I don't like when you call it Saltfish!

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Saltfish
Nothing in the world sweeter than Saltfish

Saltfish

English, colloquial, Bajans

Saltfish

It's sweeter than meat

When you want to eat

All saltfish sweet


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

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


Saltfish/Big money does run behind it

Saltfish/man does lick down man to find it

Saltfish/It's sweeter than meat

When you want to eat

All saltfish sweet”

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

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

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

(Photo compliments Tastes Like Home).

A Deeper Look at Dispossessed

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, Fantasia...

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

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

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

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

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

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

Is Wyclef The One?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why I choose Rasta

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Hunted and penned in an inglorious spot


While round us bark the mad and hungry dogs


Making their mock as our cursed lot


If we must die let us nobly die”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Black Show Ponies

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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