Special K: I ain't saying she a goldigger

Before I begin this post, I disclose my conflict of interest. I can draft a mean watertight agreement. As Kanye said: “If you ain’t no punk, holla we want prenup”!

If Jones v Jones were a match, I can imagine the commentators in my head:

“And as they approach the ring, Kelis Rogers Jones is the outsider. The crowds are rightfully not on her side, she is a fluke, and they are rooting for her opponent, the legend Nasir Jones. But she delivers a steady blow to his groin and the referee deems that it is allowed. She does it again, and he is taken out for six. She is hungry and greedy to win. He falls to the floor, wounded. Poor Nas. Defeated by a woman.”

Two weeks ago, in the latest round of the Kelis-Nasir epic divorce fight, Nas was facing contempt of court charges for refusing to pay Kelis the spousal sum she was awarded last year. Kelis summoned him to court because he was failing to make his child support and spousal support payments, payments that amounted to over $290,000. He pleaded guilty and the judge ordered that he make an immediate back payment of $56,911 and, as a penalty, increased his monthly payment by $10,000 until he paid the full sum.

It was bizarre to me, when reports of these proceedings first came to light last year, how much opposition there was, some from very intelligent women. Gold-digger. Kelis was getting paid. Greedy. She was letting the side down. Some women felt proud to say “I did it on my own, why couldn’t she?” “Prams and feed don’t cost that much.” “Why don’t she find her own job”. So what if you did it on your own? You are not supposed to. No, prams and feed doesn’t cost that much, but that’s not what it is about. Yes, she does have her own job.

Even Nas plays the poor me card, and he has communicated that he feels hard done by: his recent collaboration with Damian Marley moans “How in the hell am I supposed to stay comfy /When I pay child support, alimony monthly?”, this from a guy who admits that his monthly personal expenses total over $71,000, $10,000 of which goes to hair, clothing and personal effects. Is dude having a full head weave every Saturday? The press ran amok: “Kelis celebrating after milking Nas for more money”. The gong did not ring on the fact that he refused to pay for anything at all, while she was pregnant with his child.

A woman who is seven months pregnant does not walk out easily on the father of her child. What kind of man allows it to get to the stage where a woman has to take him to court to support his own seed? In a witness statement dated 14 July 2009 (sworn under penalty of perjury) Kelis stated that as at date, Nas had only given her a check for $350 and $2500 in gift cards. Nas allegedly earns up to $244,000 a month. After taking him to court, he allegedly proposed $5,000 a month, half of what he spends on clothes. This from a parent stating that he wanted to be “fully involved”. I would probably say that Kelis should have taken her cue from the way which Nas treated Carmen, but then again, us women always like to feel that we are special, that we have the magic goods that will make a man play dirty on anyone but us... I digress. I give her that, though, she came out gloves in hand, feet at the ready, fighting hard.

She had a lot to fight for. Because her battle was not the mere battle of the hip hop glitterati, it was the continuation of a long, hard battle that women had to fight for many years to recognise their contributions, tangible and intangible, within a marriage and to obtain a reasonable sum for their offspring born of it. The calculation of the amount a child of a high net worth marriage is entitled to, is not based on an arbitrary determination of what us, the average bystander who shops in Argos and Mothercare can afford. Sure, I can raise a child on $150 a week. Question is why should I have to? In most US states, child support calculations are made on the basis of a complex formula- the high net worth earner’s disposable income, the approximate amount of time the high earner will have custody of said child, and the amount of allocable earnings available from most parties. So if a judge, after reviewing the evidence says that a fair sum is $10,000 a month, rest assured that high earner can afford it. And if he can afford it, his offspring deserves it. Child care, educational costs, medical costs, and yes, a nurse and private school fees are expensive. A child does not need a Bugaboo or a MacClaren, but when you are talking hundreds of thousands, these fine distinctions are academic.

Men are more up in arms however, that Kelis managed to obtain a huge alimony payment. It is felt that she somehow does not deserve it. The detractors argue that the payment is a superfluous vestige of the English ecclesiastical courts, where alimony was awarded for divorce a mensa et thora, and where a husband’s duty to support his wife extended until after the marriage. A large alimony payment is not current, it is not necessary, it is unfair they cry. Why should a man pay to keep a woman in the lifestyle in which she is accustomed?

Because a real man would take pleasure in seeing the mother of his children comfortable before he is dropping dollars on ice, cars and bling. Because a real man would like his children to come home to a comfortable household.  Cue Russell Simmons who was delighted to give Kimora $40,000 a month for Ming Lee and Aoki. It is amazing to me how women who seek to enforce what is rightfully theirs (remembering that on marriage they are entitled to share equitably in marital property- ie anything earned during the marriage) become trifling gold diggers overnight. Never mind that the woman had her own career, a hot number one single and was the equivalent of a quirky alter ego to Sasha Fierce. Never mind she took a two year hiatus to train as a cordon bleu chef. She is an overreaching bitch.

It is worth reminding ourselves that although socio—economic situations have largely changed, on average, men still earn more than women and the pay gap between genders is still a cause for concern. In the early half of the twentieth century, women were often penalised for being stay at home mothers- upon dissolution of a marriage, they often found themselves in a precarious position, their homes being in the names of their husbands (him being the only signatory on the mortgage deed) and having sacrificed the opportunity to obtain skills and training and in some cases a career over the years, they found themselves unable to compete on the job market, with very little sums awarded to them. The mechanism of the constructive trust over family property was developed, to award women the rights to basic shelter to avoid situations like in the 1950’s where children of previously divorced parents lived with their mothers in state- provided low quality housing and visited their dads’ mansion on the weekends. In the absence of a prenuptial agreement, spousal support is assessed primarily on the income and earnings of the paying spouse (the spouse with the lower income). In places like New York, The most important factor to be considered is the parties’ standard of living. This is common knowledge, and for those who are rich enough and yet blasé enough not to have a prenuptial agreement, I have no sympathy.

It is worth noting that this furore could all have been avoided. Nas shot himself in the wallet by refusing to settle, and stupidly boasting that his ex would not get a “dollar outta him”. Special K has the last laugh- hell hath no fury than a Kelis scorned.

Photo from lolathiphop.com. All rights reserved.

Flatbush, New York

It's like a jungle, out here
So much struggle, out here

And my dream's still unphased....

Alicia Keys, Empire State of Mind Part II

Dedicated to Deslyn Franklyn

The mother of one of my closest friends died last week. In a Brooklyn brownstone, she drew her last breath, a heart weary from the pain of over-love of children so far away, feet tired of walking to the subway to between Lexington and 33rd street, blood congealed by a never ending winter, soul burdened by the harsh realities of New York life. She was not the first to die, and she will not be the only one. Many have died weeks, months, years, before and drift the streets of Flatbush like corpses, haunting barbershops, rotishops, hairshops- the meaning of their lives flat and empty, snuffed out prematurely.

The almond toned Guyanese girl, with legs to die for and a killer smile, had her dreams of being a model slaughtered almost instantaneously. She was informed by her boyfriend that she had to earn her keep; she now contents herself to practicing "fierce" ANTM shots with her Blackberry camera and posting them on Facebook, in purple, yellow, and orange technicolour clothing combinations, defying her aspiration's bereavement. Her red carpet is the small area of the weave shop where she works, advising customers on the right type of hair to channel Nicki Minaj.

A Grenadian ex army corporal is being all he can be in a shoestore south of Utica, his vision of serving in the UK marines lying as flat on the floor as the gangsters he once made lay prostrate. The Trinidadian teacher who migrated for a better life has not fully sacrificed her degree- she practises "early childcare training" in her job as a babysitter to New York's Jewish elite in Manhattan. O'Levels and A'Levels don't count. Its Hustle and Flow or Crash. Young Jamaican girls who came seeking college degrees have hearts that are now stone cold and eyes that are already deceased- they wrap immobile bodies and lives around poles that had seen better days in frosty Harlem to pay bills and to buy formula for kids they did not necessarily want, but who prove to be their salvation. The currency of these living dead is papers- a green card- to be traded and bargained and wheeled and dealed, the cost of the American dream.

West Indians have long migrated to New York for a better life. They think that they pack their struggle away by packing an empty suitcase and boarding a flight to JFK but they soon learn that a suitcase is not enough to hold a dream of a better tomorrow, enhanced education prospects, enough money for a house and a plot of land in the pregnant Caribbean plus Boysie’s school fees, plenty toys for the baby, and requests every month for money and school books and a barrel and some tablets for the rheumatism please. Some leave their children behind in the care of neighbours, family and friends, hoping to win in the lottery of the American dream, inspired by the macabre vestiges of gold-chain, gold-ring, costume jewellery, brightly coloured clothes and ten dollar shoes that those who manage to return flaunt as evidence of the largesse of the after-life. Their children grow not to know these absent parents, these cracking cackling voices at the other end of the telephone, who seem like Santa Clause except they do not even come once a year.

Their tiny apartments remain unkempt while they clean the houses of their employers to perfection, their own children roam the streets of the Caribbean while they tuck the children of their providers to sleep. The cockroaches that infiltrate the city sleep better than they do. They are far from home and hearth because they do not know that their very same employers have left Brooklyn to move to Jersey because of their influx. If they know, they do not care. They balance weekly cheques like they used to balance buckets on their heads from the standpipes- precariously. Rent, electric, gas, cable, credit card, store card, Western Union.

Some live in limbo- not knowing whether they are going or coming. They have no papers. They do not exist on Governor Paterson’s books. Like spirits in prison, they are in America but cannot enter it. Funerals, weddings, christenings, baptisms, births and deaths of sometimes their own children pass them by - afraid to venture outwards back home lest they are not allowed back in. Those who do not have medical aid pray not to be ill and when they are ill, they pray that their persistent, hacking coughs will go away. They remember the youthful days when armed with a ten dollar bill, you went to see Dr Varma for every ailment no matter how minor.

Parents and children back home wait on dreams that never come true. The pre-cut house is still not fixed, the side verandah and the second bedroom still has gaping holes that leak in the night and there is a new TV but the old sofa has no stuffing. They will send for you next year. There is yet no bathroom inside the house. Promises of a better tomorrow are broken but each time reinstated, parents and children back home know that you have not forgetten them- that you will send it next month please God, after the damn super get off your back about the increase in last month's rent, and after you collect the sou-sou hand from Leo.

Parents and children back home eagerly anticipate a barrel for Christmas filled with tins and packets and bottles of samples of your good American life. They pass pictures of you and your new baby to friends and family, a photo that hides that Errol beating you and this time go be the last time he put he fucking hand on you because he think you don't know he sleeping with that nasty red-skin Jamaican bitch, and oh gosh you can't afford for this curry mutton to stain the top because you have to bring it back to Macy's tomorrow because God knows you can't afford it but you have to buy things and bring it back because Grenadians mouth too bad and they will say you seeing trouble especially as you see Melo wife on the Q train almost every day, and that's why you don't want them in you place at all or even know where you staying because they will badtalk you and tell people you living in a basement. Them bitches.

Yes, Flatbush has many corpses. They congregate to create another Caribbean, this time one purified by snow. They celebrate last suppers over jerk chicken, pelau and rice and peas. They have processions for their Via Dolorosa at Secrets or The Island where they genuflect to the gods of bacchanalia, confessing to sadness beyond their years in weekly vestments purchased from Strawberrys. The crosses they bear are sometimes too much to carry, and they often falter.

Yes, my friend’s mother died last week and she left many corpses behind.

Image from forgotten ny.com- all rights reserved.

If you loved it wouldn't you put a ring on it?

“If you liked it then you shoulda put a ring on it”


I originally did not like this song. It seemed mighty smug of the Queen Bey, fresh from her holiday in St Tropez on a custom made schooner, to make such a boastful statement, after managing to get the Crown Prince of hip hop to march her down the aisle, in a wholesome white wedding staged in their luxury Manhattan penthouse (no tacky magazine deals please). Here was the girl who yes, worked hard, but had it all. A hair-raising voice, a “phat” athletic body, dance moves that would rival Glee, cookie cutter All American looks, a successful family business, hit records, a burgeoning film career, and as Kanye attested, the video of the century. Was there anything this chick did not do well? It is easy to not like Lady Beyonce- it seems like when Papa God was sharing gifts, she rushed to the front of the queue with six baskets. Who wouldn’t want to put a ring on it? Hell, I am a woman but if she asked, even I would.

It therefore seemed rich of Bey, to be telling us, stuck in our ordinary lives, where weddings require months and years of saving because of the expense, when there never is a right place and a right time because some of the family are stuck in Canada and the US and Europe and the Caribbean, where sometimes kids come and the money saved for the wedding goes towards little Junior’s nursery fees, where an engagement ring is the cost of two months’ rent on our Flatbush apartment, to hint that we should cast our long time lovers “to the left to the left’ if they weren’t putting a ring on it. “How dare she?” I thought. It’s okay for her to sing about it now she has millionaire Jay snuggled up all cosy in her million dollar bed, in her million dollar penthouse. I even noted, venomously, that even she had to wait 7 years for Hova to wife her up.

I now have second thoughts and now believe that this song is a powerful anthem, sung to address a serious socioeconomic issue that is responsible for the breakdown in family structures in the black community and especially those born of Caribbean heritage.

MSNBC ran a report "Marriage eludes high achieving black women" and from my experience, young Caribbean men do not like putting a ring on it. There is an almost sacred fear of marriage. For all intents and purposes, the outward sign of commitment (even if temporary) is to stamp one’s authority through the ritual, basic, uncluttered private ceremony of “breeding”. A Caribbean man, in the throes of passion, feeling those first few niggles of falling in love, will grunt “Girl ah want to breed yuh!” Rumple-headed young men on the block would call out to the golden apples of their eyes, declaring “If I only get this girl, ah breeding her quick quick”. Sure there are exceptions to the rule (the most noted exceptions being in the fundamentalist religious communities- Seventh Day Adventist and Pentecostal) but most Caribbean men brand their women by breeding them, not by providing a sentimental romantic ring as is done in the West, in the same way that they do not buy flowers or chocolates on Valentine’s Day but would cook their companions a traditional fish “broff” (broth) instead.

When I first moved to the UK, I found the speed with which weddings were arranged surprising. Engagements lasted a mere 6 months to 1 year as opposed to my Caribbean experience of not at all or six to eight years. I went to at least two weddings every year. In my church community in the town of Victoria, for example, we had only two weddings in ten years from regular church goers. Hundreds of children were christened. I often heard my neighbour enquire, when a wedding party floated on its way beeping in celebration, “Who is that man hanging himself?’. Unless it was a marriage to get one’s “papers” (economic citizenship marriages I call them) Caribbean men simply did not choose to get married. Getting married implied loss of liberty and therefore loss of life and symbolic death.

This is odd because the overwhelming majority of Caribbean women desire marriage (this from a study done by UNHCR) and this is also replicated in the Afro communities in the United States. The men seem to be the ones who have this latent fear of forming a permanent commitment. It may be that most of them were born into single parent homes and perhaps the single parent model is the one with which they are most familiar and may wish to subconsciously emulate. Some are perhaps scared of stepping into a role of which they have no knowledge. This does not however, explain why they cohabit very easily and sometimes cohabit over a very long period of time. I suspect that a large majority have what I call the greedy fear- the fear of giving up the millions of other beautiful women in the world, even though the woman at his side is educated, beautiful, sexy, a fantastic mother of his child or children (and his other children from other relationships), interesting, can cook and keeps a pole in the bedroom.

Some men posit that they are scared that they would be financially ruined. These are the same men who have children in four different postcodes. Fear of financial ruin has not stopped them from scattering seed. Some say they are not ready to get married but it is odd that they are ready to “breed”: breeding is an 18 year commitment. Most of them are just prevaricating, plodding along, wondering whether something better might come their way, feeling too young to give up the thrill of the chase, and as long as we let them, they are perfectly happy to graze in our fertile fields, comfortably. It’s easy to move on from one “chile muddah” to the other, not so easy to move on from a wife. In my hometown I have seen men and women living together for decades without that piece of paper. I have seen mean and women engaged in perpetuity. Very few deign to put a ring on it.

This is why I believe Single Ladies is the not the video, but the song of the decade, at least for young, upwardly mobile, single Caribbean and to a greater extent, black females. It has single handedly redefined the feminist movement- telling our men we are not waiting- catch up or else. I am not in any way saying that marriage is the ultimate destination for us all (Oprah is happily unmarried) and ten years ago I would have been one of the ones preaching how patriarchal and unnecessary it is. However, to those of us who want it and see it as a final destination, marriage shouldn’t be a prize handed out as a consolation trophy for our perseverance, for sticking around long enough. Sure, we don’t need a piece of paper to confirm giving, selfless, nurturing love. But a public and open declaration to the world, that it is no longer “me” but “us”, that you want to make me yours, and that I am now taking your name as a sign of our oneness, you promising to honour vows that you have made today unconditionally not knowing what tomorrow may bring is still the most manifest example of commitment.

Bat in Yuh Crease, Stay in yuh Boundary

(A Grenadian sifting for oil after the signing of the agreement)

There is a little piece of land on a small plot in Diamond Street in Victoria, the parish of St. Mark's in Grenada, which is my home. I was not born there, but my navel-string was buried under the mango Cadjona tree to the north, where speckled fowls perch at six and make such a racket, quarrelling like siblings, over which one is entitled to the better branch, the better view. The area around this house that my great grandfather built is small, almost claustrophobic, but it is large enough to host foliage that include tangy swivel-orange, pale yellow guavas that when parted reveal the pinkest sweetesr flesh, syrupy West Indian cherries, tart damsons and one force ripe French cashew. Our little oasis was bounded to the North by my "Papa" and "Uncle Auban" who having lost a leg, relished my cheeky visits asking him over and over how exactly did it happen. To the right was my "Nen Syb" who forbade us from picking her plumper and juicier cherries, to the left were the neighbours who to us were like family, legacy of the grandmother I never met but loved all the same: "Aunty B".

Maybe this is the reason I do not like boundary disputes. Like my mother, I could not care less about a stray brick 3 cm to our side of the boundary line. I love when the neighbour's bananas hang over our side of the fence: easy access. I am unperturbed when her children choose to play "moral" on our side of the platform, on our septic tank no less. I am ever conscious that all I am entitled to, in the end, are six feet of dirt- hopefully cosied within the warm environs of the Coast Guard cemetery. So I listen in wry amusement when people assault me with stories of land and boundaries and rights of way. I hate the idea of boundaries and I hate disputes even more. Odd for a disputes lawyer.

One boundary matter which has drawn me out of this self imposed exile of consideration of boundaries is the delimitation of the waters between Trinidad & Tobago and Grenada. If Trinidad is the butch, stronger, older brother with his own pocket money, Grenada is the pretty, fertile, younger sister trading on her good looks and fertility. This delimitation exercise became interesting to me over 4 years ago, when I read that Barbados, our wayward cousin, was involved in arbitration to delimit the Exclusive Economic Zone and Continental Shelf between them, brought on the basis of mutual fishing waters. I was particularly concerned because based on the relative positions of the splattering of the islands in the Caribbean sea, I knew that if Barbados, several miles further north, alleged a valid claim, Grenadians were even more entitled. In the end, Barbados did not succeed on most of its points but the decision spurred Grenada to act.

As Prime Minister Tillman Thomas set out in his address yesterday when the two islands signed the treaty that would mark out the borders, the settlement of a maritime boundary presents enormous possibilities for the socio economic development of Grenada not only in the area of oil and gas but also the development of other marine resources including fisheries and hydrocarbon. What was great was that this was accomplished using our country's own human resources: the effort was "total local"- our delegation included Dr. Carl Mitchell, the experienced and able petroleum economist, Reynold Benjamin, a person very knowledgeable on Grenada’s maritime oil and gas resources, and Anslem Clouden, maritime law specialist. The only person who was missing was Francis Alexis, who by his own folly, could have been a part of that government (or the one before) many moons ago.

I am especially interested in what happens to Block 21, a seabed depositary which is reputed to have millions of dollars in oil and gas deposits. This block has been identified to be located “more on the Grenada side of the boundary” (although this might be just "ole talk") and apparently, we have negotiated on the basis that TnT will be exploiting the resources on our behalf and paying us the necessary royalties. While the merits of this method is questionable in that it is imperative that we become more self-sufficient, we also need to balance this with Grenada's reputation as one of the most beautiful islands in the Caribbean. I hope that this treaty that was signed does not end up to be a cheat-y and hopefully we can proceed to also delimit our borders with Venezuela, to squeeze some savings on spending and to also generate some much needed foreign exchange.


I am interested to know how the actual area was delineated and under which theory. Equidistance? Along the median line? Economic resources? Using up to date satellite technology? Did we properly prepare our State for this agreement? Is our maritime legislation relevant and up to date? There is no point having rights which cannot be enforced. Was a hydrographical and technical report completed? I am sure that Trinidad, after years of exploiting the oil industry, was armed with its rifle of a report in its pocket. We went along with a land surveyor, when what we really required was a hydrographer. In short, did we do our homework? What was the negotiating brief? Did we set out what legal, technical and economic considerations that needed to be taken into account? What was the end result of what we would have liked to attain? Were there any compensatory trade-offs made?

It's important not to enter a big and momentous deal like this, "hot and sweaty" like my Nana would say "freshcold running down we nose". It would not be amusing to find, that years down the road, we inadvertently traded off an oilfield or a rich fishing bank.

It is also a shame that this "forward step" agreement comes now, at a time when our focus should be on renewable energy sources. Discovering an oilfield means we are less likely to take full advantage of our over abundance of wind and sunlight to harness sustainable energy.

Can you be black and Tory?

I opened my weekly copy of Grazia last week, which ran a brilliant piece on women in politics in Britain. In between the pages featuring the credit-card -attacking top ten luxury items of the week, the lust inspiring ads for close to crippling Gucci shoes and punky House of Holland T-shirts, were pages featuring a bevy of new beautiful, shiny, airbrushed women. Like the lavish, opulent products that lay before and after them, they were displayed, one next to the other, packaged in understated stylishness, teeths whitened and drawn into smiles, explaining their views, their motivations and their politics. It was a great piece, but black that I am, it was interesting to see, under the Conservative rubrique, a bit of espresso amid all the lattes.

It was Kemi Adegoke, Conservative candidate for Dulwich and West Norwood, reported as having fled Nigeria at 16, and who “cleaned toilets and flipped burgers before studying engineering at Sussex University” (taken verbatim from the Times). Kemi works as a system analyst in RBS and also studied law at Birkbeck. She is a member of the Globalisation and Poverty Policy Group. She is a keen chess player. I suspect she also enjoys polo.

I am afraid that my view of the Conservative party is keenly shaped by the views of my family and their friends who came to the UK in the 1950’s. They came to the UK in the 1960’s to “No Blacks, No Dogs, No Irish”. I have read then leader of the Tory party- Enoch Powell’s Rivers of Blood speech and my palms became cold and sweaty. He gives the example of what will occur to Britain after it has been” flooded” by immigrants, staunchly defending the rights of a UK person to refuse to take in Negro lodgers on the grounds of race. He says, of his case study widow-:

“She is becoming afraid to go out. Windows are broken. She finds excreta pushed through her letterbox. When she goes to the shops, she is followed by children, charming, wide-grinning piccaninnies. They cannot speak English, but one word they know. "Racialist", they chant. When the new Race Relations bill is passed, this woman is convinced she will go to prison. And is she so wrong? I begin to wonder”

This would not sound out of place in a BNP Manifesto. This, after West Indian and African soldiers fought alongside British soldiers in World War II, after we sacrificed healthcare and manpower in our own countries to send the best of our nurses and doctors and teachers to work in the hospitals and post offices and transport services because we wanted to help to build the Great Empire. This was a surprising and hurtful U-turn from the party that was noted for its slave abolitionist movement in the 18th century. Since then black people have traditionally spurned the Conservatives. Margaret Thatcher was actually responsible for creating a lost generation through the economic policies of the 1970s and 1980s which ignored black people living in the poorer parts of Britain. She introduced the Race Relations Bill but then betrayed us by introducing, a few years later, the Commonwealth Immigration Act.

David Cameron’s message is that his party has changed and that he is all-inclusive. However, even he has admitted that his efforts to introduce black and female candidates into the party has been met with solid resistance.

His article in the Guardian on 17 March (weeks before the election) pledges his commitment to Black Britain. He proposes to replace welfare with an ill-thought out black entrepreneurship scheme which will work via mentoring and access to finance- his targets are undoubtedly the mainstay of his party’s focus- upper and middle class black people, who have the wherewithal to start businesses in the first place. I am not opposed to his idea of a total revamp of the welfare and benefits system but as usual, his policy will not work in large inner city areas where there are serious problems of exclusion and ghettoisation. This is the party which stopped and searched two black lawyers who were attending a local Tory party AGM only two years ago, forcing them to empty their pockets and treating them like common criminals. This is the party whose officials started a huge smear campaign against Sam Gyimah, a black Conservative candidate which has ended in an admittedly racist bid to “ditch the Black candidate”(verbatim from the Daily Mail).

Sam, a past President of the Oxford Union and a former employee of Goldman Sachs was used as the poster boy for the Tories’ diversity campaign. However, more recently, over 100 MPs have claimed that Sam had “iffy’ business dealings because two of the companies he had some involvement in, failed. This from MPs who employed creative accounting to claim bogus, inflated expenses. On an internet blog, Conservative benchers complain that a few candidates do not have “English” sounding names. The Blue candidates have shown what they truly think of colour.

Last week, I doubted the veracity of David Cameron’s reference to a supposedly archetypal 40 year old black man who was concerned that immigration was out of control. Said man has now said that he is actually 51 and has never said such thing. This obvious “I have a black man on side” was so patronising that I found it disingenuous and misleading. This was similar to his 2008 “babyfather” comment where he urged absent black fathers not to neglect their responsibilities. Whilst I believe that this is probably one of the more serious issues to address in Caribbean communities, every race has parents who are not parents in the true sense of the word and sometimes it’s not about the message, it is about the tone. We know our own problems and we are painfully aware of what we need to do. What we do not need is a white man from Eton telling us what we already know, a man who I may add who does not bother to attend his local church or the opening of his local school, to lecture us on community. We need to know what support we can count on from the State. We have no word on what the State is doing to make TRIDENT more fair, police searches more targeted, and to reduce high unemployment figures for black British young men. The Tory party has taken no responsibility for tackling these issues.

Certain things just do not go. Like fluorescent tights and work (don’t ask). Like Posh Spice and flat shoes. And dare I say, Tories and black people. There are a few anomalies- like Loanna Morrison, a black Jamaican who says calls Britain "hideously diverse".  I would not go so far as to say that the organisation is institutionally racist. It isn’t. All I am saying that when a woman who sucked the breasts of the quintessential Tory leader, Margaret Thatcher, feels totally comfortable calling an international tennis player a golliwog, then maybe this isn’t a party where I can feel comfortable and that maybe in the words of the Kitchener “[Tory] is not the place for me”.

Vincy v MOD: Tilern DeBique and the Million Dollar Baby

Maybe it wasn’t the brightest idea for Lance Corporal Tilern DeBique to refuse a settlement offer of £100,000 from the Ministry of Defence and to issue a race and sex discrimination claim for £1 million shortly thereafter. Maybe it wasn’t such a bright idea for her to apply for a job in Afghanistan that would have required her to leave the UK for twelve weeks at a time while she complained that her job did not make allowances for her child care requirements. Maybe it wasn’t a bright idea for her to refuse a posting in Dorset. But then again, the MOD didn’t hire Ms DeBique to be bright. She was recruited a naive, what we would call “fass” young girl in the Caribbean, who saw a Commanding Officer and who inquisitively asked him whether he was taking persons to England and when he answered in the affirmative, went along for the adventure. She was recruited to fill the royal battalions with strong, assertive soldiers, to dismantle bombs in the mountain ranges of Belize, to stand up and be counted in Iraq, to serve God, Queen and Country in Afghanistan and did so, honourably, for over 10 years.

You would think the opposite from the newspaper headlines:” “What did single mother Tilern DeBique expect- a crèche in Afghanistan?” (this piece of vitriol from the Daily Mail which blames the single mothers for everything wrong with British society). She was pre judged on the thin evidence of her My Space pictures under the sobriquet “Sexy T” . A photo of her on her bed wearing a white mesh top and tight jeans (standard clubbing wear for most young Britons) was presented as her offering sexual favours (I kid you not). Other headlines included “Soldier Single Mum will cost Army 1 million”. This from the Daily Star. Ms Debique’s case was keenly followed by the daily weeklies – she was accused of setting a bad precedent for the Army and of fleecing hardworking taxpayers of their cash, ironically by the section of the populace claiming benefits because they alone have the time to comment so fully on the internet pages. Who was this non citizen daring to claim money from the Army? It was unsaid but the prevailing sentiment was bloody cheeky black girl.

What the papers do not say however, is that behind the headlines lies a story of pathos. Ms Debique fell pregnant at the age of 24. Her story is probably the story of any person in the UK battling with the prohibitive cost of childcare. She initially flew her sister to the UK for six months to care for her daughter. Presumably still finding it somewhat difficult, her sister took her daughter back to St Vincent for one year. Ms Debique then returned to St.Vincent on vacation and chose (understandably) to return with her daughter. She found it hard to cope and her brother then came to the UK for six months to assist her with her daughter's care. Her sister came to her aid again after her brother returned. It was when her sister was refused an extension to her visa that she missed her parades, citing childcare difficulties because her child was ill. She suffered some depression during this period. She was met with an unsympathetic employer- she did not apply to be a part time soldier she was told. The army wanted its soldiers 24-7. She was infoirmed that the Army was not a place for those without proper arrangements. Her commanding officer dictated that she had to be available for duty at all times, any time and that the Army was first of all, a “war-fighting” machine.

Ms Debique received 17,000 in compensation. Interestingly (and oddly) on the ground of racial discrimination, it held that it was discriminatory to refuse a visa to her sister because British soldiers could rely on relatives for childcare. The great British public have expressed their opinion on this award- she should take her “black arse” to St Vincent together with her sprog, “this is what happens when you use diversity targets to recruit “unsuitable persons”, “she has seen the UK as a golden cow and has decided to milk it”, she is a “parasite”. Whether or not Ms Debique who lives in a shared flat in Tooting and who is behind on her rent payments can be reasonably described in these terms is perhaps academic. I am more concerned that the great British public has adopted a “How Dare She” approach to the matter: how dare she sign up for work that is traditionally reserved for men, how dare she complain about having a job after she was delivered from the untold misery that is St. Vincent, how dare she have a child as a single mother, how dare she then expect her employer to make reasonable concessions and not to dismiss her demands outright when requested?

There for the grace of God go I. I would hope that if I am in the position of a single mother, that my employer would be fair and gracious enough to allow me the opportunity to work flexibly. The Army is not exempt from the ordinary obligations of an employer to treat its employees fairly. It is not for me to judge the desirability of an Army career (all I can say is that it is definitely not for me), but certainly our young women should have a chance to have a viable career in the armed forces, with or without children. It is simply not enough to claim the imperative of war as an exonerating excuse. The Army does not go soft because it makes allowances for working mothers. All workplaces have adapted and changed to respond to the needs of families and a serving officer should not feel compelled to take up an offer to relocate into the backwaters of England to slot herself into a suitable position. One shouldn’t have to give up frontline service and resign oneself to uninspiring roles to serve one's country. Isn’t it time that the Army redeemed itself of its macho persona and unfeeling reputation? And no, that does not mean telling the enemy to wait, you can’t launch a bomb because you need to send your daughter a text- it simply means ensuring that all employees are embraced and supported, irrespective of their personal choices.

And for the record, it is also very unreasonable to expect a Caribbean woman to live in Dorset.

Haul yuh Mudda C*nt!

"How yuh looking fat so, de horner man breed yuh?"
"Haul yuh blasted mudda c*nt eh!"

Haul yuh mudda c*nt. This South Eastern Caribbean expletive is resplendent in its juxtaposition of the sacred and the most crude. It is of no use explaining to the persons who utter it, that in general, genitalia cannot be hauled around like baggage and that it usually stays put on the individual to which it is attached. HYMC is the mother of all insults, not to be used for mere inconvenience- it is reserved for special occasions, the Sunday Best of the curse words. Literally, it is a curse on your mother’s most intimate parts, implying that she has wasted the effort of labour by committing the heinous crime of bringing such a horrible person (you) into the world. It is a rudimentary, tough and ready way of telling you it was a waste of time that you were born.

I have heard this particular phrase so many times in my life-not at home though-my mother is much too shy and retiring to use any words like that (at least not in my presence). I often heard it whilst I was plaiting my hair on the steps of my neighbour’s house, many times spewing from the mouth of our resident alcoholic monikered Bound-to-Drunk, often directed at his longsuffering wife who dared to draw him away from his mistress, the bottle. I heard it many times hurtled over fences by quarrelling neighbours. On other occasions, it was angrily shouted by perfectly sober men at the end of a lengthy tirade. HYMC was hurled, in perpendicular fashion, in the slanging matches of those who played the characters of the “jamettes” and “wajangs”- it was screamed in loud voices, the oversized rocks in the sticks and stones of abuse in disputes over boundary lines, over children, and most times over men. I have seen grown men fight and draw for cutlasses (machetes) over HYMC- the insult runs deep. Sometimes it didn’t take much. A man asked you to go home with him at the end of one dance. HYMC. A girl who you “sipped” in the street didn’t dare to answer back. HYMC. A bus didn’t stop when you were waiting at the stop for 30 minutes. HYMC.

Obscene language is colourful in the Caribbean, almost like different notes of a high pitched song. The British have a linear choice of “bloody hell” “shit” and when he is really pissed off: “fuck” or “fucking hell” (see Gordon Ramsay variants on the F Word). Sure, there are less salubrious words (twat, bugger, dickhead) and of course the C sharp is used in isolation but there is nothing that comes close to parallel in pure invective terms of HYMC. The British would probably find it impolite solely because of the reference to one’s parents, although ritual swearing is probably one of the most ordinary things in Britain.

The Caribbean, in contrast, has all of the above but also boasts a colourful sprinkling of curse words that show off the music and creativity of our dialect. HYMC can be tempered among friends in jest to haul yuh arse (HYA). HYA can be said calmly and incredulously as in “no way” but also has the ability to be catapulted into a higher range depending on context. HYA, with the right emphasis can be almost as insulting as HYMC and at times, there is also the emphatic variant of Haul yuh Mudda Arse (HYMA). Still spirited but less vicious. Barbadians (Bajans) bolster asshole with a guttural “rasshole”. Jamaicans tend to use “bombo claat`”, making it the only place in the world where a woman’s sanitary napkin is a swearword. This has spiralled into “rassclaat” and “pussyclaat”. “Get outta me rassclaat face” “Yuh too bomboclaat shit up” is often heard in my neck of the woods. The Guyanese use ‘skunt” abbreviated for stinking you know what.

Society often tells us that using what they term swear words are bad for us. I personally believe that cursing is good for the soul. It is cathartic. Profanity adds emphasis. A concert can be awesome. But when a concert was “fucking” awesome, you know that the concert was off the chain! As a prolific private swearer I can personally attest that it often relieves negative energy, decreases tension and is a marvellous outlet for pent up frustration. Just as flowery romantic language is necessary to convey sentimental attachment, curse words are needed to link emotion with speech, in a visceral, basic way. Shakespeare and the classical playwrights use this earthy language. Walcott, a Nobel Prize Winner, uses it. I have always been taught that language serves and is subservient to human purposes and at times only a choice curse word will do. What good is an intellectual discourse with the person who insults you at the traffic lights, the council tax worker who takes obscene pleasure in charging you 70 quid for a single late payment, the rude waiter or waitress, the annoying telemarketer at the other end of the line. Chances are you may be talking in a language they fail to understand. Sometimes only an expletive will do- it is short, sweet and to the point. The result is deeply satisfying-almost spiritual.

You would think that the Caribbean, home to leisure and a “no problem mon” attitude would be rather lax about swearing. Oh no. The puritanistical religious fanatics strike. Letters to the Editors warn of the breakdown in society associated with use of swear words. Citizens are accused of behaving in a vile manner when they use this “ inappropriate, decadent, manner of speech”. Persons are warned in public, at times charged and taken to court for obscenities. In my town, someone actually went to jail for singing a few too many F-sharps to a police officer. Disorderly conduct. Land of the lawless. Moral breakdown. Sodom and Gomorrah. To that, I say HYMC.

I have a running list of the activities that should targeted as inappropriate, decadent and disrespectful to citizens instead of a few  choice swear words artfully delivered at the right time: misappropriation of public funds, bribery for votes, arbitrary taxation, unemployment, nepotism in public jobs, puerile parliamentary debates, directionless policy... shall I continue? Raasclaat- that's a long list.

New York Times author and professor at Lancaster University, Tony McEnery, traces this apparent public disdain for obscenities to historical campaigns. Starting in the late 17th century a movement swept the English speaking world which firmly linked purity of speech with power. Groups like the Society for the Reformation of Manners in the British Isles and the Society for the Propagation of the Gospel in Foreign Parts in the colonies began to fight against sin in all of its forms by preaching and prosecution. It will probably take us a long time to adjust to the fact that apart from being deeply insulting, a swear word is only a modus operandi of communication, a tool- there are no bad words, only bad thoughts.

Yes, at times swearing becomes habitual and reflex and it is then routine and highly annoying because many times the speaker becomes less articulate and uses them as fillers,. Surely, in the public sphere where there are other issues at play such as decorum and societal expectations it might not be wise to be effing and blinding. To some extent, in the presence of children, it would be best to temper one’s language as they do not yet possess the faculties to judge its use in a reasoned manner. In a professional environment it might be inappropriate.

However, in the privacy of your own home, curl your tongue around the letters. Say them softly and gently. Then scream them out at the top of your lungs. Let’s unite against the propriety police. One a day will certainly keep them away. HTMC

Why Soca Has Not Gone International

Whenever I say I love soca, British people look at me as if I am a crazy psychopath with serious mental issues. This is because SOCA here means the Serious Organised Crime Agency, our equivalent of a governmental CSI. I usually then explain that I mean soca music. This then generally leads into a circular confusing conversation where I try to describe the origins of soca- the heady mix of soul and calypso (I inevitably have to lead into the side-alley of what is calypso). I explain how soca, and not dancehall, is really the heartbeat of the Caribbean. How if reggae is its soul, soca is its heart. How soca is the accompanying wine of the gourmet meal of island life. I explain that it is the over-excited music of our Caribbean islands, sometimes mellifluous, sometimes guttural and evoking sheer pandemonium. I usually give up after the person I had been speaking to says ‘Like the Banana Boat song?” No, more like : Feeling Hot, Hot, Hot, the only chart topper ever since the year I was born.

After we witnessed the crossover appeal of dancehall heralded by Shaggy and Sean Paul and even younger artistes like Sean Kingston, we were all on edge. Soca was going to be the Next Big Thing. We were all prepared for it. Soca was going to be on major record labels, our stars were going to be the world’s stars; (we didn’t mind sharing). Our music was going to be legitimised and respected at last as a credible genre and not lumped in the aisles of “World Music” or shoved under the category “Reggae” on Itunes. There would be a Soca Category at the Grammys, the Brits, and the MOBOS. Microsoft Word was going to recognise the word soca in the same way it recognised reggae in a document. All along, we could not understand how this music which was infectious to us, did not appeal to a mainstream audience- finally they were going to get it.

Except they didn’t. A few of our artists were signed by various record labels but soca failed to jump off. The Bahia Men covered Anselm Douglas’ hit “Who Let the Dogs Out” but this song was only soca- tinged. Indeed, the Trinis (proud that their country created and developed soca music) were rather annoyed that instead of Messiah Machel Montano propelling soca forward into the twenty-first century, only two songs, none of them Trinidadian, made it to the world stage in a big way. Being an honorary Trini and a die-hard Machel fan, I was disappointed too.

St. Vincent and the Grenadines, relatively unknown hitherto in the Caribbean for massive soca hits was the country to deliver. The first was Kevin Lyttle’s Turn Me On, a song that was played in every club worldwide on rotation for months. The song was copied, covered and resang on YouTube. It featured a not too strong baseline, a haunting melody and an easy to follow, relatable storyline- a man asking a woman in a club to keep turning him on. It was relevant, universal and exploded on the international charts. This was the first soca ballad to spend 7 weeks in the Top Ten Singles in the UK, and the first to go gold in the United States. The second song to do this, on a smaller scale, was Jamesy P’s Nookie. Nookie was a cheeky song, with an equally mischievous catchline ‘Ah looking some nookie tonight”. It reached No 14 on the UK singles chart and sold well in the United States.

I could not understand it. I was weaned on soca music. My Saturday mornings as a child were often spent “ramajaying” and “dinglolaying” to the music of Blue Boy’s “Bacchanal”. Although I was so young I could go nowhere other than my bed, I responded “No” to the chantuelle call of “Are You Ready to Go Home?” I loved “jamming in the band” in the Carib Road Show in Grenada, and even now, soca is the music of my choice, in its many reformations. Groovy soca is the background to my calm easy evenings with a glass of red wine. Power soca spurs me on at the gym. Chutney soca, ragga soca, I love it in all its incarnations. I could not understand how my contemporaries got house, indie, rock, funky house but could not seem to connect with soca. I decided to analyse the reason for this gap that we have failed to close in the market especially as my Malaysian born friend could not get enough of Kevin Lyttle. It proved to me that we were doing something right but we were probably doing more things wrong.

Based on my limited review of the market (I am no musicologist), soca has not crossed over because of three main reasons: Its language, its context and it’s hitherto emphasis on non musicality. There is also an element of luck.

First, language. Soca’s language is steeped in the language of whine. This is vocabulary that is alien to the average international listener. 98% of the songs that were popular this season in Trinidad had a tagline of “whine”: Buffy’s “Whining on Anything”, Machel’s “Push It Back and Start to Whine”, Faye Ann’s “Start Whining”, Umi Marcano’s “Whine in Front of Me”. Major hits in past years also focused on whinery: from Machel’s “One More Whine” to Zoelah’s “Whine up on me”. The two major hits that escaped the limits of the Caribbean are telling in that they did not focus on “whining”. The international audience has no idea what this is, and when it is explained- they are for the most part uncomfortable with the idea of holding on to a total stranger in a party and grinding, gyrating on his/her behind. When the language of “whine” is not employed, this is usually replaced by words or expressions that are for the most part, instructive in nature. This can be a good thing, but the language has now become so predictable “Jump Jump Jump Up” that all the songs sound monotonous and repetitive.

Secondly, Soca’s context is Carnival. Carnival is a seasonal affair. The emphasis is not on good music making but on churning out a hit that only needs to last for one month, a hit that is perfectlysuitable for semi naked bodies prancing on a crowded street for two days. It does not take a genius to observe that this short timeframe in which to conceptualise and record a song is flawed. Songs are often produced too quickly and the song that becomes the best for two days of revelry where chaos and bacchanalia takes over can sometimes be not so good for airplay on rotation. The context of Carnival makes the chart toppers for that season songs that instruct “Get a Rag and Wave”, “Left to Right” “1, 2,3” “Anybody from Trinidad?”, not the type of songs that most listeners would reach for when at home. I do not necessarily agree that the tempo of the songs need to be slowed down (house music is relatively fast paced) but it is true that some of the songs we have come to hear recently are athletic paced and driven by a loud and strong bassline, making them extremely difficult to market.

Soca also has a traditional emphasis on non musicality. Recent endeavours have broken down some of these barriers, and there is now a greater emphasis on groovy soca with clear melodic structures but in general, lots of soca (particularly power soca) is not very melodious and sound like a cacophony of pan, guitar and drums on a synthesiser that are all hollering at the top of their voices. I am not advocating a watering down of the music, just more careful attention to the blend and the overall effect.

Image also matters. American (and to a lesser extent British) audiences favour youth and a clean cut preppy image for its favourite artists. It is for this reason that I think Machel Montano is not The One (seems strange to say this but it is true). Neither is Bunji. It might be time for Rih-Rih to do a soca. Maybe that might help to increase the profile of the genre. What is clear, however is that if soca wants to break through, a strategic study and analysis of the target market needs to be the focus. Artists should then be schooled, curriculum style. MA in Soca Studies anyone?

The Face of the Immigrant is Mine

According to the quality journalistic broadsheet that is Daily Mail, the face of the immigrant is a fat, lazy, scrounging Somali woman who is awarded a six bedroom semi by the council in Chelsea, and who takes self righteous, almost religious reproductive pleasure in pushing out an Aisha every year for an additional £86 a month in benefits. The face of the immigrant is the builder Pole who works on weekends at a dirt-cheap rate and who has stolen the honest British man on the Clapham omnibus' living (irrespective of whether or not the man actually wants to make a living). The face of the immigrant is the man or woman on permanent job seeker's allowance who spends it buying trainers at JJB sports, teenage moms with gold teeth in Brixton who frequent Chicken Cottage, the Jamaican "bad-bwoy" youth in Walthamstow stabbing innocent locals, the Pakistani who refuses to speak English and whose only contribution is a good curry, the "hordes" of Bangladeshis who "swamp" the local area and reduce house prices. Well, surprise lads, the face of the immigrant is mine.

On my first impression of the UK, I did not want to live in it. Who would? It was permanently grey, sublimely murky, and unfashionably dull. I wished the Siberian winds in Cambridge could blow me back home. The weather was depressing and the stiff British upper lip contrasted starkly with the belly rolling laughter of island life. I could not get the fascination with tea- coffee was so much better. I couldn't understand why people walked so fast all the time even if they were not in a hurry. I didn't like Marmite. Or baked beans on toast. Or velour track suit bottoms. The taste, the smell, the colour and the vibrance of the Caribbean stayed with me like the memory of a good lover, they were gently pulling at my heartstrings and wooing me back. I certainly had no intention to stay. Grenada was and still is home. And certainly, New York or Miami seemed brighter, more cosmopolitan, more colourful, more fun. Europe was my adventure into culture much in the same way as backpacking around Thailand or Africa was the adventure for many British young people.
Almost ten years later, I am still here. Why? Because I was taught that success was not the birthright of any one, least of all, those who because of the lottery of birthplace feel so entitled. Britain is one of the places where I can obtain myriad opportunities and have the chance to be successful in my field and I deserve the right, as long as I am honest and hardworking citizen of the world, to prepare a better place for me and my family. British workers once flocked to the West Indies to capitalise on our sugar- they bled us dry, they congregated on the shores of India and the Far East seeking expensive spices and silks, 17% of the UK population swamped the United States for commercial opportunities in the nineteenth century. Every year, hundreds of thousands of Brits leave the UK to take up hallowed status in embassies, government, industry, around the world. They drive up house and land prices in Barbados and St. Lucia, they have changed the cultural fascia of the coastal towns of Portugal and Spain. It is for the same reason we come to Britain, with a steely glint in our eyes. Why should we let arbitrary factors like nationality and geography determine our fate and our place in the world? Just like you, we want to be where it's at. And quite frankly, I don't give a rat's arse if anyone has a problem with that.

I worked hard for my degrees and for my job and so did most of my fellow migrant workers. Whilst most students I knew got a loan to pay for the LPC, I had three part time jobs and juggled the role full time student. I spent days, if not weeks poring over job applications, proving and overproving my worth. I trained for a number of years. I poured tea and coffee for senior management. I spent hours lost in hundreds of thousands of documents. I did my time. For six years. Most immigrants I know are like me. Even those migrant workers I know who are what we would term unskilled workers and who arrived via the student or marriage route are not content to sit at home to wait on the government for a measly weekly cheque. We came here for a better life, not for an easy one. We often work jobs way below the skill and education level of that which we are qualified to do. The security guard at a law firm I know is an ACCA qualified accountant. My cousin, who has an MBA manages a shop. Sometimes, even when we succeed in finding a job, we are often paid less than British workers. Fact. We live in a country that is for the most part, not the most welcoming and discard ourselves from any hubris all because we are jealous and envious. Jealous and envious of opportunity. The money that we earn often does not belong to us, they belong to our families, our communities and we are therefore more watchful, more focused, more driven.

We are not entitled to claim benefits. We do not qualify for government assisted housing or special payment schemes to get on the housing ladder. We do not have access to student loans. We pay our fair share of taxes but have no safety net if the proverbial shit hits the fan. If we are made redundant we cannot use government funded agencies like JobCentre Plus. We are not eligible for most grants and tax allowances. In higher education we pay four times as much as home students. We pay our national insurance without complaint. We pay exorbitant "visa" fees. We work very hard and face the same challenges that you face, plus more. After saving up tooth and nail for a deposit, we are more likely to be refused credit for a home purchase. We are refused what most people take for granted- a telephone contract, a credit card, a store card, a free bank account. This seems to make no difference to the average Jack on the street. Immigration is the biggest single issue in British politics.

According to the Daily Mail, 98% of the new jobs created over the last few years were awarded, on a platter, to immigrants. The fact that this statistic is implausible and quite frankly, ridiculous did not matter to the 2,495 zealots who commented on the report and cried shame on the UK government. Equally, The British National Party, a party whose founder John Tyndall describes Mein Kampf as his Bible, foams at the teeth: non white people must absolutely not be allowed to stay, even if their parents were born on British soil, they should be regarded as "permanent guests". The BNP's immigration "policy" (if you can call it that) wishes to not only deport over 2 million illegal immigrants, but also to review all recent grants of residence and citizenship (a breach of the rule of law), to offer generous grants to persons of foreign descent who wish to leave the UK permanently, to stop all new immigration and to reject all asylum seekers who pass safe countries on their way to Britain. I knew Nick Griffin is off his rockers but if he thinks that genuine asylum seekers have a choice in where they choose to escape he is worse than I thought- a crazy idiot. What is scary is that the BNP appears to be appealing to lots of voters. How exactly do they intend to execute this neo-Nazi campaign to keep the bloodstock of Britain pure? Because for sure, this small group of Britons who think like this would not have a chance in hell of rounding up us black people on the streets of Peckham, Brixton, Lewisham and Catford. In no uncertain terms: we will get them before they get us.

Even the ones who were once regarded as moderate are up in arms. The Tories are vituperative and wish to entice potential BNP voters with their rhetoric. Immigration is out of control. Britain is being swamped. Uncontrolled immigration is leading to higher crime rates. It is a strain on the demand for more housing. The environment is suffering. Educational standards are being compromised. Immigrants drive down wages. Britain is suffering higher unemployment. There is a loss of British identity, a breakdown in community spirit. Immigration, it is alleged even causes higher council taxes, long hospital waiting lists, a shortage of council homes, and in general, wait for it, higher levels of stress and unhappiness. In the last election it was set out in no uncertain terms "Are you thinking what we're thinking?" In short, let's Blame The Immigrant for Everything. Jay Leno joked that the problem with immigration is not new and that the Indians in the United States had a short term name for it “white people” but on a more serious note, as Margaret Mead an American writer explained: “Society is very like a fish society. . . . Among certain species of fish, the only thing which determines order of dominance is length of time in the fishbowl. The oldest resident picks on the newest resident, and if the newest resident is removed to a new bowl, he, as oldest resident, will pick on the newcomers”. It was telling that the first question in the first Prime Ministerial debate was “What formula would you use to assure a clear working immigration policy?”

David Cameron promises to drive immigration down to tens of thousands and to place limits on the numbers of non EU migrants. That means I, and the other non EU graduates who are in law, investment banking, and medicine will have a tougher time of it, for no reason at all, even though our fields need the best individuals, irrespective of nationality. With respect, Tory Boy, we are not the ones that you need to target. Under European regulations, EU job seekers need to leave the UK if they do not find a job within three months. This is very scarcely utilised. Surely, it is a waste of resources to kick out functioning contributing members of the British economy? He then proposes tightening the belt around the already tight student visa system which will more than likely cause it to implode. Your universities already cannot function without our overinflated fees because the government refuses to award more funding to higher education. He then suggests English language tests for persons who marry British citizens. What is it with the Tory party and marriage? If I wish to marry a person who cannot speak English I think I have a constitutional right to do so. His backwards politics are certainly out of touch with the proletariat viewpoints (maybe in touch with his Eton alumni?) and probably only looks not out of place in his Royal Reader style manifesto. Him emphasising that he spoke to a 40 year old black man- he did not mention race in any of his other anecdotes- demonstrated the mindset of the Tories. We are always the “others”.

Nick Clegg, in the just concluded debate, appeared almost Obama inspired. Campaigning on fairness, and a change in the status quo, he was real and refreshing. The Lib Dem’s immigration policy appears fair and workable. They wish to reintroduce exit checks so that Britain can have a handle on who are leaving. Fair enough. They wish to accord citizenship to families residing in Britain and living in the paperless exploitative limboland for over 10 years. Fair enough. They also wish to improve the National Border Force. Fair enough. He then wishes to introduce a third element to the current points based system where migrant workers would only be allowed to enter in areas where there is a shortage. On first glance, this system appears fair but from a pure selfish point of view, it is here I depart with Nick- he seems to be penalising the City and workers like me.


Labour, because of their experience probably have the most detailed policy on the issue. My score is Must Improve. Their recent reform of the points system was decried as too harsh so the 1 April revision has succeeded in ensuring that Britain continues to retain the best and the brightest. Gordon closed the bogus colleges that gave student visa beneficiaries a bad name and he took action against rogue employers- the precise persons against which action should have been taken. I have concerns about the Migration Impacts Fund, which is no more than a tax by stealth. Labour’s reliance on ID cards to prove identity of foreigners also has an aura of the Deep South about it. Otherwise, electronic improvement of Border Controls seems fair.

It was heartening to see both Brown and Clegg dismiss Cameron's cap on immigration as unworkable. Talent would inevitably be stifled. Statistics issued by the BBC clearly show that Britain needs migrant workers. At the top end of international law and finance, people who can dialogue in different languages and across different cultures are the lifeblood of the industry. Migrants are needed to prop up the construction industry especially with the advent of large projects in London like Crossrail and the Olympics. The fruit picking industry would not survive without the Poles, who pick fruits in summer on British farms for low wages- jobs Britons feel entitled enough not to want to do. British people are not the ones doing catering, childcare and cleaning. The NHS stands on its legs thanks to foreign workers- Indian doctors, South African nurses and Caribbean administrators. Immigrants. Even private companies like Sainsbury’s are high in praise for foreign workers- they usually have a stronger work ethic. This is for the most part because we are more grateful. Vacancies in social work and counselling are also highly dependent on migrants- very few "indigenous" Brits wish to work in these highly valuable but poorly paid roles, or let’s be honest, have the inclination to pursue the qualifications necessary. For a lot of young British kids to whom I have explained my career path, the consensus is that university is "long" and a job requiring you to put in the hours is "nang". There are 7.7 million economically inactive Britain- persons who can work and who are not working, nor are they are not looking for work. This figure dwarfs the hundreds of thousands of migrants who come in every year.

Immigration is also the most sincere form of flattery. We want to stay in Britain because for the most part, this is a fair liberal-minded country. Britain is the hub of Europe; it thrives in culture and the arts. We stay because we build communities, families and friends. We stay because we grow to respect and love this way of life. How much greater would Great Britian be it would be if the British would overcome their fears. We are here to build not to destroy, to add not to subtract.

As Jean Jacques Rousseau said:

"The first man who, having enclosed a piece of ground, bethought himself of saying, This is mine, and found people simple enough to believe him, was the real founder of civil society. From how many crimes, wars, and murders, from how many horrors and misfortunes might not anyone have saved mankind, by pulling up the stakes, or filling up the ditch, and crying to his fellows, “Beware of listening to this impostor; you are undone if you once forget that the fruits of the earth belong to us all, and the earth itself to nobody.”

African Child: The New Tribal Chic

My trip to Ghana in 2008 left me with an indelible love for African prints. I felt that I had come home- my love of loud bright colours and matching hues that sometimes felt attention-seeking on the streets of London and Paris came to life. Like old indigenous spirits, these prints winked at me, they walked and talked to me on the streets of Accra. I have to admit that I spent most of my pocket money on fabric. And local art. (Although not as much as my friend Steph who shipped two heavy couches weighing sixty tons back to Canada!) Half a yard of the buzzing green and striking yellow here at Makola Market. Two yards of the chocolate brown with chain imprints at Kaneshie. A quarter of a yard for a gele. It was as if I had finally come home. Not for me Nigerian hollandaise lace. I loved the kente prints and haggled with the market traders for them. The girls who shared my house had a similar love and we gleefully compared fabrics, lovingly delivered them to seamstresses (little more than teenage girls with good hands and a keen eye), wanting more of this and more of that. These prints were individual and fun and laden with meaning. How often does one wear meaningful clothes that perform a literary function? The first bit of fabric I picked- white and black and generously speckled with silver was called "My Daughter is Abroad, She is Doing Well". I bought it immediately.

This was a country where there were colours and prints for mourning, colours and prints for marriage, colours and prints for joy and celebration, colours and prints for sorrow and distress, a veritable minefield for art historians, designers and yes, fashionistas.

I was therefore particularly thrilled when I saw African fashion being channelled into the mainstream by major brands like Vivienne Westwood, Balenciaga and D&G. When Chanel Iman walked the catwalk at African Fashion Week wearing these designs, it was as if she was doing what they she was born to do. I was not surprised that these designs have infiltrated into the mainstream as I have long suspected that tribal accents and ethnic fusion are natural extensions of nu-boho when gypsy-chic has been overdone. It also helps that the prints flatter round behinds, full breasts and wide hips.

I knew that the trend was smoking when I opened the Daily Mail (probably the most anti developing world tabloid in the UK) and saw an British ladette at Aintree, done up to the nines rocking a yellow and white ASOS Africa shift. Websites like africhic.com and ololade.com have made it more accessible to obtain motherland fashion that is different, yet still trendy, relevant, and sexy. Dorothy Perkins sent me an email today asking me to trial new “tribal” (I am still not sure how I feel about the word tribal to define the trend). Initiatives that combine social responsibility like ASOS Africa (all the clothes are made by a women's collective in Kenya) are laudable. It is my hope that our own UK designers such as my favourite designer Nkwo and Amechie Ihenacho will benefit. I am also hoping that this trend will not be a passing fad, and that it will reinvent itself each season because at the moment, it is fierce and fabulous and I love it!

These are my top 10 picks of the season. They are mostly dresses- nothing says lady like a stunning dress!

Olalade.com. Cream shrunk 50's dress 60 pounds.

I love the asymmetric bell sleeves, the length makes it contemporary and the print is divine!

Forever Unique at Asos.com

Forever Unique is one of my favourite brands. This simple white dress is a great colour for summer - the detailed appliqued collar is all it needs.  A banging partylicious winner!150 pounds.

The maxidress never goes out of fashion and Mango does this Caribbean tie-dye one in denim and powder blue. Very holiday friendly!

£60

Missibaba at africhic.com

Buttery leather and suede in a subdued but winning print!

£400.

The perfect sundress for that barbecue summer. Rich prints that would look great on any skin!

Asos.com £30

A chick has to have one lust item ok?

Christian Dior sandals. Price on request.

Printed Bolero by Amechi Ihenacho. Price on request.

This would look great to enliven my many black dresses!

Printed Playsuit by AsosAfrica. Proceeds to help empowering women in Kenya.This playsuit reminds me of childhood- it is fun and cute, will look great with some oversized shades and stonking heels!

£50

Who says ethical fashion needs to be expensive? This beaded necklace is an intricate stunner.

Tribalmango.com

£10 people! A steal. You have no excuse to buy the imitation piece at Primark!

Another Olalede creation. £79

I have a feeling you will be seeing someone wearing this very soon!

Aren't these all so strikingly pretty?

Daddy Don't Touch me There: Suffering Sex in the Caribbean

I thought I knew quite a lot about underage and premature sexual activity in the Caribbean. My town, Victoria, was christened Grand Pauvre in the early years by the French, a damning baptismal indictment that its residents struggle to escape and defy. I know first hand that there is power in a name. The village of Coast Guard, which perches over Grand Pauvre almost like a peeping Tom and whose residents had no view but our underprivilege and our underinvestment, was notorious in the 1990's for having the highest teenage birth rate in the Eastern Caribbean. Third world development pundits say it and I witnessed it: poor people have a lot of sex. However, they have a cockeyed view, they do not know all of it: poor people suffer a lot of sex.

Through conversations with parents, neighbours, friends, I knew the behind-the-blinds stories and histories of one of neighbours- an old snarled man with one irregular yellowing tooth who systematically abused three of his daughters and his son, forcing his son, now with learning difficulties, to have sex with his blood sister. I know that such abuse can be generational and its effects can spiral outwards and explode, dysfunctionally. The granddaughter of this man, at three years old, was asking little boys in her kindergarten class whether she could suck their balls. She was later abused by her uncle, who rightfully ended up in jail (with the intervention of a family member) but was only sentenced to three months (Did Lady Justice die?). Her then thirteen year old sister regularly engaged in transactional sex with a man thirty years her senior, who would buy her, as her younger sibling boldly related to me, hairclips, thongs and food.

I have spoken with young girls who do not leave their parents' home for school in the mornings but leave instead from the homes of their older enablers; young girls who had to become housewives and carers because an older, more financially secure man provided a bus fare, a house with better sanitation and living conditions, and paid for school books. I wonder how those men who are not worthy of the name feel to see these children they abuse ironing, washing, and wearing their school uniforms. I guess the irony is lost. The line is often blurred and crossed between parent and child, lover and guardian. Two men I knew who engaged in opportunistic sex took pleasure in boasting that they "minded" (ie financially supported) the victims, in one case said victim sitting in the same class with his daughter. Cases too numerous too mention have been settled out of court for indeterminate sums, demeaning prices branded and stuck on the heads and vaginas of our daughters. The men engaging in this conduct were almost never castigated. Their peers continued to play dominoes with them, they frequented local rumshops, some even came to church and took Communion. It was not expected but it was certainly tolerated; one of the men who indulged in open transactional sex with young girls in my community was a well revered educated man. It was almost as if mothers wished to gift their children in exchange for fragile promises.

Nothing prepared me, however, for the report on child sexual abuse in the Eastern Caribbean. Conducted by UNICEF/UNIFEM and funded by DfID, this report is sad, frightening and shocking all at the same time. Sad because of the depth of the problem, frightening because of its scale, and shocking because of the silence. The effects of untreated sexual abuse continue to spiral out of control.

I know that not only poor people suffer sexual abuse. One victim tells of how the commonly held view, that only persons of low educational background abuse children, was used in one instance to victimise an innocent man. The experience relayed was that the person had been raped at the age of nine by a man of considerable social standing within the local community, however the child was pressurised by the police to say that it had been another man, someone who had learning difficulties and was known as a local vagrant. What is significant, however, is that among poor people, its incidence is very open and often recurrent.

One victim tells of falling pregnant to her father at age 14 and that she did not know who the father of the foetus was because her school principal was also having sex with her. She was made to have an abortion and sent away to live with a grandfather in England to whom she often sent Christmas cakes - he thanked her and welcomed her into his home by fondling her breasts. Victims tell of "pre-sexing": untoward compliments and gifts, unwanted attention, indecent exposure and small sexual gestures directed towards them before the main advance. Victims also relate how sick they feel when they watch a younger sibling become the new focus of these gestures. Younger siblings, in turn, felt resentment at how older siblings, who themselves victims of abuse, began leaving home and staying out late, in an effort to protect themselves, but knowing that serial abuse, like worn out cast-offs , would inevitably be handed down.

I found it appalling that it was reported that in cases where victims told a parent, in no instance did that victim feel believed and supported:

"He used to live down the street, right? Right on our same street. He had a lot of children living with him already. He even had children for his children, all in the same house, and all of us knew that. When he was coming over by us, I told Mummy. I told her look, this man has children with his children and you’re letting him come in here with us? But she never took me on. She said she needs money to mind me, I better hush."

There are reports of mothers, confronted with the evidence, telling the reporting child to "have respect for her man". In many instances, mothers have put the child who complained out of the home and have chosen to keep the man in. A grandmother in Grenada was placed in a care home when she confronted her daughter's boyfriend, who was sexually abusing her grandchild. I read of a seven year old who was so badly raped she could not even walk. The report tells of two sisters who became pregnant by an abuser in what was regarded by many as a "normal" home when they were only 15 and 16, and where one sister tried to perform an abortion herself with a broken umbrella.

I read that transactional sex was rampant in Grenada-more so than in other islands. Girls are having sex for buckets of KFC, cell phone cards, Ipods, shoes and packets of weave. The tradition of the "boopsie" or sugar daddy is very much alive- there is a culture of teenagers having men purchasing them things in exchange for sexual favours. The role of the permitting parent was also explored. Several remarked that "These girls they want, they want, they want and the mothers are just like that too".


New evolving trends show that there is also real increase in cases where young men are having sexual relations with boys. This can involve buggery, indecent assault and other acts. In the Grenville Court in Grenada for example, there were five cases before the Magistrate (at the time of the report) involving what was reported as ‘unnatural connections’ between young men and boys. Case workers gave details of school girls who were leaving the island and going to other islands to be prostitutes. A policeman reported that "Business men are doing it with young boys for money. I know of a child in foster care who practiced bestiality with the foster parent’s dog after being abused". There are lots of cases of older men asking children as young as thirteen to "pose" for pornographic pictures, the last reported case being a well known foreign resident doctor.

Victims describe themselves as stuck in a crisis of self hate and self blame. One of them confessed to walking with knives everywhere. A few turned to alcohol and drug abuse, and most suffered from severe depression. Many could not have relationships based on trust. Some could not have a normal sex life with their husbands. A few are still angry with men, in some cases not trusting their husbands to care for, bathe and dress their own daughters. One interview stuck with me particularly, that of J- a thirty something year old professional. Her father, who had plainly abused her older sister (her older sister ran away and had never been found), started abusing her sexually at age 11 and this abnormal behaviour continued well into her thirties. A victim of classic Stockholm syndrome (where victims start having feelings for their abusers), she admitted only being able to orgasm with her boyfriend when she thought of her father having sex with her. She still lives with her parents, now sleeps in the same bedroom as her younger sister (to protect herself and her, she alleges) and had never previously told anyone her story.

P, a young 18 year old with learning difficulties tells of the severe physical abuse he suffered at the hands of his father, who confessed to hating "boy children". He tells of his father "feeding the girls" for "him to eat", explaining further "He sexing them. He fucking them up. And he used to take other boys too. They used to come over, those older boys, and play football and thing in we yard. He used to come out and play too. Then he used to send we in the shop and tell we don’t come back and he used to take them boys inside." As if this was not bad enough,  P then admits to the interviewer, that he too is an abuser, that he is like his father. The wheels of this repulsive cycle continue to turn.

Even more dumbfounding were some of the attitudes towards child sexual abuse. In Anguilla, for example, it was cited that "If you hit a cutlass in water it will not leave a mark", meaning that fondling and touching a child without penetrative sex is often not considered real abuse. Sex among bus drivers and school children is also commonplace and commented on but not considered deviant. Sex among teenagers and pre-pubescent children seems to be frowned upon but not "as bad" as adult-children sex. I found it astonishing that there were some stepfathers who had the belief that "they [stepdaughters] not eating my food for nothing" as if they had purchased the rights to the bodies of the children of their girlfriends as part of a buy one get one free deal. Young boys who performed "lineup" or "broffing" (sexual orgies, one at a time) on young girls are commended- this was looked upon as proving one's manhood. Equally so, are young boys who are preyed upon by older women. The remark was "Better for him" as opposed to a protective instinct. "He will be able to boast to his friends, I take a big woman today. Maybe it is abuse with no complaints".

The courts and the justice system seem to also show too high levels of tolerance, and because of this, are probably exacerbating tolerance of these practices in these close-knit communities. Fining is not uncommon for major sexual offences, and because of overcrowding in prisons, sexual abuse is regarded as a lesser crime. Laws are often old and archaic, relying too much on the testimonial evidence of the victims and their families (which is sometimes difficult to obtain because of the family dynamic) as opposed to forensic evidence to prosecute. The criminal justice system is failing: there is a substantial delay in prosecution, rampant bribery of individuals to discontinue court cases, and the UK inherited "honest belief in consent" defence, which perpetrators rely on. The law also does not require case workers to mandatorily report cases of child sexual abuse and there are often substantial repercussions for the victims in reporting the crime, in that the whole community inevitably found out about the abuse, leading to feelings of shame. Some victims felt compelled to migrate, to start over.

Dealing with cases of child sexual abuse in the Caribbean is harder than it seems as children who are victims often have no place to go. There is no welfare state offering a safe haven. There is no autonomous agency with the capability to handle the scale of the problem- Child Welfare Agencies are often understaffed and under resourced.

We need to start training out our teachers and community leaders to recognise and report suspected sexual abuse. We need to train young people so that they know that this is not acceptable and that they are not pawns that can be bought for specific bounties. We need to empower single female women who are heads of families economically, so that they do not feel trapped to sacrifice their offspring's childhoods so that they can eat. We need to be diligent with reporting.

Young men in Grenada had some words for the perpetrators: "flog them in the marketplace", "castrate them", "compensate the victims" "put them out in the sun with a cutlass to do hard labour". I accept and understand their sentiments but this too, separates the problem into them and us. We are all complicit. We should all be punished. I blame myself. I blame all of us who knew of and/or suspected this behaviour and allowed it to happen in silence, muttering about it behind closed doors, typical mute "mackos" without purpose. When a programme was broadcast over the internet revealing child abuse and incest in Grenada, many Grenadians were furious: "Its not here alone it does happen" was the prevailing sentiment. This is of no comfort to the victims, to the lives that are ruined by incest and child sexual abuse.

How many times have some of us known of instances of underage sex and said  "The girl was hot" or "she was looking for it", blaming the victim instead of the perpetrator? Teachers are in schools having impregnated teenagers and offering families money for abortions; the families of the teacher stay silent- family honour over child protection. Have we followed up the stories of "headaches and bellyaches" often used as a mask by victims of sexual abuse, with the children in our care? Have we taken steps to lobby for a Caribbean register of sexual offenders? Have we knowingly stepped out of the picture, because it is not our home, our family? Have we opened up our own homes to victims offering them some respite?

This report made me ashamed of myself. I am as bad as the perpetrators I every day protect. I fail victims who are lost in this vicious cycle each day I fail to act.