and light” back at her followers and who claims to write lyrics that empower women, is disappointing and not what I expected. I feel that Alicia Keys is falser than a falsetto. Surely, she must have known that the man she was falling in love with had a wife who had just had a baby. Real women investigate. Real women say choose and don’t get involved until the choice is made. Call me naïve, call me not wise in the ways of the world but there is no way I can choose “spark” over “smart” and the betrayal I feel is that underneath the cheery smile, the strong lyrics is my disappointment that Alicia Keys is just a really dumb broad.

I judge her harshly because I think she deserves to be judged. Karma is a bitch. She has just announced her engagement and I wish her all the best (no I don’t) but there is no way this bastardly love child album is making it onto my Ipod. So she and her dude can keep their elements of freedom, freedom is also the ability to make sound and good choices.

Right now, I would pay to be Ms Tifrere because I would be getting paid. According to New York Alimony laws some of the factors to be taken into account in awarding alimony include the income and property of the respective parties, the future and earning capacities of both parties, the presence of children in each home, the ability of the party seeking alimony to be self supporting, the contributions of that party to being a homemaker, and the standard of living of the parties established during the marriage. Mashonda’s album was a commercial flop- she has not made a hit in years. Were I her, I would factor in that the likelihood of my obtaining a hit record was more than likely to be zero, and that the combined earning power of KeysBeatz to be in the region of $50 million a year. I would also factor in that I need a home to take care of his child. Were I Ms Tifrere, I would become a Real Housewife of New York and would request at least $1 million a month to keep myself in the manner that a spurned wife should be expected to.

Then I would hit him on child support. New York Guidelines say 17% of your gross income for each child (plus childcare, medical and educational expenses) but because his income is over $80,000 the total amount would be likely to be almost 30% of gross pay because child support is based on what the parents would have contributed if the parents still lived together. So no, you naysayers, a child does not need a $70,000 nursery but if Daddy would have bought it if he still lived at home, little Tanashaka will get it. And rightly so, why should he be balling and his children life on the regular?

And then I would move to North Carolina or another state that recognises the tort of alienation of affection, try to obtain jurisdiction and sue Alicia Keys for intentionally and maliciously interfering with a marriage. Cynthia Shackelford just successfully sued her husband’s mistress for $9 million. Now that’s a woman’s worth.

This article forms part of my Weekend Entertainment Focus

VVIP assness

"And I look in the rearview and see a man
exactly like me, and the man was weeping
for the houses, the street, that whole fucking island...
But they had started to poison my soul
with their big house, big car, big time bohbohl,
coolie, nigger, Syrian and French Creole,so I leave it for them and their carnival...
I have seen things that would make a slave sickin this Trinidad, the Limers' Republic. "

Derek Walcott, Schooner's Flight


I have always said that I could live in Trinidad. Easy easy I could I said. A small island style metropolis- a place that is like no other in the Caribbean, where village marries with town so easily, where glass and steel structures coexist with an amalgam of prideful plywood and galavanise houses, and where the doubles man sells hot curry on the side of the road near Woodbrook (home of international gourmet fare). Trinidad likes to call itself a melting pot but it's more like its national dish- the pelau, the basic ingredients still keep their character when they are mixed and the result is heavenly. Even on my first visit to Trinidad, I remember saying to my mother that I was probably a Trini in a past life- I like mas, I like kaiso, I like pan, I like carnival, I like curry and corn soup and I like pepper too bad!

In fact, a lot of Trinidad reminded me of Grenada. Too much of it. A mahogany toned Rasta selling intricate leather slippers and bags that reminded me of a mountain "jola". A crowded market stall brimming with the aroma of metal-hot pepper sauce and steaming curry. Local restaurants tucked in between a shoe store and a shopping centre with surly service (why can't Caribbean people get this right?) but they slowly and eventually win you over with dishes so vibrant and tasty and unusual (rice an pig tail cookup) that you forgive it. A stray dog liming in the road. And a baby faced youth with a straw hat asking "Fresh coconut water for you miss?" This time Trinidad reminded me of Grenada so much so that I had a sense of the invincible, of walking on my own territory and home-turf and my friend and local Trinis constantly had to remind me "Yuh in Trinidad.. hold you bag close to you... don't let nobody hear yuh mix-up Grenada English accent...doh ask nobody no question, doh let dem know yuh from foreign... doh wear that dress, it look too English". Doh do this doh do that. At times I really thought I had entered Baghdad. I went to Bethlehem last year, an occupied territory, and even there I didn't feel this sense of precaution and uneasiness.

It began again and culminated "Doh go in Brass Fete, dey go rob yuh. Doh go in Insomnia General. Doh go Soca Monarch General- yuh mad, yuh ehn know who dere. Yuh hadda go VVIP". VVIP? Explain. It was explained to me that there was an economic stratification of fetes. General- which costs about $200 EC (£20). VIP (Very Important Persons) which costs $400 (40) and the pinnacle, VVIP (Very Very Important Persons) ($600) (£65). Ah set ah assness.

Some fetes did not have this stratification but they were there by default- Beach House and Lara Fete cost $750(£75) and $1300 (£130) respectively, far out of the reach of the average Trinidad citizen. With this stratification there is an obvious social demarcation. I had not encountered anything like this before (except maybe on Bobby's Trinidad inspired summer cruise) and I don't know whether it exists in the rest of the Caribbean. Of course, I am familiar with VIP or premium tickets at international events but this was the first time there was this connotation or connection of these words with class. I was told that the people buying general tickets were naturally the less well to do Trinidadians, but not only were they deemed to be less well off, they were also assumed to be an unsafe wild crowd (as opposed to be just out to have a good time) who would take every opportunity to prey, steal and attack, a "different class ah people- Doh go there wid no bag" I was told. In other words the general patrons were regarded as corbeaux. VIP was an aspirational category. Fuckery by another name (excuse me French). Not quite as good as VVIP but you were trying, you were on the up. You wouldn't get robbed but there would be no amenities. ("Who de hell need amenities in ah fete?). So to place yourself out of the reach of the ordinary people, the girl who work she ass off in Samaroos to save up for she one ticket, the guy who come with all his padnas on his day off from his hard construction job, you need to go sit down on a bench, with a few other people whose noses are stiff from being pointed upwards for so long, and view Soca Monarch like it's a damn opera. "Was that Patrice? Oh Patrice. She is mmmmarvelllous dahling" Applause.


Professor Bridget Brereton published an article on post colonial Trinidad. It said "During the generations of emancipation, Trinidad was clearly a segmented society made or different sectors... divided primarily by national origin and race... but also by education and economic position. The segments formed a hierarchy, with one clearly dominant and the others clearly subordinate". Professor Brereton would be appalled to know that this very passage could be applied to some issues and segments of society in Trinidad today.

It has always confused me as to why Grenada merely two heartbeats from Trinidad does not face the issues of crime and cold hearted violence in quite the same way. Surely, of all the Caribbean islands, we are probably most similar in culture and identity. We eat the same food, tell the same jokes, use the same dialect and yes, half of Grenada is in Trinidad. (After this article, they might put them out!). Yes, we are a lot smaller but size is no shield to violence. I am no sociologist but I think that this racial and economic formation I noted is a big part of the answer. Apart from a very very select few (less than 1% I would say) who can be tucked away in Lance Aux Epines and True Blue, the rest of Grenada for the most part coexists - the big wall house in the Villa St Mark's started from a small board house and is aspirational to the rest of the board house dwellers, we work in the same Ministries, we ride on the same buses, we go to the same hospital, we attend the same fetes, we pay the same price .The Trinidad story therefore is a warning to us that the wealth of a nation can be a curse and that its unequal distribution can rob a country of its cohesion.

How can you expect to be left in peace when you turn your noses down and refuse to intermingle with certain sectors of your society? When the line between the haves and the have nots are drawn and displayed even in the way you party, what leavest thou for this line in areas where it really matters- education, healthcare, jobs? I am afraid to ask or even to enquire. Professor Nunez of City University New York explores this theme in her fiction- there is for instance health care for the poor, and a much higher standard or healthcare for those who can afford to pay. I am not saying that this does not exist elsewhere but I think perhaps this socio-economic line is drawn rather harshly and loudly and the people who are on the wrong side of it perhaps feel wronged.

Violence is often the exteriorisation of frustration with the status quo. Sure there are some people who are just "bad minded" but when citizens are treated like they are second class, they often respond with a boomerang reverberation and protest where it hurts. Why shouldn't they have what you have? Why shouldn't they sip wine within a gated community and earn $20,000 TT a month? Why should just you be living the high life, sending your children to the best schools and living at the upper echelons of society while their children are surviving on a diet of flour dumpling and Solo? We all know that Trinidad's wealth has not trickled down to a majority of the masses and this surge in violence and crime, may just be born of severe discontent and "fedupness" with the status quo. They smell your fear when you walk through the streets of Port of Spain, afraid to engage in dialogue, clutching your Coach handbag. They can see you through the fences in VVIP swigging your champagne and flaunting what you have. They know that you that you wouldn't choose to associate with them. They don't think it's fair that on their wages alone they can't visit their own clubs or play in the extortionate carnival bands. They resent the fact that you can. So they think its fair play to stick your wives up in the streets, threaten to rape them, to kidnap your daughters and to stab, shoot and kill, to break into your house and steal your ipods and blackberries and laptops because they have nothing more to lose and the chance to gain at least, just a little bit of your life, your privilege.


I still love Trinidad. And I could still live there. It's just a pity these issues of inclusion and separateness are not being addressed head on because I sincerely believe in Haile Selassie's prophecy that "until there are no longer first class and second class citizens of any nation... that until that day, the dream of lasting peace and universal morality will remain but a fleeting illusion to be pursued and never attained"


(Ah know de Trinis go have plenty to say but doh worry- Grenada own coming up soon!)

Bye Bye to Boom Bye Bye? The Caribbean Gay Revolution

"Boom bye bye
Inna batty bwoy head
Rude bwoy no promote no nasty man
Dem haffi dead
Boom bye bye
Inna batty bwoy head
Rude bwoy no promote no nasty man
Dem haffi dead
(Two man) Hitch up on an rub up on
An lay down inna bed
Hug up on another
Anna feel up leg
Send fi di matic (automatic gun) an
Di Uzi instead"

I remember this song, booming loudly- a cacophony of guttural sounds from red, yellow and green buses in the Caribbean, the rough authoritative voice of Reggae King Buju over a melody that was, to be honest, made for grinding in a dancehall, scarcely suited to narrating a story of two men in a bed. It certainly arrested our attention and we all knew the lyrics and we sang along to our walkmans. This song is now used as an example of typified Jamaican anti-gay lyrics inciting violence. I do not know about Jamaica other than what I have read but when played in our dancehalls it had no greater effect than to cause a group of red-eyed youth to gather in a circle, stick puny hands in the air and proclaim "Lighter". I interpreted it as no more than a virtual desire to purify and prevent a Sodom & Gomorrah experience (as we had been indoctrinated to believe) rather than a nascent and actual intention to actually kill homsexuals.

The role of the homosexual in Caribbean society has never been properly explored. We have all the names- funny, batty bwoy, nasty boy, nasty girl, buller man, chi-chi man, tanty man and interestingly, the word zami- which is an inherited African word, but these words are barriers to confronting the reality of the Caribbean sexual orientation revolution. In my very small town, there were always a few men who were known to bat for the other side- at the age of ten I knew of at least 3.

The gay Caribbean is however experiencing a sexual orientation revolution. And it is one that is not led by men, but by women. Women are key in this new movement and claiming ownership of their sexuality, one step at a time, refusing to fall within our island society's diktats and mores. A part of me would like to believe that it is linked to the widening chasm between men and women in our society, and the fact that men folk is in crisis and after women filled the gaps in the home, schools, and working environment that the feminist movement has overarched and extended its tentacle to other areas. However, a part of me knows that this is probably too intellectual and insulting an analysis and it is perhaps as simple as we are now moving from an era of conservatism to an era of liberalism and unparalleled openness and these women who are asserting a right to love other women are simply staking their claim in this society.

I am not talking about lesbianism for the gratification of men, sexual orgies, prostitution and the like. This has always existed (yes). I am talking about female relationships. Take one of my good friends- Tamara (not real name) for instance. Since she was growing up she always had an air of tomboy about her. I am not asserting in any way that all lesbians are butch but she liked carpentry and woodwork and I remember her looking at my cousin's Barbie dolls with scorn. The rumours started when she  took a job as a construction worker for a few years during which she embarked on many relationships with men, hotly denying that she was lesbian. After a failed marriage, one son later, she is now dating a girl openly for the very first time and confides in me that she has never been happier. This, in a town of less than 5,000 people. She admitted that she does not care what the people in her town think.  Another young girl I met (let's call her Sandra), a teacher, is in a loving open relationship with her girlfriend and when I commented on her open displays of affection in a well known area in town she said to me "They'll get used to it". A part of me is surprised by this boldness. And then I am annoyed that I am surprised because she is only walking in her truth. I am actually surprised at how well conservative, bible belt Grenada has embraced this. Sure, there is some of: "They are just looking for attention". "They will grow it out" (about a well known secondary school aged girl who thinks she is a lesbian). Of course there are some "They need prayers and help" but I did not feel that this was the majority opinion - people did not care enough about it to make it a talking point, and that's the way it should be.

There are also many other social indicators showing that time has indeed moved on. A local soca star, after hearing of the "scandal" involving pictures taken of two women in very compromising positions which circulated the internet, sang the song "Eating Pork". Pork in Caribbean parlance references the female genitalia (as well as some other choice words like saltfish) and the song describes and taunts that girls in the area are all "eating pork". Said soca star has now confessed that whilst he intended the song to be a social commentary that commented on this practice in non favourable terms, the lesbian community has adopted the song and has frequently asked him to sing it, and have also requested special dedications. A group of lesbian girls openly frequent a party hotspot in Grenada and have made it "their night". A student hangout is known and noted for its acceptance and tolerance of gay couples. On New Year's Eve, I was greeted by a chick in a suit who accompanied her girlfriend in a dress to the Rex and Blue Bubbles. A class mate of mine from primary school is in a long term relationship with a New York woman and has no qualms in admitting freely and openly in a hairdressers shop that she is through with men. Similarly, one of my classmates from secondary school took pride in introducing me to her "woman", although I am not sure she is kosher as she prefaced this with “I fed up with men”. I don't think this would have happened ten years ago.


What is perhaps more telling, however, is that this broad-mindedness and indulgence that has been extended to the "zami" has not been marked by a corresponding willingness to engage in a humanistic way with the other side of the coin- male homosexuality. Men like Patrick Levine pave the way probably for other gay men- he is the only open homosexual on the island. He quotes in outtraveller, "The life in Grenada is very discreet. People usually want to do their thing, but they keep it between their private selves." I have never been to his restaurant but I am told that he cooks with lots of "glamour, spice and sexy". He sounds like our own Ms Jay! Other than Patrick, the rumours abound. We all hear and probably know of the gay costume designer, the gay pageant promoter, the gay model, the gay pastor but it's all very much on the down low. . I must admit that when I usually see gay men with other gay men (why are gay man hotter than straight men?), I instinctively think “What a waste!” which is probably wrong!

More seriously, many of us (including me a few years ago) cling to the Bible for justification for discriminating against homosexuals. It’s what we have been taught. But how can we cling to a literal interpretation of a Bible that for years was used to justify slavery ( in the New Testament -"slaves, obey your earthly masters with deep respect and fear, serve them sincerely as you would serve Christ") discrimination against women and racism (the "curse of Ham" was used by some members of Abrahamic religions to justify racism and the enslavement of people of Black African ancestry, who were believed to be descendants of Ham). I must admit I am probably not fully comfortable with and do not want to know the fine details of how two men have sex but we do not accord rights to human beings based on our personal comfort levels.

I would like to think that when Martin Luther King fought and spoke about that important promissory note that "that all men, would be guaranteed the "unalienable Rights" of "Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.", he did not only speak in terms of white or black, American and Non American, gay or straight but he hoped that this could be truly extended to all. I am of the live and let live persuasion. As Bertrand Russell said “ The only part of the conduct of anyone for which he is amenable to society is that which concerns others. In the part which merely concerns himself, his independence is, of right, absolute. Over himself, over his own body and mind, the individual is sovereign”.

Prime Minister, Prime Minister... wherefore art thou Prime Minister?

The UK General Elections is in exactly 5 weeks, and to be perfectly honest the entire nation is probably more interested (judging from the Daily Mail) in whether Katie Price is going to fall pregnant to Alex Reid or whether Deity Beckham’s Achilles tendon will heal in time for the World Cup. This level of apathy is unparalleled. It is a sad state of affairs when the country that bequeathed its legacy of democracy to the United States and to the developing world seems to show less than zero interest in electing a leader. People just don’t give a damn.

I kind of get it. It’s like when the builders come to your house and ask “Do you want that shade of grey, or that shade of grey?” Part of you wants to scream “I don’t give a shit. It’s all grey. Just paint the f**ing walls!"”
In Grenada, for example, politics is deeply personal. “Haul yuh stink and corrupt NNP ass”, “Yuh deceitful NDCite- Coardite!” (Coardite being negative because it denotes the betrayal of the Grenadian Christ- Maurice Bishop).  Maybe it’s because we were liberated by the  1979 Grenada Revolution after our parents experienced the dictator years of Eric Matthew Gairy and  as a consequence we now hold democracy to our bosom. Again, when I visited Ghana, I found politics associative, tribal and instinctive- I witnessed an impromptu Fanti rally and it was so heartening to see young men and women with drums, up in arms, red t-shirts, stamping their pride and ownership on a political party.

Here, there is no excitement, no anticipation, precisely because there is nothing to get excited about. I personally am more excited about payday.The elections are like the English weather- drab, grey and boring. The English accept their lot in life stoically and I have learnt that you just accept that the choice is between Brown, Cameron and Clegg. No primaries and secondaries. No fuss. No rallies, defining speeches and mass television coverage. No speculation on what potential First Wives are wearing. We just get on with it. We do not challenge why there is no firebrand, no fresh and vibrant faces, no change. In fact, "Change is coming to the UK" just sounds wrong. Its a bad word. Change is the antithesis of good- English people don't even like switching their teabags (oh no you must get Twinings, not PG Tips!) and Sainsburys is still lagging behind Tesco with their tagline of "Try Something New Today".

To be honest there is probably nothing wrong with Gordon Brown. Except that he seems is really boring. Not the type of guy I would like to go for a beer with down the pub, were I the pub type ( I am a bar typa girl, no smelly pubs for me).  He seems like the kind who would split the bill based on what he drank ( I owe you exactly 3 pounds, 85 pence)- a mean grumpy tightwad. I don’t know why I think he is tight- I just do. He looks tight. In fact, Gordon and Sarah Brown are like those aunts that you don’t really like because they get you a really sensible jumper at M&S instead of cash. Too safe, too familiar, too ordinary. A Prime Minister needs to be just that. Prime. Like rare filet mignon, a touch of the extraordinary, a certain flair and charm and charisma and can't-put-your-finger-on-it zinginess! Electing a Prime Minister is a bit like electing Ms England, he needs to be able to own the World Stage. I can see Sarkozy owning it, I can see Obama owning it, I can even see Zuma owning it but to be honest I can’t see Brown owning anything except some mittens. He is meant to be the face of Britain and to be honest the face of Britain looks staid, dour, grey and dowdy. It needs a facelift and not one that Sarah Brown in her Erdem dresses can do on her own.

As for David Cameron, I don’t like him either. Too glib and easy to please. He seems too perfect- he says can cook proper food (pork belly and lamb), he uses Itunes, he watches romcoms with his wife and he likes Disney. It doesn't seem true- are there really men out there like that?  And besides, he’s a Tory. Out of the question. I just can't get past the Toryism. I must admit that his interviews are all very interesting but interesting interviews do not a Prime Minister make. I find him all style over substance, not liberal enough (married families tax credit just takes the biscuit!) and to be honest,  yes, too privileged. I like the idea of a Prime Minister coming from the working class just because we have enough privileged people at the helm of Britain. He also does not have that Obamesque fire in his belly. I must admit I am not keen on Samantha Cameron either. She is too skinny. I don’t trust skinny women. Everytime I see her I think of that quote in Julius Caesar "Yond Cassius has a lean and hungry look. He thinks too much.. such men are dangerous". Today I found out she's expecting, and while I am truly pleased for them (they lost a child recently) I can't help think "oh great" as I suppose now he gets the Malia-Sasha factor. (Edited to add: Okay I admit I warmed up to her a little bit more when I found out that she is the creative director of Smythson and they have the coolest handbags in pastel!)

Nick Clegg from the Lib Dems is okay. A hybrid mutant between those of us stuck between the boring dichotomy. But do we want our next leader to be just okay?The Lib Dems are probably the party with which I feel the most affinity (in terms of my views). This is supposed to be the party for those of us who are fed up with a stale way of doing things but nothing about Nick screams fresh and vibrant to me-another Englishman in a grey suit. Surprise surprise. And they want me to pay more taxes, which as a liberal socialist I should be happy about but sod it, I ain't pleased. That's my Primani budget right there.

Where is our Al Gore, our Hillary Clinton? I pass on Sarah Palin. I also pass on Mr O as he is one of a kind. Just something, somebody, fresh and non establishment. Someone cool. Someone with bright ideas, who is articulate and who has that certain je ne sais quoi,  maybe a Londoner with an Estuary accent who talks the talk and walks the walk. Or maybe a woman? What happened to Blair's Babes? Did they get into a handbag fight with Cherie? Goddamit, isn't this the country of the Iron Lady! There should be some Iron Ladettes in training by now, surely! Or maybe, to hell with all the ballots and registration, since Simon Cowell has conquered America (something the forefathers failed to do in the Boston Tea Party) he should be handed the reins of the country. At least it would make interesting viewing.

Mrs O: Not Clear Enough?

I love Michelle Obama. I loved her on the campaign trail, debunking the mystique of Knight Barack with her real wife tales of stinky socks and smelly cigarettes. I loved her when she equalised and patted the Queen’s back, deferent but not tied to centuries of outdated hierarchical protocol. I love the fact that she graced the covers of Vogue with a pull-power to rival Angelina Jolie, and yet still looked so relaxed and comfortable in her J Crew slacks, working in her kitchen garden. I love the fact that she looks mummy-easy as well as boardroom ready, all in one go. I love the bob. And the sleeveless dresses. I like the fact that she didn’t appear as a soft toy on the campaign trail- she was a strong, proud woman and if they wanted to cast her in the role of angry black woman, so be it. She remains an astereotypical first lady- one who lives outside of the box. And you how I feel about living in the box. To hell with the box!

However, as much as I like Mrs O, I like Michelle Lavaughn Robinson even more. See, Michelle Robinson grew up on the South Side of Chicago- not one of the best neighbourhoods in the United States. She attended Princeton, then Harvard Law School and then worked at a corporate law firm where she was one of only two black lawyers. I find her views in her undergraduate thesis particularly poignant and telling:

“Earlier in my college career, there was no doubt in my mind that as a member of the Black Community I was somehow obligated to this community and would utilise all my present and future resources to benefit this community first and foremost. My experiences at Princeton have made me far more aware of my “Blackness” more than ever before.”

She then states after discussing her experiences at Princeton:

“These experiences have made it apparent to me that the path I have chosen to follow by attending Princeton will likely lead to my further integration and/or assimilation into a White cultural and social structure that will only allow me to remain on the periphery of society...at the same time, however, it is possible that my four years of exposure to a predominantly White, Ivy-League university has instilled in me, certain conservative values. I find myself striving for the same goals as many of my White classmates- acceptance to a prestigious graduate or professional school or a high paying position in a successful corporation. My goals after Princeton are not as clear as before”

The Michelle who writes this is astute yet sensitive, and bold enough to engage in a cultural debate. She acknowledges that she is complicit in the uneasiness of assimilation. I find Michelle O lacking this particular quality. I do not wish to add to the ridiculous debate of whether the First Family are black enough. I am just intrigued as to whether she still feels that pull that she felt at Princeton to issues affecting the black community? Does Mrs O (and Mr O) feel that there are particular issues with which she feels a certain affinity? For instance, gun crime, violence in public schools, affordable housing –issues that affect black families more disproportionately?

I have a feeling that Michelle Robinson would have rocked up to the White House in an afro and that on inauguration day she would have worn Deola Sagoe or Patricia Mills and she would have insisted that Mr O wore some Ozwald Boateng. She would have been rocking some banging kente. Mrs O just seems much more conservative than I expected her to be and seems to be quite accepting in certain ways of her climate in her uber-sleek bob that blows Condi Rice's out of the stratosphere. Where is that fire? Where is that oomph? That muchiness that challenge the uncomfortable topics?

Or maybe I am just equating her to that little girl who grew up in a small town, who placed her international economic development dreams on hold after she went to a Russell Group University and ended up fulfilling the one of two prophecy in a corporate law firm. Don’t get me wrong, she just might end up mentoring an intern who would become the next UK Prime Minister.

Review: Rihanna's Rude Boy

“Little Ms Sunshine” burst on the scenes a few years ago and us Caribbean girls loved her! At last, a local girl, with a rags-to-riches story, a Bajan accent and the catchy “Pon de Replay” to boot. In Rude Boy, Ri-Ri returns bogling and pepper-seeding to the Caribbean with the raunchy, dancehall queen, beautifully overdone in the way only –Jamaicans-know- how-to quite do it “Rude Boy”.

With the saucy taunt “ Come on Rude Boy can you get it up... is you big enough”, she raises eyebrows from the get-go, fiercely asserting with every wink, gyration and dip, that she is no longer saccharine Sweet n Low sweet (if you didn’t quite get that from the whole Rated R rebrand). The video itself is retro inspired with just that touch of Caribbean overflow and ostentatiousness. The costuming is superb – my favourite is actually the gold jumpsuit and long weave (love that weave) although it does not feature very much in the video (Why? Did they see Marcia in Dancehall Queen?). The thigh high boots and tasselled ice green and yellow skirt is also very flattering and very on trend.

Rihanna takes charge of the song and the moment. And to make things even better, she does not do her trademark bleat on the track. Slam Dunk! The song itself is very well written. There are a few very cheeky lines “Tonight ama let you be a rider, giddyap giddyap” and my all time favourite “ If I ain’t feel it, I ain’t faking no no”. I am not usually a fan of ebonics feeding its way into the mainstream -what’s wrong with saying “are you big enough”? but it works here.

I must admit that I have a very soft spot for Rihanna (long before the Chris Brown debacle) as one of our home grown exports (Yup I claim ALL Caribbean people same how I claimed Bolt over the Olympics) who constantly “kilt it” but I am not sure whether this “sex sells” move was the right one to be making so soon after all the media attention and hype and speculation about her as aggressor. She comes off in the video as mega assertive, super confident, and sex on wheels and a part of me wonders whether it is too much too soon for Joe Public. Note that the Queen Bey has chosen to stick to “Ave Maria”, casting herself as the victim in “If I were a Boy” and even her little foray inviting a man to her place “Check up on it” was very bland and ambiguous. Even Britney rebutted her personal disaster moments with the baby-voiced “Everytime”. Peeking into a man’s trousers and saying “Give it to me baby like boom boom boom” is probably playing straight into the hands of the anti feminist brigade out there who took pleasure in painting her as a crazy, wild, over assertive aggressor. However, I hope that most people see it the way I do and realise that performances are just that- a poem, a video, a song is not necessarily a personification of the individual (something I realise even educated people just don’t get!!!) and even if they are... this chick should be applauded for taking a risk!

Destruction of a Vain Woman

Well wait nuh. Lah ka may tay pweh! Pressure in de back seat.

I have to revert to Grenadian instead ah de Queen’s English for this one. I sit down cool cool home drinking a cup ah ginger tea when news reach me that there is a new book published in Grenada. I start getting well excited because I start thinking Jacob Ross, Jean Buffong, Merle Collins. No sah. The protagonist is a girl called Kellyane from Laborie in St. Georges written by some German Grenadian man called Ethienne. Well me two ears perk up and I say in me mind, well that food he eat really sweet if a man could write ah WHOLE BOOK about a woman in Laborie and I wondering how come my food doh sweet so cause as far as I know a man never write a line about me! Whole day I well vex and I can’t wait to reach home from work to read extracts of this book and to see wha is de scene (as we say in Greenz). Well before I decide to make the trip to Laborie to find out from she granmudda what going on, I decide to do some further investigations, I google it (as we do!) and see the name of the book is “Destruction of a Vain Woman”. It’s only then the old brain start to get in gear and I realise poor Kelleyan was getting de shorter end of the wood!

The link to a few pages of this marvellous book is here.
http://books.google.co.uk/books?

To cut a long pants short, this Ethienne intended by writing the book believed he was destroying and embarrassing Kellyane to reveal a devil in disguise, a soucouyant in first communion clothes. Instead he ended up embarrassing and illustrating the old adage- there is no fool than ah excuse me language, damn old fool. He admits that he ran a huge string of supermarkets in Germany (read old and haggard but with money), and remembers Kellyane with a “voluptuous figure, perfect roman nose and a pair of round buttocks”. These moneyed men are suffering from the worst types of delusion. Tell me, what else would a young, attractive Grenadian girl be after? He then admits that they had “hot steamy sex” right away, that same night. Then she admitted that she had TWO MAN! And she then told him straight out that she used her body for vengeance on men. And that she was looking for someone to take care of her.

Padna, what you still doing there? You waiting for her to take the money outta yuh pocket? Damn lucky you didnt walk away with a few disease. He only took offence when she asked for champagne with her meal. He said that made her a professional. I just say the chile was thirsty. As me granma used to say- Chuts. So champagne ent good for Grenadian girls mout now? I would have had a bottle of Moet to celebrate my good luck!

I have three words for Ethienne- “It dam good!”. Kellyane as you choose to call her took advantage of you trying to take advantage of her. She played you before you could play her. She laid all her cards out on the table, and you, enamoured by the thought that this young child found you attractive (she was a year younger than your son) were willing to give her the world. Should she have been noble and refused? Why? You are certainly not being noble now by writing and selfpublishing this bullshit "book". You chose to lavish her with gifts and money, you bartered and you bought and she more than fulfilled her end of the bargain. You admitted that you enjoyed your “passionate lovemaking” and “sexual expulsions” (what de arse dey call so?), why shouldn’t you have paid in some way for it? When I come to your supermarket in Germany, I am sure I cannot pick up your best choice product for free? I have to pay. Why shouldn't you, in some way, shape or form? You boast that your neighbours were the number one haematologists in the Island. You tell of your purchases of Rolex and Cartier. You bore us with details of your apartment near Grande Anse (I assume its in Lance Aux Epines). Have you ever lived in a house with a pan roof that’s leaking?Have you ever had to use buckets to catch water? Have you ever gone to bed hungry? Have you ever looked into your cupboard and just seen rice and ketchup and made that your meal of the day? Well if you haven’t you would come up your high horse and see just what Kelleyane saw- an opportunity, an opening, one you were only too willing to provide. What you didn’t like was that she took the power in this pseudo relationship from you, took what she had to get and moved on. The “book” reads like an apology to your wife- trying to explain what you now consider self destructive when you were enjoying it and basking in it all while it lasted. I would love to write Part Two- Destruction of a Foolish Man.

*Edited to add: I have just finished reading the "book" and to be honest I would change the name to "Confessions of a Papyotte". Kelleyane's behaviour is not something for me to pass judgment on (judge not...) save for me to say it reflects a lot about the obsession with material things and I was particularly disappointed, if what he has to say is true- that her family and her mother supported her. Eth admitted that Keleyane allowed a 15 year old to be raped? And he said nothing? What a spineless dog! He talks of her lesbianism in a way that suggests he finds it shameful yet you get the feeling that he was in on the "secret" and it is entirely possible that this is what he fell in love with- the feeling of being deviant. He lavished over $75,000 on her, spent FREELY and took freely. He admits to hitting her and pissing on her- if he admits to those, I bet it is not the only time it happened. He had a showpony- taking her to lawyers events, to Trinidad on vacation, and to "the international city of Hamburg" (ah laugh at that!). He seemed to want to show off that he was brushing a young ting. I do not feel sorry for him one bit! Instead I feel sorry for Keleyane, treating your body as a tool does not leave you with a lot of self esteem, self respect and self love and hiding behind sex and promiscuity is not at all empowering. Maybe one day she would publish her own diaries and do an expose on all the men (and women) who hide behind this respectable facade. It would be worth reading.

Stating the Obvious: Blackspeak

Black people love talking about being black. Whenever a group of “us” congregate, it is almost inevitable that the topic would turn to that hefty communal personal thesis – The Black Condition or rather The Significance of Being Black. It would therefore be remiss of this not to introduce myself without stating the obvious. I do not say this to say that I feel burdened by this, it is almost as if talking to an old friend- like the English platitude of the weather, black people feel a certain comfort, a “plantainisation” so to speak- to talk about being black.

The trouble with this conversation however, for me, is that I find myself not speaking it in earnest. Precisely because it is a conversation I never really knew. I only really knew I was black on 3 October 2001 in a McDonalds restaurant in Cambridge. Sure, I had read about Marcus Garvey, the civil rights movement, Rosa Parks, the comeback of the Afro, black power and thought I truly knew it all, until that day. It was a simple and ordinary conciliatory gesture but to this day, I bet that sixteen year old who served me did not know the weight of his question? I asked for a Big Mac with no pickles. He asked me if he could bring it to me. I for the life of me could not understand how he would be able to pick me out among the sea of people who were in McDonald’s at the time (this was before the McFood scare). It was only after a moment’s reflection I had the epiphany- I was the only black chick in the village.

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t wear my blackness as an affliction. Not at all. I like being black. I like the fact that I can own and lay claim to Stevie Wonder, Bob Marley, Barack Obama, Nelson Mandela and Oprah (not necessarily in that order). Okay maybe I get a little bit annoyed when all the nude shades of the season are a corally pink (isn’t the point to make it look like your skin?) and when M&S and Boots only do one shade of black people tights (Cocoa and Vision respectively) but overall, I think I am really lucky.

I imagine myself in an interview. Ms P, how does it feel to be black? Me: I don’t really know. How do you feel to be a man? See, growing up in Grenada where almost everyone is black there isn’t the feeling of minority attached to this colour. We were brought up bold, confident and even arrogant (to some extent) because we were never taught that we had to tick a box that had some sort of meaning or “belying expectation” connotation. We existed in a state of blissful racial playground disharmony- teasing each other for any peculiarities- race was not cordoned off as a no go area. It was “coolie coolie ram goat” for one of my friends of Indian descent, “goat rolls” for me, because my afro hair was kinky and as hard as goat’s droppings and we traded these insults with affection. Because of this I never grew up thinking I was different or that my parameters were adjusted in any way. I was simply Akima, Bridget’s granddaughter, who lived with her mother in a small wooden house by the pasture.

The Black British experience is therefore very different to my own experience. I remember going to my first job interview with braids in my hair, finding it perfectably acceptable. My British friend thought it not conservative enough. I could not care less. Or maybe I just did not know enough of old English establishments to care, about prejudice, discrimination, expectations and conformity. However, now I know I still don’t care.

Which brings me to the inevitable question. What is being black about? Is it now just a word that unites all of us of the African diaspora? Or is it something deeper? A soul-religion, a community, a fellowship? What is certain is that we are not a homogenous group and we are perhaps more divided on more things than we realise. There are some black people I don’t like. Those who recoil for instance at any - the “how dare you suggest I am one of them?” folks who would never show up at Black Lawyers Network meetings. These are the people who like to pretend the world is colour blind and who repeat things like “I never see colour” until the shit literally hits the fan! They are usually known as coconuts although you did not hear that from me. They would most often be found exclusively at the opera or at national gallery (Wasnt Giselle wonderful dear?) trying to prove their westernisation. They do not attend soca fetes and do not cook traditional food (it takes too much time!). They take care to make sure their children are a warm latte or mocha instead of deep Jamaican black. I don't like them hos.

I am not a fan of Nation of Islam, preaching blacks either who try to convince me that my weave is self hate (Nope, I just feel like channelling Kima-Fierce today!)and that I need to support a black business that is robbing me blind (and offering poor customer service on top) at the expense of my Asian brethren round the corner.

Yet, we all seem to have a certain shared experience (no, that’s not based on uniting against The Man). I don’t know whether it is the commonality of a shared history. All I know is that it is present in that random nod that you get on the streets of Oxford when one black person passes another, present in that buzz you feel when you listen to Obama, present in that pride that bursts out of your chest when the West Indies beats England (still hoping!). Maybe it’s just the human condition- to seek refuge in a common denominator.

Ratio Decidendi

I thought first of all that the title of this post was very apt. It deals with the million dollar question- why? Why the website? Why the blog? Why calypso? Why the performance poetry? In fact, at one of my performances at the Tabernacle in Notting Hill, a friend of mine overheard a patron asking another patron "I thought you said she was a lawyer? So why is she singing calypso?" It is a question that has been asked on numerous occasions. Usually I trot out the expected answer: there is a certain synergy with calypso and the law, it is presenting one side of the argument and expecting the arbiter's position on your case, it is besting your opponent with your view point..yaddy yaddy yah. You get the picture.

My question is why not? I have always been a creative being and I have never placed limits on myself and what I could and could not do. Testament to my secondary school days being an athlete cum singer cum academic (I don't know how I wasn't exhausted). Polonius said it best in Hamlet "To thine own self be true and then thow can'st not be false to any man". Why should I self flagellate to fit into the mould of what others' perceptions should be? Its 2010 people. Why not a calypso-lawyer? Why not a soca-lawyer? Why not an poet- lawyer? So I guess the answer is, this is me and what I enjoy and if you do not like it tough. And besides, I never really enjoyed fitting in- I think I do standing out quite well! Plus I could never be a grey-suit lawyer, one of those who live and die at the office. I was so happy when one of the associates told me she started rnb dance classes. In my head I said "Good on you!". We have one life to live, and god forbid me if I live it as if it's a dress rehearsal.

So this is essentially my ratio decidendi. Any objections?





xkima

Welcome

Ay ay well all yuh reach!

Thank you for following me on kimaspeak. And if you haven't checked out the website (http://www.kimaspeak.com/) you should do so right now. Kimaspeak the website and the blog are meant to go hand in hand. I must admit that all the content in 2006 was written pre 2008 so if you want to see my new material you need to keep visiting the website, preferably on a daily basis :) The book hasn't been birthed yet but since my lovely friend and talented photographer Fiona C took those photos, I decided that 2010 would be the year when I stopped "stickin" as we say it in Caribbean parlance. Phew! What a round about way to say thanks? I sound like Sandra Bullock at the Oscars.

Ok, back to the blog. Most of you who know me would know I am not often described as reserved. :) I am not meh mudda chile! I like grandstand an back chat. (Sorry to my non Caribbean friends, google Caribbean/Grenadian dictionary). Where should I start? The Trini man who came all the way to London to stab his ex girlfriend who was dating a new guy (my mother tell me long time don't mess with Trinidad man!). The new OECS economic union after CSME was an epic fail? How many Unions could the Caribbean could have? I don't see an EU and then a EUU and then an SSEU!!! Or maybe I could "parler" about Bernard an them bright idea to issue diaspora bonds. Sounds good in theory but don't Bernard and them know damn well that those of us in the diaspora ketching we ass to send a barrel much less to buy bonds? I wil be covering lots of serious topics as well (hopefully in a not so serious way). If you know me you would know I am passionate about developing country development (what ah mouthful!) so you will probably be bored soon with my conspiracy theories of how the West are robbing the Third World blind!

Okay blog fully operational and website launching March 13. For the kids who don't know -it's a big date for us- the anniversary of the Grenada Revolution. Young lawyers came back from London to Grenada and took charge of an entire country. (scratching meh head?). Revo Tempo Free Grenada. Still very important lessons to be learnt. Those who live by the sword die by the sword and those who live by the pen.... (wait nuh, ah aint want to say that, next thing me ex fly from Grenada take a pen an jook me)