Review: The Help

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Of me, the Pope and Crisis Christians

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing's wrong with Peckham

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Willow Smith: Too Much, Too Soon

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Ones who are Left Behind

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I don't like when you call it Saltfish!

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).