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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Caribbean's Cocaine Aristocrats

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Photo copyrighted and used from caribbeandreamstv.com)

Will you be rolling up the tassa, Bissessar?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe, just maybe, Kamla will be different.

(Pic compliments guardian.co.tt)

Why I Don't Get Nude

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sex on the Beach

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

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

What the white manager mean

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

from white people and some of them tourist- the men

only out to touch local girls; every minute-

was brushing their hand from her backside so one day

she get fed up with all their nastiness so she tell

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

Derek Walcott, Omeros.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

Something to Talk About

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Image: Digicel Barbados, all rights reserved).

Does Kinky Hair Bring the Boys to the Yard?

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ConDem Nation

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Conception Island

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He does send something now and then”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

If Barack did it..

There is a story rumbling in the underground of the media, in the backstreet alleys of blogs and the underbelly of the National Enquirer, but not daring to be picked up in the straight and narrow information superhighway of the legitimate press- that Barack Obama had a mistress, sometime in the year 1994, that this mistress was a woman called Vera Baker, and that they had a mysterious liaison in a D.C. hotel.


We, the Obamavenglists are reeling at this blasphemy. We are up in arms, ready to stone the rabble rowsing crowds. Our black messiah, who fulfilled prophecy, brought medical care to the sick, hope to the marginalised poor, overturned the tables of the lobbyists in Washington's temples, who performed the greatest miracle of the twenty first century - getting America to vote for a black man with a Muslim name, is accused of having committed the heinous act of betraying First Lady, Michelle, Full of Grace.

At first, I would have dismissed it just because it was the National Enquirer, but after that tabloid successfully busted John Edwards and Tiger Woods, I had to stand up and pay attention. I have investigated this story and I have dismissed it, first for the simple reason that a man who cheats never hits it just once. Illicit sex is addictive. I also dismissed it on a logical basis: the Enquirer has no evidence beyond a limo driver allegedly driving Ms Baker to his hotel, which could be explained for any one of a number of reasons. They also claim their source as one of their sister online publications and then removed a statement on their website alluding to video evidence. The conspiracy theorists think that this was due to pressure by the Obama Media Mafia but I think it is as simple as the threat of libel. The Republicans are rubbing their hands together with glee, allegedly offering a million dollar payout to anyone who would provide evidence. Suckers.

When I first caught wind of this story, I must admit that I felt sorely disappointed and personally let down. Then I caught hold of myself. Why I should feel this way was beyond me. It was a difficult affliction to diagnose. Did I place this man on too high a pedestal? After all, behind all the hoopla, President Barack Obama is a man. And my opinion of men when it comes to ass and tail is not very high. Is it because I feel that an affront to Ms Obama is an affront to the sisterhood? Is it the extension of the Lone Black Man syndrome- where no wrong can be done and no mistakes can be made because one is not there for one's self, one is representing an entire race? Is it because I felt that he had witnessed and should have learnt from the foibles of the ones who went before? And no, I do not feel comforted that "at least" he allegedly cheated with a black, Afro-wearing woman called Vera. In my Caribbean context, any woman called Vera is usually trouble.

The conspiracy theorists suggest that this is why Vera is working in Martinique; they posit that she is there at the bequest of the Chicago political machine or under commands by an angry Michelle. It certainly seems odd that a woman who made her career in Washington by raising millions for Barack is not there to share in the spoils and now chooses to be away from her  most valuable contact and protege at this most opportune time. This led me ask myself, what would change, in my opinion, if Barack did go there. If Barack did it, does that make him any less compassionate about healthcare for the general populace? If he did it, does that make him any less of a statesman? Does it make him any less genuine in his aspirations for a more egalitarian America and for a fairer world? Does that impact on his ability to broker deals between Israel and Palestine? Does it affect the way America goes to war? No, No, No, No and No.

Does it make him any less of a father? I am not sure, cheating on your wife and your children's mother is not a very good example for your girls. Does that make him less of a husband? Yes, in my opinion, but he is not my husband. In my books, if a man can lie to someone he made a promise to in a church, he probably could lie about a lot of things. But there is always clemency and absolution. Does that make him less of a role model? Yes and No. It depends on how he deals with it, if proven true. Does he own up to a mistake just as he owned up honestly and squarely to smoking weed and dabbling in cocaine in his book? Or does he do a Bill Clinton and claim that getting head is not sex and that you can try weed without inhaling it? Role models are often imperfect and even though he is Obama, I think we all know, deep down, that he is not Jesus Christ. If this affair is true, did he confront his feelings with his wife, and choose to move on, knowing that marriages only survive in this barren faithless climate with forgiveness and hard work? Or did he continue to indulge in the affair, believing (like Alicia and Swiss) that attraction can conquer marital vows?

The American press is notorious in using private acts to judge persons in the public domain. I cringed when Tiger Woods had to apologise to the nation, and when Nike used the voice of his father to publicly chastise him. I thought that it was unfair, but I did not feel sorry for him. These celebrities and politicians have sold their stories and their lives for us to hunker over and aspire to on the covers of Vogue and People and in adverts that feature trinkets that we could never afford, so this is the price that they pay. Even King Barack.

On a purely physical selfish level, if Obama went there, it gives me licence to go there too. He started it. When? How? How often? Did he like cuddles after? And before? Was he smooth in his seduction or a modern day lothario? Did he preface his lovemaking with a grand old speech and the glint we saw in his eyes? Was he strong and passionate and resilient? Or was he soft and sensitive? I could imagine him saying "Change has come to your life girl" in the same way he proclaimed "Change has come to America". I would dance with his goofy ass just as he danced on Ellen and we would listen to some Jill Scott and Jay Z. Me and Barack breakfasting on the lawns of the Elysees Palace after an overnight stay in the Burj Khalifa in Dubai, then whisked away on Air Force One. I would make John Legend tea. I would coo appropriately over pictures of Sasha and Malia and maintain a cordial relationship with ex-wife Michelle, because girlfriend, this is a man worth catering to.

What was this piece about again?

A Man, Two Heads and a Bucket

I could imagine the consternation of the female police officer on duty in Grenada, confronted with a seemingly ordinary man, who proceeded to pour out two decapitated bleeding heads from a bucket onto her desk.


It was probably a hot day, as it often is in Grenada, the sun perhaps broiling concrete buildings with impatient heat. She was probably used to domestic altercations, the odd praedial larceny complaint (“dey tief me damn callalloo!”), occasional rumblings and breaches of the peace after a few overloaded glasses of overproof rum at the local rumshop, and slices of juicy gossip in between. She probably thought nothing of the man heading towards her with a bucket. It could have been ripe purple melongenes, ready for the selling, bunches of home grown carrots, fresh from the earth, pleading to be bought and consumed, or sea scented slippery fish, recently skinned and gutted.

She certainly did not expect to see the freshly dead faces of two men, one with eyes bulging, caught by surprise at an act of sheer lunacy. She was probably right to faint, as I can imagine no rational, sane reaction to this wanton depravity. For, in the unruffled verdant green forest environs of the Balthazar area, Steve Gorrie, a handsome, seemingly normal, 32 year old machine operator, fond of landscaping and farming, allegedly hacked or sawed off the heads of two men with whom he shared a meal only moments before, with no evidence of an altercation or a dispute. My grandmother would say "Am ouais!"

According to unconfirmed reports, the proprietor of the farm, an ex police officer, a respected and intelligent business man with an interest in resuscitating the farming industry in Grenada, invited Gorrie and a friend to assist him with some task in his nearby property. My cousin Yvonne says the word "if" is weary and weighted and on this occasion it certainly was. Stories of cheating and tabanca and grudges were conceptualised and dissected, then hastily dismissed. No one could understand what motive would have persuaded a man to eat and drink with his compatriots and then to chop not one, but two heads off ten minutes thereafter, as easy as Sunday morning. Gorrie allegedly said that he “felt” like killing the victims. I have heard reports of him requesting a bucket of KFC as a meal on the night of the killings. The fact that he had no reason actually does not surprise me, the evidence points to a suspicion on my part that he is deeply and clinically psychotic.

What puzzles me, however, is that there are a number of very salient questions to be asked and holes in the account that has been related. It is not easy to kill a man by hacking off his head. A particularly sharp instrument is needed; something along the lines of a Samurai sword. Secondly, the person swinging the instrument must be very strong. And thirdly, an incredible motion or swing would need to be levelled to ensure that the vertebra is cut straight through. Gorrie may have had Olympian swing, but a machete that is used to cut coconuts or grass is hardly sharp enough to execute such a lethal blow, not when combined with the seemingly underpowering strength of his lithe, small frame. Then, having established that it is not easy to cut a person’s head off with a swing of a machete, I find it difficult to conceptualise how a man could be able to do such a thing twice, without the aid of suppressive measures. This leads me to believe that the heads were decapitated when the victims were already dead.

Why then? And how would Steve Gorrie, mechanic operator, be able to kill two men, the first a bright proprietor and former police officer, the second, a ruddy labourer? And all within the short space of time between the Last Supper at the rumshop and the Heading to the Hills? There was, apparently, no dispute. Gorrie was apparently fed and watered at the home of one of the victims. Who knows, however, what discussion ensued such that Gorrie decided that he would act on this overwhelming feeling to kill his companions? The property was reported as less than 100 metres away from the home of one of the victims- it was odd that no witnesses have reported hearing or suspecting anything.

Did Gorrie then plan the attack and administer a lethal substance? Did he deliver a lethal blow that rendered them both unconscious? Surely someone must have heard a cry, a bawl, a chainsaw (if latest accounts are to be believed). A murder in open air without witnesses, without a sound, is highly suspect. It either suggests that he did not act alone or he acted with calm, calculated premeditation that ensured that he was fully out of sight and that there was no soundtrack to his violent feature. Premeditation is not usually a mark of the clinically insane. Or was the decapitation the first step towards removing all members of the body, to suppress the evidence? Did he get cold feet and decided that since he was last seen with the suspects, it was likely that he would be suspected and that the court of public opinion would convict him in any event? Or is this overanalysis and was he just a madman with good planning skills, a build like Rambo and almost obsence bravery?

(Onlookers at the courthouse where he was charged)

I doubt that I will have answers. In any event, we may not have coherent ones. Gorrie has been meted out the injustice of not even been granted a lawyer (and yes, even a cold blooded killer deserves the right to be represented so that when justice is served, it is seen to be served and will not be under attack). Regardless of whether or not these questions are answered, it underscores our need to understand the causes of psychoses and mental illness in the Caribbean. To my knowledge, the scenario of a person cutting of another's head has happened twice before in Grenada relatively recently. The latest incident I recall was of a young, mentally ill man who last year who cut off his grandmother's head and was seen eating from it. The New Today also reports a killing ten years ago in the St David's area where a man killed his ex girlfriend and her new lover by cutting off their heads and parading them in the streets.

Gory stories like these happen all over the world (although undue attention is given to this by the media) but what is clear is that on many occasions in the Caribbean, mental illness remains largely undiagnosed and untreated. No one would have thought that a man who had the presence of mind to jump on a plane to visit his father in Brooklyn last year, who had a good job and a home life that did not appear disturbed, could have the capacity to commit such a heinous crime.

In the USA, it was reported that Black Caribbean males have an elevated risk of developing schizophrenia (National Study of American Life) but in more recent studies, it was found that Caribbean males had no greater risk of developing this condition but were more than five times likely to be hospitalised because of a lack of early treatment (Policy Studies Institute, University of Westminster). PAHO identified mental health as one of the main target areas for Caribbean cooperation. In the Grenada National Strategy Health Plan, it was reported that mental health services were provided in two locations- Mt Gay Hospital or Richmond Home but anyone who visits these institutions would know how basic the treatment facilities are. There is an obvious lack of a quality, structured approach to mental illness training. Dalhousie University in Canada has offered some support and has produced a document which focuses on mental health training for professionals in low income countries focusing on diagnosing and treating psychotic disorders, mood disorders, anxiety disorders and substance abuse disorders as well as cognitive behaviour counselling and psychopharmacology. The aim is that community health workers and nurses would be trained to spot and treat those who are in need of help, to prevent stories like these making the front page of the BBC, Yahoo News, the Huffington Post and parading all over Twitter, making out our small island paradise to be some haven for the depraved.

In the meantime, I am now suspicious of any unstable man with a bucket. I-bear, the man I buy my beloved Copee mangoes from in Grenada, is a tad unbalanced, gets naked on occasion for no reason, and is prone to random fits of cursing and swearing over nothing at all. He often walks with a machete stuffed into a dirty "fine-bag" and I engage in general banter with him on my verandah. I usually refuse to capitulate to his "expat tax" demands of an extra twenty dollars for five mangoes. After this incident, I am on my guard. I think I will take my chances and brave the stifling heat and gossipy mosquitoes and head to La Source Hill to source my own Copees.

All photos by my brother Mikey Hutchinson. All rights reserved. Thanks Mikey!

Britain is Blue

Blue is a colour, the perception of which is evoked by light having a spectrum dominated by energy with a wavelength of roughly 440–490 nm. It is considered one of the additive primary colours. There are 54 recognised shades of blue but it is uncanny that in the English language, blue often represents the human emotion of sadness. Today, the morning after the one night stand off that were the General Elections, Britain appears to be heading towards a blue state.

Will it be Eton blue, an odd mix between Oxford blue and Cambridge blue? A society that tacitly valorises class, privilege and elite education for a select few? A Big Society that is hemmed in between the boundaries of West Hampstead and Chelsea? Where parents and civil society will build and own their own academies and where teaching will become a profession reserved to only the elite? I wonder who will build the academies and schools for the families in Peckham and Camberwell where parents are disenfranchised and unable to provide the first building blocks for themselves or for their families. Very often, there are no parents at all, but this is unfathomable to the azure thought process of David Cameron.

It might be the cornflower blue of the blue-blooded privileged. An annual cap on non EU migrants every year will ensure that Britain does not turn black or Asian and that it is not flocked by immigrants from Africa, India and the Caribbean. Likewise, the English language test to be taken by anyone who wishes to marry a British citizen will ensure the survival of pure English stock and to assure, as my neighbour put it to me this morning, that there won’t be the case of “no English people in Britain any more”. It could also be the cooing baby blue of the married baby boomers, who would be spending their 150 quid extra on decaf double caramel extra hot skinny lattes as they herd Maclarens across parks and into Starbies. Or it might even be the harsh steel blue of cuts in public spending and more job losses.

It will certainly be a blue period for the most vulnerable in our society because Cameron’s Big Society is small enough to leave them outside it. The homeless, the disabled, single parent families, the unemployed, pensioners and children whose parents cannot afford good schools do not have a certain, steady place within it. If we believe David, schools will be open to private initiatives and prisons would be privatised. The media will be totally deregulated. Solid British institutions like the BBC will be under threat as commercial channels will also be subsidised. We will see the advent of a British Fox news. We will enter a new period of private sector contracting for essential services and significant welfare cuts will be made under the guise of protecting Britain against incapacity cheats and benefit scroungers. Due to pressure from the Conservative bourgeoisie, social housing in affluent areas will disappear(a la Boris Johnson style) leading to mass ghettoisation. Inner city estates will see unparalleled neglect. Hospitals will be run as foundation trusts with budgets allocated by results- riskier, potentially unprofitable procedures will be abandoned.

The last time the Conservatives were in power, there were over four million unemployed and the NHS was on its knees. The rail infrastructure was in shambles. The Conservatives record on how they vote in Parliament also reveals a lot about its current priorities. Despite their alleged commitment to building a stronger economy, they voted against the Business Payment Support Service for small businesses and against the Strategic Investment Fund to protect Britain’s strength in industry. Despite their lip allegiance to families, they voted against increased paternity leave and more flexible maternity leave. They also voted against a House of Lords Bill that removed the right for hereditary peers to sit in the House of Lords. Newspaper articles from late 1995 show that the Conservatives removed government grants for at risk schools, that the NHS faced a funding crisis and that the police were facing massive cuts. Spending on education was cut. Teenagers were opting out of Further Education. The wages council which set minimum wages was scrapped. People in Yorkshire were being paid poverty wages. Government housing spending was slashed. Labour had to spend so much quite frankly, because the Tories spent too little.

All this I thought as I passed by the Catford town centre today, towards the train station, when I noticed a  sign that I had not previously noticed before. It was a glaucous blue sign reciting “Catford Conservative Club”. Souped up and scrubbed up, it was hedged in between a Turkish kebab joint and a Afro hair supply store but still managed to look dated and out of place. It is for this reason that I believe that the Tories’ courting of the Liberal Democrats will not ultimately, make Britain any more fair, egalitarian or compassionate. The Lib Dem-Tory coalition is a fragile one and is a worthless empty oxymoron as there is no such thing as a Progressive Conservative or a Liberal Conservative. There is a wide chasm of difference between the founding ideological principles of both parties. I am a democracy whore and believe that where the people have not spoken loudly enough or strongly enough, we need to ask the question again. Sweetener deals and agreements in closed rooms do not a mandate make and the governing of a nation cannot be founded upon a discussion between two public schoolboys in their royal blue ties.

A Man for All Seasons

I voted for the old blind man today.

I have actually surprised myself as at the start of the campaign that was not my intention. I was very tired of Labour. Lewisham, the borough where I live is the crossroad between up and coming and ghetto. Lewisham has always voted Labour and has almost nothing to show for it but a town centre that sprawls with low-value shops, an unkempt market selling produce "pound a bowl", loud uncouth black youth who do not deign to speak English, scream on the bus and say random things like "you get me blud", a shopping centre that flails with faded glory, a rash of chicken and kebab shops and a huge Primark.

I am first and foremost a thoroughbred Liberal Democrat. I believe in equality before taxation and that the very poorest should not pay tax because most poor people really need the money, even when some of them appear to spend the cash that stings my pockets on trainers at JJB Sports. I believe in empathy and amnesty for immigrants because they have survived much more than I ever can, even when I see the Somali asylum seeker supplied with a council house and I have to catch my arse to purchase a one bedroom semi. I believe that a stronger Europe is a stronger Britain, even when Polish workers undercut British workers because I know that this is what makes markets competitive. I believe in an environmentally friendly, green Britain even when I complain about having to sort my rubbish into neat piles. I believe in the greater good for the community even at the expense of my individual and personal discomfort. And A.O (After Obama for those not in the know), I was also hungry for change.

I won't recite the reasons stated in my earlier blog but Gordon did not seem very attractive. Cameron was out of the question. Nick certainly seemed like the best choice. However, in the last few weeks, contrarian that I am, I suffered a swing of sympathy away from Nick Clegg towards the man who weathered the storm with grace and dignity.

His diligent note taking on the platform almost made me weep. This was a bookworm like me who cared about the small points and who liked to make things add up. His genuine response to Bigotgate told me that he was sincere. I would have said the same thing myself to anyone telling me that Eastern Europeans were flocking Britain. Pity Eastern Europeans can't vote. His plans were detailed and well thought out. He appeared statesman-like. He did not struggle. I saw Bigotgate being reported this morning in the Metro as the "image of the election" and I wondered if it were only me who thought that this was sad. You could sense Gordon's discomfort with large scale PR, lights and flash. This was not a ready-meal candidate. This was no red carpet bling bling Prime Minister. Sure, he was not extraordinary in look or image, but he was the best we had in terms of policy and experience. This was an honest man, with honest views. It was only when I saw that the media and swing polls reported his "performance" (yes, that's what they called it) as lack lustre, when I thought both Clegg and Cameron came out soft and underprepared, that I knew that this was an X-factor, tweeterific election and I knew that I could not fail to give Labour another chance. This country, this party, this man, needed my vote.

The Great British Public will speak tonight. And it is very likely (if we believe the polls) that we will wake up to a blue Britain tomorrow. Change will be coming to Britain. But will it be the right change? I will, however, stand confident in my belief that I voted for the right man. A man who weathered the financial storm and has righted Britain to its feet without the riots we see now in Athens. A man who jubilantly brought the Olympics to London. A man who weathered adversity and waited in the wings for his turn, his time. A decent father, husband, statesman. A man for all seasons.

Chris Ofili at the Tate: Is it worth the shit?

It was a strange, indecisive day on Monday. English cold with strong temperate breeze, yet bright clear skies that reminded me of the tropics. It was the kind of day, if rain was present, I would phrase as I termed it in the Caribbean- a day when God and the Devil were at war. It was just the right day, I thought, to see Chris Ofili at the Tate Britain- the Mancunian of Nigerian origin who spent his early years studying at the Chelsea School of Art and Design and the Royal College of Art, who won the Turner Prize in 2008, and who now lives and paints in Trinidad.

I entered the Tate nervously, as I am all too aware of the heavy burden that lies on the shoulders of the Lone Black Man. Prior to the exhibition, I had only seen one of his pieces at the Saatchi Gallery. I had read that Mayor Giuliani was very offended by his depiction of the Virgin Mary and threatened to pull the entire exhibition so I expected to be challenged. But I was also aware that The Lone Black Man in a milieu dominated by the Others becomes tempted to do one of two things- assimilate or exaggerate. He may assimilate his ideas and philosophies to align with his environment or contemporaries or he may choose to exaggerate and affirm his difference, loudly.

The exhibition began with a selection of the more vibrant and energetic pieces that was to become Ofili’s signature- the Zimbabwean inspired tiny dots, bold brush strokes layered over resin, glitter and map pins, collages that were artfully arranged, and of course, scattily arranged elephant dung. Ofili claims to parody the establishment but in the early 1990s I found his work arrogantly bawdy, tempestuous, and crude. I am not sure that slamming random balls of elephant dung on canvas had the required effect of raising the paintings of the ground and supplying them with "earthiness". Would it not have been more thoughtful to cross the border between painting and sculpture- to mount the collage on a base of clay or sand or at least to fashion the dreaded dung into something? I was not convinced.

Other ideas were mildly interesting. 7 Bitches Tossing Their Pussies Before the Divine Dung was a cheeky retort to William Blake's The Four and Twenty Elders Casting Their Crowns Before the Divine Throne (1803-1805) which was meant to personify the tension between hip hop's dirty lyrics and the sultry crooning of the artists and the music. Captain Shit and Holy Virgin Mary were personifications along the same veins. The ideas were credible but I found the execution wanting. Clothing a Black Madonna with pictures of gaping vaginas and assholes of black women did not, to me, "rework stereotypes of black women and their representation in hip-hop, the contradiction of a Virgin Mother and the stereotyping of the black female"- it was itself the stereotype, that the country's most famous black artist's spot at the Tate was venerated with "Pimping Ain't Easy" sexual imagery, misogynistic labels, violent pornography, dicks and pussies. How trite.

In contrast, Ofili's best work by far, No Woman No Cry, which won him the Turner Prize, was a graceful, poised piece of work that yet resonated with energy and showcased his true potential. He straddled the line between painting, sculpture and collage and produced a work teeming with pathos and dignity. Similarly, his Upper Room was thoughtful- similar paintings of monkeys holding chalices around an area where spectators congregate is the metaphysical table- a depiction of the disciples and Christianity as primitive or the fusion of Hindu symbolism? I found his Pan African portraits fierce- multiple portraits of black love in red black and green taking their roots from African nationalism and black pride. Here he departed from his previously dystopic vision of Africanism to present a glamorised blinged-out portrait of us in a visual display that was glittery and arresting. It was in these paintings that I felt that the artist had defied expectations and had found his own voice.

Just as you thought he was getting warmer, his style changed again in the Blue Rider Series. He used gigantic canvas and dispenses with the dung but the tone of the pieces are dark and moody. The images were meant to convey and evoke twilight and the sense of the Caribbean unlit- it was very difficult to discern what he was trying to do. Visual poetry? No. Interesting? Yes. There was a feeling that Ofili was in a very dark, sombre place.

The newest (Trinidadian) paintings have been strongly criticised by the British press. "Juvenelia. He seems to be wrestling for an encore. He can't draw properly". However, I believe that these last paintings were most promising and revealing of his wild imagination. There is a new energy and restlessness that was not present for many years. Personally, it seems like nature has waltzed in and wept on his brush. Paintings like Habio Green Locks which depicts a Rastafarian belching fruit or Lady Chancellor - which depicts one of the monied areas of St. Clair, Trinidad as a woman drinking from a chalice- are stunning.

I am glad that the bawdy blaxploitation of his earlier work is gone and he is willing to undergo a process of rethought and reworking. Isn't this one of the more beautiful things in life- that we can always change our approach, change our minds? I am a bit surprised that the art critics find it less challenging. Is it because he is less shocking for shock's sake? I found the shift more than physical, it was almost spiritual

I left the Tate to a wind that seemed more steely than before but the air was just as fresh, the sky just as bright.

The exhibition runs until 16 May at the Tate Britain, Millbank.