Yes I said it. Hova is Overrated. Fact.

I will probably be crucified but I must admit my dirty little secret: I really don’t get what’s the big deal about Shawn Corey Carter aka Jigger aka Jay Z aka Hova, the Queen Bee’s sidekick for life.

To clarify, I do not speak of or doubt his cunning and business acumen: it takes a whole lot more than luck and an awful lot of balls to be able be one of the most successful businessmen of all time- I love the fact that here is a young boy from Brooklyn with buck teeth who has managed to amass a net worth of $150 million and a very diverse portfolio- from ownership of his own clubs- the 40/40 Club, to part-owner of the New Jersey Nets to investing in Carol’s daughter, to establishing Rocawear, to becoming CEO and President of Def Jam Recordings, to becoming co-brand director of Budweiser Select. Considering that this is a guy who dropped out of George Westinghouse in Downtown Brooklyn, his career is seriously ill. I am not going to even talk about how he looks. Money makes him look mighty fine to me. I also love the example that he offered to our young people: when you find The One you wife them up- not breed em or shack up.

I speak of his A-game, his claim to fame as one of the best rappers of all time. I am sorry, but this is where I depart from most – his trademark “uh uh” and a “cough” just does not do it for me. Yes, “Hard Knock Life” was my anthem in 1988 and yes, the Blueprint album that contained the trilogy of “Girls Girls”, “Izzo”, and “Song Cry”, was a really good album, but I am at a loss to knowing why Jay Z is so revered among so many die-hard hip hop aficionados to the point that he is referred to as a musical genius. Yes, The Black Album was one of the best rap albums featuring again another great trio “Change Clothes”, “Dirt of Your Shoulder” and “99 Problems” but was it the result of the genius of Jay Z or was it because of the monied combination of excellent production, a kick-ass hook line from the best songwriters as opposed to Jigger’s lyric-busting prowess? I do not for one minute subscribe to Billboard’s analysis of Eminem, Nelly and 50 Cent as the top rap artists in the game but what makes people consider that Hova’s rapping skills are so special, over Nas, Common, Lupe Fiasco?

Hova’s fans always protectively proclaim that he does not write down his lyrics, as if this ascribes him super-nova Superman status in the world of hip-hop. I admire his rhyming and his ability to free-style but to be honest, lots of his songs could have benefited from editing, reworking and redrafting- no one is infallible except the Pope (smirk). A bit more thought would have prevented a lot of his hits from sounding unconsidered, banale and repetitive. I am increasingly ill at ease with spending good money on some rhymes that appear to have been recited before. It is telling that his four number ones on the Billboard Hot 100 have been for collaborations with other artists- Mariah Carey’s Heartbreaker, Beyonce’s Crazy in Love, Rihanna’s Umbrella and Alicia Keys’ Empire State of Mind.

Maybe the fact that he does not write is lyrics down is linked to my second criticism- Jay Z always sings about himself. The theme of Me has been done, redone, overdone, pre-done, in second, third and special edition. A 40 year old man telling me how great he is and how well he has done is, quite frankly, tiresome. I need a new story, a new idea, something to make me ponder and reflect- where is your poetry in hip-hop? Yes, I get that your worked hard and came from Marcy and made it to be a huge multi-millionaire brand, I get that you are not a businessman, that you are the “business” man, but can you probably sing about maybe the effect of having a black President on black America a la Nas, or maybe spit at our underachievement and how the lack of fathers render our kids powerless? I am grateful that at least it isn’t bitches and hos and p*ssies but I cannot settle for the lowest common denominator. Exhibit 1 is Jay Z’s ruining what was meant to be Kanye’s special dedication on “Never Let Me Down”- Jay Z turned a song which was meant to be a tribute to God into a Jay Z Part 101 on how great he was. And because Kanye is still one of his foot soldiers, I guess it would have been rude to simply say “Mate, you are off topic!” I would have deleted his verse. Straight talk: bad manners.

I am admittedly an amateur hip-hop listener but I must admit that the people complaining that Hova’s flow has become ordinary after the Black Album have not really listened to the previous albums carefully. They are all extremely similar so I do not blame his ability on a lack of fire in his belly. I have always found his flow ordinary- when I listen to 1990’s hip-hop it appears to me that Tribe, Wu-Tang Clan, CL Smooth, Souls of Mischief, Lords of the Underground, Redman, EPMD and yup- Biggie and Snoop kept it tighter than the Jigga Man. What I do not doubt is that his marketing abilities far exceeded that of his contemporaries- in my eyes he was the latter day Fifty Cent, trading on a story and songs with great production. I dare say that Kanye West, even though his rap style is commercial and cheesy, appeals to me much more because of the honesty of the emotion, his ability to tackle issues such as consumerism, heartbreak, religion- he straddles all aspects of our lives.

What crowns it all off is that Jay Z hosted his retirement party in 2003 and I bought The Black Album and tried my darndest to go to Rocafella Centre to see him perform for what was meant to be the last time, and now, 7 years and two albums later, he is still rapping- choosing to headline Glastonbury last year and Wireless last week. As CEO of Def Jam, haven’t you already reaped the benefits? Have you not gleaned all there is to be gleaned from the starlights and the status? Isn’t it time to fall back and to give a few of your protégés some shine? There is something quite lame about a 50 year old rapper in baggy jeans (and yes, despite decrying them he still wears them). I am over it.

For the Want of Rum

"Hey ... listen mister Shankar,
you sayin' I is a drunkard,
you doh want me to marry yuh daughter.
Yuh doin' me a favour,
I ain't want yuh daughter
she too damn ugly anyway.
More rum for me,
more rum for me, more rum for me."

The above are the lyrics to a popular calypso. Rum is an inextricable thread of the fabric of Caribbean life. Just like blistering sunshine, azure skies, warm turquoise waters and the odd chant of "dey-o" from an old man's guitar form part of the mounted tapestries of island life that are sold to the West by slick travel agents and well-heeled tourism companies,  this heady fermented anointing extracted from the sweet juice of the sugarcane is an essential component of the islands. When a baby is born, glasses are chinked to celebrate good health. A few drops are made to sprinkle the floorboards of humid rumshops, as offerings to gods that have long been forgotten. At funerals, happy hours are not complete without a traditional rumfest and the ceremony of Nine Nights constitutes a veritable indulgence of lashings of liquor, matched with traditional poor man's fare of Crix and Corned Beef, straight from the tin.

Over the last few years in the Caribbean, we have had our traditional griots, the calypsonians composing odes for the Love of Rum. They are not the first. The rum disciples-Bound to Drunk, Fig and Oil, Waltz, Bughole, and Souse sang these odes almost daily from seven a.m. at Merwin's rumshop- they groaned, the sipped, they knocked back, but they never chased- that would be breaching the code of honour. Like prescription medicine it was one shot every three hours, or whenever they got back from a hard day's mountain toil, scraping the last drops from the worn glasses just as they scraped the earth of the ground to pluck hard yams and cassava, days, hours, moments, before- their memories faltered so I cannot vouch for accuracy. They courted rum with an intensity with which they did not even court their lovers (I call them lovers although I am sure that rum sponged all the love out of any relationship they managed to cultivate). They pursued her sweetness morning, noon and night, they spent their last few dollars on one more shot of Special Dark and they often indebted themselves, or rather, bankrupted themselves in order to ensure that there was always one "last" bottle at home. The calysonians have echoed this unwavering passion in their songs- Poopa Leendi's "Rum Oh"  laments "Rum Oh, whey yuh dey? Clarke's Court is gonna kill dem boy.. we drinking rum till we die!" In Trinidad and Tobago, chutney soca is characterised by tunes which feature rum: "Girl you know I was a drinka- you cant change me no way!" and "Bar Man give me a bottle of puncheon". One of the more popular songs over the past few years was Bunji Garlin's " You could bring it in a bottle, you could bring it in a glass, you could bring it in a cup, you could bring it in a flask, I want me rum in the morning, I want me rum in the evening". Rum is our tonic, our spiritual viagra.

The word rum comes from the latin word saccharum- meaning sugar. Others say that it is a shortened form of the word rumbullion- meaning uproar or tumultuous.The first distillation of rum took place on the sugarcane plantations of the Caribbean in the 17th century. Plantation slaves first discovered that molasses, a by-product of the sugar refining process, could be fermented into alcohol. Later, distillation of these alcoholic by-products concentrated the alcohol and removed impurities, producing the first true rums. Tradition suggests that rum first originated on the island of Barbados- a 1651 document from Barbados stated, "The chief fuddling they make in the island is Rumbullion, alias Kill-Divil, and this is made of sugar canes distilled, a hot, hellish, and terrible liquor".

The popularity of rum is undoubted. Its flavours are strong, deep and meaningful, the opposite of vodka. It comes in many different strengths and flavours. Light rums are usually used as the base for cocktails and other lighter alcoholic drinks such as mojitos and pina coladas. Rum can also come golden or spiced and flavoured (ie Clarke's Court Lemon Rum, Malibu Coconut Rum) and it can also come aged, as dark rum with a molasses or caramel flavoured overtone. I am more interested, however, in the lack of popularity in premium rum- carefully aged rums which are assiduously produced. I say this because in the Caribbean a rum connoisseur is known as a "rumbo" and someone who likes rum a wee bit too much is swiftly regarded as an alcoholic of the lower class, part of the great unwashed. The upper classes,even in the Caribbean, tend to drink Courvoisier, Moet & Chandon and more recently, Johnny Walker Black, in the up market clubs and at all-inclusive parties, These spirits are all imported, and their popularity arise undoubtedly because of colonial reasons because to be honest, apart from Moet, JWB and Courvoisier cannot even come close in a taste test when placed alongside the good old sugar cane extract. Is it possible that rum can occupy a hallowed spot in our Caribbean cultural establishments, can we lift it out of the rumshops and into clubs, tikibars and megabars as ubiquitous as bubbly or other fine spirits on the tables of celebrities and rockstars? Will we have rappers endorsing our Caribbean's finest in their hits?

We certainly already have the product. A cursory search on the internet revealed that there are long existing vintage rums. El Dorado Superior is a vintage liqueur. 10 Cane Rum was commissioned by the House of LVMH five years ago - that's Louis Vuitton Moet Hennessey- it uses the copper pot stills legacy of premium cognac and is distilled twice for that extra special flavour. Like cognac, it is aged in oak barrels. It won't be long before each island produces its special blend of premium, high quality, gold label rum. Cuba has already invested in a 50 million distillery for golden aged Havana.Euromonitor International charts a 17.9% volume rise in global rum sales to 119.7m 9-litre cases over 2001-2006, broken down into a 15.9% increase for white rum (to 37.1m cases) and an 18.8% increase for golden and dark rum (to 82.6m cases). Italy and Spain are the market leaders for these exports and there is the feeling that it is the product to replace flagging whisky sales. Rums are certainly sexier, what with the rise of specialist tiki bars that even the royals love to frequent- Mahiki being case in point. It is certain that to take the product to the next level, that our local industries need to capitalise quickly on the premiumisation of the brand that was started by products such as Cacique and Barcello. Are any of our islands investing in the rum industry in a significant way. The smaller islands, with boutique industries, are ripe for producing signature brands imprinted with handcrafted quality. Or are we simply content to let this liquid gold  penetrate the market as smuggled goods in overproof form?

And even on a most basic level, can our love for premium spirits be transcended to rum? I mean, after all, it is not in every region in the world that these lyrics would be considered acceptable or even popular:

"Rum kill mih mother,

rum kill mih father,

rum kill mih whole family.

Rum kill mih brother,

rum kill mih sister,

now it want to come and kill me.

But I doh really care what people say...

oh, ah drinking today and ah drinking forever..."

(Pic from http://www.zazzle.co.uk/)

Eedyats!

“A group of thugs were lying in wait in a car as15 year old Zachary Olumegbon arrived for lessons.


The gang leapt out and chased the youngster and a 14-year-old pal into an alley. They cornered Zachary and stabbed him repeatedly in the chest before chasing the other lad into the school grounds. They knifed him in the arm before fleeing from school staff.”

The Sun.

I usually relish my role as an apologist for young black boys who I believe are dealt a raw hand by British media and British society in general. I deplore and I am usually the first to protest at the myth of the peculiarity of “black on black crime” as often propagated in the media and transplanted into our psyches when we all know that poverty is the overriding determinant. I agree with Professor Ben Bowling that this seedling of an idea -that black men are inherently evil, bestial, inferior, unintelligent, ruled by desire and prone to violence- has been hawked since Elizabethan times and continues to be promoted. I often quote Baroness Scotland, our then Attorney General, who debunked this old wives’ tale with cold hard facts and statistics a couple of years ago: fact is that eighty six per cent of homicides are committed by white people against white people. I use the example that when white Derek Baird tragically shot his brother and many other white victims in Cumbria, race was not a significant criterion- no one spoke about “white on white crime”. I made a written complaint when Rod Liddle, last year, in his Spectator piece asserted that “the overwhelming majority of street crime, knife crime, gun crime, robbery and crimes of sexual violence in London is carried out by young men from the African-Caribbean community” and was glad to see him being fined for presenting his puerile, stereotypical, unfounded opinion as fact. I was happy that Dr Tony Sewell criticised the underreporting of crime when the victim was black.

So convinced I am of the root cause of crime among black youth being social exclusion, I wrote an entire treatise on the subject entitled “The Audacity of Despair”. Young black boys, I argued, are overrepresented in the criminal justice system because they are more likely to be stopped and searched, and three quarters of them are on the criminal DNA database which makes it easier for them to be convicted. I argued passionately that young black boys are disproportionately subject to socio-economic disadvantage and underlined the fact that there is significant educational underachievement and disaffectation because of an educational system that marginalises our young men and tells them that there are regressive and aggressive from the age of 3. To the Tony Blair outburst on taking responsibility for black crime, I countered that our boys live in a society which expects very little from them and which reminds them of this every day. I argued that the absence of fathers and the vacuum in discipline (we are told that traditional punishments are not suitable for Western Society without being offered a suitable alternative for our children) played a very large role in the numbers of young men who joined “posses” and street gangs. I posited that poor housing, the overrepresentation of black families on council estates, the and the desire to earn money by any means necessary in the face of endemic deprivation was a but for cause in the pipes of violence that occasionally spurted on London’s streets. Disenfranchised, without our own businesses to pass down to our children, quality education that would remove them from the laps of poverty and a sense of community, wasn’t it predictable that there would be blood?

I am, however, tired of apologising. My lips are now pursed in a giant “steups” every time I hear about stupid little tiffs and arguments involving black boys over postcodes that in a few years time their parents won’t even be able to afford . I feel embarrassed and ashamed. Is this why Rosa Parks decided to move from the back of a bus to the front? Is this the reason why Martin Luther King wrote that one day little black children would roam the streets freely and be judged by the content of their character? Is this the reason why Malcolm X died? So that young black boys would have the right to join street gangs, to create “beef” over trainers, the colour of their headscarves, a random “diss” and illusionary territories? Just outside the school gates, in my borough of Lewisham, this young black boy, ghettoised as “Lil Zac” and a member of the “T Block gang” was fatally stabbed a couple of weeks ago, by a group of boys. This was the 13th stabbing to take place in London this year. Most involved black youth. Where are the parents in this equation that refuses to be balanced? Have West Indian and Caribbean parents lost a grip of their children? It was telling that this school was a school that was constructed specially for the rehabilitation of excluded children. The teachers and cleaners in that school reported that there were frequent fights, systemic bullying and no respect at all for authority. In short- a mini jail, a prep-school for the University of Prison. It enrages me that the minority of these little boys who engage in gun crime actually have a great impact on our reputation and perception in the UK: these twenty one boys make the nation believe that our families are facing a great existential crisis, hence the reason the media found it derisible that Diane Abbott claimed that Caribbean parents would go to the wall for the children. They should not have or be entrusted with this power.

It has been recognised that many steps should be taken to counter the root causes of exclusion- including changes in the education system and housing allocation. However, in my opinion, it is imperative that whilst we wait for these changes to filter through, radical next steps should be taken to ensure that these silly battles do not persist. It is evident to me that if these boys only had a rich sense of our culture and our history, they would never act in a way to compromise what is our long standing culture of respect for authority. It is obvious that there is no pride in culture and pride in roots- we were never a warfaring people, in fact the black race has always placed a premium on the spirituo-cultural.


Black boys who are at risk should be made to complete a mandatory course in Black History and Culture so they can have pride in something other than the “freshness” of their trainers. This should be followed by voluntary service in deprived areas: earthquake ravished Haiti, the refugee camps in Somalia, so that they can fully comprehend the real battles human beings face on a daily basis and learn that the fight is against something bigger than their own myopic disagreements. I fully support initiatives such as rites of passage for young black males as advocated by The Institutes for Rites of Passage- which would equip adolescents with social, economic, behavioral and other life skills. This would serve as better rehabilitation than any Park Campus school, where all children with all types of behavioral problems are lumped into the same wreteched facilities. Our estates also need to return to the concept of a village raising a child. Community watches and community organisations need to be established forthwith and any evidence of illegal activity need to be reported. For this to be successful there needs to be a culture of trust between law enforcement and residents. And a culture of trust among the residents themselves that rides above lines of allegiances of Nigerian, Jamaican and Somali.


The effect of displacement of fathers also needs to be addressed head-on and right now. It is also true that black men from the Caribbean are still learning to be fathers; most of them never truly learnt how as they themselves probably did not have fathers and their fathers in turn did not know how to be fathers- legacy from plantation life. Child benefit and social housing and other forms of state help should include a criterion of involvement in a child’s life. For young black males who are at risk, this involvement should be made mandatory- at least 5 supervised contact hours a week. This enforced parenting might be unconstitutional but I do not care about the constitution when our society is on the brink of committing a self induced holocaust- this would certainly assist in easing the parenting pressure of black women who work longer hours than any other ethnic group in Britain and provide young boys with some measure of stability and visibility.

These are only my suggestions but I am sure that the experts have many more. The success of any scheme will depend solely upon our collective will. Are we ready to take ownership of our boys and by extension, our streets? Or are we resigned to the fact that they will keep on needlessly killing each other- as Biggie chillingly prophesied: “just another one?”


Do consider giving a monthly contribution to one of these charities that support the anti gun and knife crime initiatives in our communities and support positive mentoring:


The Damilola Taylor Trust


The Disarm Trust


East Potential


The Black Leadership Initiative

Sorry, I don't like Ghetto Couture

                                   


The fashion industry has always been rife with accusations of discrimination. There is a palpable paucity of minority ethnic models on the catwalks of Milan, New York and Paris with the exception of a few household names -Naomi Campbell, Chanel Iman and Jourdan Dunn. This is not likely to change anytime soon, even though Vogue Italia’s Black Issue championed the cause a couple of years ago and was the fastest selling issue of all time. The experts explain the bias as a pure mathematical marketing decision: we are not the target demographic, we do not have significant purchasing power, so there is no demand. Tell this to Next and asos.com who use models of every hue and who posted significant increases in turnover. In spite of this snub, I still fall in lust with the Mulberry Alexa, I salivate and drool over the latest Chanel croc, and I hallucinate over the prospect touching (not even owning) a real-life Birkin: it would be like touching Michael Jackson. Seriously. When did this small town girl who grew up with kids who sometimes placed their schoolbooks into plastic bags pick up this strange luxury goods obsession? I do not know. I am ashamed of it because I really should know better: purchasing these products does nothing for my community, my self esteem and my development. I am working on it.


This is why I was very proud to see black owned businesses getting into the mid market of luxury goods. Finally some brothers with common sense! I hoped that we could learn a few lessons from the Asian and Jewish demographic, where there is a very strong sense of cohesion and community: finally brands I can support and wear with pride knowing that it was for us, by us and that funds would be channelled back into areas that need the investment. Needless to say- for me this has not been the case- I have been consistently disappointed and let down by the persistent and relentless pushing of what I call Ghetto Couture.

Ghetto Couture is what is termed “street fashion” the credo of put-some-bling-on-it-and-black-people-will-buy-it. The designs are loud, brash and bashy. The end result is often tacky. Take Nelly’s Applebottoms- the Apples on the back of the jeans are encrusted with plastic crystals and 90% of the jeans on the website have some sort of gold diamantes pasted onto the back. The rest of the collection consists of various items in coloured cheetah prints and tops and vests in bright orange, pink and blue. Kimora Simmons’ Baby Phat is no better- perfectly good fitted dresses are ruined by a huge golden cat on the back. Gold and bling is the primary theme. The colours are a bit less loud, but only marginally so. Rocawear ‘s handbags thrive on a similar concept- there are often very cute little pieces- but there must be some element of gold or silver logo inspired hardware. In fact, Beyonce’s House of Dereon collection (not the diffusion line Dereon, which is virtually identical in its love of fabulosity) is the only fashion label that I found that offered clothing that had some semblance of being tasteful and elegant.

I don’t like Ghetto Couture because it operates on the assumption that the target black market is obsessed with bling, gold and loud colours, almost perhaps in homage to Big Daddy Kane and the gold infestation of 1990s hip hop. This might be true for some people but it is certainly not true of a lot of people I know. I like my share of fabulous and I love bling - I have my own theories on it- it was our way to claim and stake visibility in a world which often renders us invisible but I hate Ghetto Couture because the collection is always “street”: what about clothing for our professional black women who wish to be stylish at work in a corporate environment? Where are the worksuits and leather handbags and briefcases? What about a cruise collection, a holiday collection? We go on holiday too. Why are we limiting ourselves to clothing that are only suitable for the street or for the club? These are negative stereotypes that we perpetuate ourselves. Are we saying that we don’t deserve tasteful, elegant things?

It is telling that many of the espousers of Ghetto Couture do not wear their very own brands. I see Victoria Beckham marketing her own dresses on every single occasion. I have never seen Kimora wear Baby Phat on occasions other than jogging or walking to the store. Beyonce only wore Dereon once on the red carpet and it was an epic fail. I have also only seen her once or twice with products from her husband’s label, Rocawear. So question is, if your very own products are not good enough or fresh enough for you, why should they be good enough for me?

There is only one other thing that irks me more and that is the new corollary of Ghetto Couture- the championing of brands that we are not paid to market, and with which we have no natural affinity or connection. In the days when Hova was Hova it was Cristal- until the Foederer brand said that it did not wish to be associated with rap artists and that there were dissipating the value of the brand. Then there was Timbaland: Timbs were the go-to shoe brand for people of colour until they started limiting the stock in Harlem and other ethnically diverse areas –they were just a little bit too popular.

Now it is the turn of Clarks- Vybz Kartel has dedicated a Holy Trinity of songs to Clarks- a brand that has no luxury kudos here in the UK-. He admonishes “Clean out ya closet. Deposit de Clarks... every crep get a fling... straight wallabees... deposit the thing”. Clarks, probably not wanting the Jamaican attention and connotation because of all the Chris Coke inspired violence, is on the record as saying that it has not noticed a significant uptake in the sale of its shoes as a result. Unless the versions of the Clarks sold in the Caribbean are all knock –offs (which they very well might be as I have not seen Clarks in those colours in my local Lewisham depot), this is absolute bollocks: it is the latest item that is on all request lists out here in the Diaspora for the past two years. The song tells it all “whey yuh get that new style Daddy? The Queen of England haffe love off Yardie”.

It would be amazing to me, if just as Kartel developed the concept of the Daggering condom, the effort could be placed into designing, manufacturing and promoting his own brand of footwear instead of singing about an old- stuck up label. As long as it is not encrusted with crystals and scattered with random flecks of bling- I would probably buy it.

The Marginalisation of RnB

Who remembers Brixton in the 1990’s and the early Noughties? This was before black music was called urban, and before Peter Andre was trying to sound like Usher- this was the heyday of sultry TLC, sexy Keith Sweat, and the ballads of Boys II Men. Mary J Blige was not yet in her self-help Oprah mode- she was caught up in the drama and we loved it. Gangsta rap was not quite so gangsta- Jah Rule’s vocals were blended in with Ashanti’s on “What’s Love” and it was Trevor Nelson’s Lick charts which really were The Lick. This was the era of Jay Z – he was not yet Hova or Jigga. If BET was the Holy Grail, Brixton was Mecca. Z bar was one of our favourite haunts, I have memories of Friday nights there spent close to the speakers with a glass of Appleton and Coke (Courvoisier was not yet popular). The air was often fragrant with sweet sensi. We often migrated after a few drinks, when a nubile, promising night was on the verge of becoming geriatric to The Fridge where DJs actually scratched hip-hop records and didn’t reel punch buttons on a laptop linked to an Itunes playlist. We, for reasons I should not confess, were also legless. Brixton, then, had a latent sense of excitement and freedom.

Nowadays, I would not know Brixton if the riots came back and hit me and punched me as hard as a police man’s baton on an unsuspecting Rasta. Plan B churns out a series of rock concerts on an almost weekly basis. Their “exciting new music programme” seems to exclusively feature funk and disco and their music promoters who promise a South London night-time renaissance appear to feature mainly techno and house, with ole-skool hip hop that appeal only to a very select crowd (usually posh yuppies who want to appear cool). Yes, Erykah Badu and Bunny Wailer are playing this summer at the O2 Academy, but this is amidst the choking excess of young indie bands that have become suddenly in vogue. The Fridge Bar still plays RnB but it is dwarfed by The Fridge which caters mostly to a audience. Mass, to its credit, does a fair mix but it is still primarily a live music venue churning out angsty rock and techno hits.

This phenomenon is not unique to Brixton. In central London, clubs that once churned out Usher, Justin Timberlake and Missy as the music of choice are now keeping it confined to the VIP rooms, allegedly because they do not wish to attract a “certain clientele” for fear of brawls. There is no rnb on the X Factor or on Britain’s Got Talent. RnB singers do not headline festivals or concerts. Trey Songz and Jodeci sing at the Indigo2 instead of the main stage at the O2. It is clear to see that there has been a palpable demise in the popularity of rnb but what has caused this paradigm shift?

The people who do not like it (who coincidentally have no rhythm whatsoever) say the combination of predictable, sickly lyrics about sex and love, set against an electronic, mass produced, churned out beat is enough to cause a chunder-fit. Others blame it on MTV for promoting very specific type of songs, which led to listener fatigue. Some say that the introduction of a softer genre of hip-hop (Lupe Fiasco, Kanye West) made rnb irrelevant. Industry loyalists say that the mass production and mass marketing came at a price. Young people are drawn to the alternative and to the rebellious- rnb simply became too ubiquitous. This failure of rnb to appeal to the “cool” kids was evident at the Capital Summertime Ball- the rnb fans were the pop fans- young, immature, squealing kids- too green to appreciate good music. The new school rnb is like bubble gum- chewy and sweet at the moment, but never quite assuaging that biting, griping hunger pang and doing very little to satisfy.
I think that is fair to say that RnB is largely responsible for its own fate, it has committed its own suicide- openly. It is hard to imagine that the R&B began its life as rhythm and blues- birthing songs like Otis Redding’s classic- I’ve Been Loving you Too Long, and Percy Sledge’s iconic- When a Man Loves a Woman. Even when rnb paired with hip hop in the early 1990’s the songs were still meaningful- Nas and Lauryn Hill’s if I Ruled the World was virtual poetry in my eyes. From its halcyon days in the 1940’s to mainstream dominance in the 1960’s with the emergence of Motown which featured the prolific Marvin Gaye, Smokey Robinson and Aretha Franklyn to Chaka Khan and Sade and then through to R. Kelly (before THAT case), Mary J Blige and Toni Braxton in the 1990’s, rnb used to be fiery.

We have now got to the point in rnb when a chart topper is a song that has the title of a goofy OMG- ohmigod- the teenage, illiterate, expression of surprise that could be attributed to anyone or anything. Gone are the days of classic soul ballads: we now have Tiny Tempah’s Frisky to replace these classics. Is it then any surprise that now in the top 100 Billboard charts there are virtually very few rnb songs? The blues in rnb seem to have been replaced with bass- voices are now secondary to the beat. The disdain I have for the electric machine music is only matched by the disdain I have for the industry puppets who continue to be manipulated by media giants. The continual emphasis on cookie-cutter, identikit image over vocals makes the genre weary.

R&B has become a modern day bastard, a whore of a genre in that it has lots of its confidence and mojo and has now cross-bred with so many other types of music, it is fair to say that it is now a cockeyed deformity of its own self: it is not now possible to distinguish it from contemporary pop and the recent tag of the genre as “urban” has contributed to this homogenisation. Rihanna’s Te Amo, for example, is on the Billboard chart as an rnb song although the beat is undoubtedly latin. If the definition of the genre is so fluid and nondescript, it is no surprise that its heartbeat is so embarrassingly weak. All the gloss and ice and bling and video hos and lasers can’t hide the fact that rnb is no longer bringing something new to the table: there is nothing delicious to savour. There is no fresh subculture, no pride, no new style. Same old same old. There are very few charismatic acts. No swing. No rhythm. No syncopation. No blues. In fact, I think it is fair to say that rnb is becoming strikingly commercial and dance-focussed, a smoother version of house.

I am no sooth-sayer however. Like Timbaland, I agree that Coldplay and Radiohead are “ill” but I hesitate to say that this is the end of rnb like Nas predicted the death of hip-hop. A few artists continue to surprise me. Like Janelle Monae who crosses categorisation and who is truly inspirational. Like Erykah Badu, whose album defies the gravity of contemporary music. Like Maxwell and Sade whose albums are critical and commercial successes. The future is bleak, but not one without bright sparks. I just hope that somebody, somewhere, will see it fit to resuscitate.

Can you be Christian and Carnival?

I am not the most qualified candidate to write this piece. I am the first to admit this. Somebody “pas han’ on me long time- I have a special Carnival obeah that resurrects with each strum of the bass of a soca tune, which persists throughout and during the Carnival season and which does not even ebb away at the end of the festivities, so rabid am I in my enjoyment of the pageantry. I stand resolutely in the pursuit of fun- fetes, all inclusive, drinking, eating, jamming, playing ah “marse”. My (limited) wining skills are tested to extremity by many a reveller.


My religious grandaunt and her best friend Eileen often warn me of Carnival’s pagan origins- they admonish that it began as a spring festival to the god Dionysus and that my revelry is the ultimate honour to the God Bacchus, hence bacchanalia, so ergo sum: it is not at all possible to be Christian and to partake in Carnival. With a fluid wisecrack retort, I remind her of its decidedly Christian appropriation (like many Catholic rites)- it is the extension of the jubilee of Christ’s birth before we say farewell to flesh and sombrely remember his death, as the Romanesque Italians would say: “carne vale” (farewell meat). The tension of the Church and its response to Carnival was epitomised when I was but a wee lass in Grenada- our church had a Carnival band, we sponsored a calypso tent and one of the priests would play jourvert. However, there is always the belief that even if one attends church, pays tithes, reads the Bible and try to abide by all the Christian edicts, one cannot really be a true Christian if one takes part in Carnival. As Granny says- you can’t serve two masters. My response: you are wrong, I am the master of Carnival, it does not master me. I have only one master and that’s Jah/God/Jehovah.

It is true that Carnival became Christianised only after the church realised that it could not be suppressed. Some say that “carnival" really stems from "carrus navalis": the "naval car" or ship, which carried the Celtic and Germanic Sea-God from his Northern abode to the winter feasts. It is mentioned that the medieval Church reinterpreted this as the Ship of Fools, on which all kinds of sinners sail to their death. Others say some elements derive from the Romans Saturnalia, or Lupercalia- traditional festivals with lots of food and drink, dress-up and parades. The societal order was reversed and rules of behaviour were suspended: higher classes had no authority over lower, masters waited on their slaves, men dressed like women. From the mid 1140s Carnival included a host of fertility rites, agricultural and hunting rituals, and forms of sun, river, or mountain worship. A temporary King was crowned and everyone had to abide by his most ludicrous whims. There are others who ascribe an African element to the Caribbean type Carnival, shrouded it may be under the European cloak of pre Lenten festivities. Commentators like Grisso (www.theafrican.com) argue that our West Indian carnivals have decidedly Yoruba roots like the throwing of talcum powder as a disguise and the dressing in similar colours to constitute a band. Others argue that it is linked to the worship of ancestors- the use of colourful clothes and masks were a way to appease the spirits to return among the living and to accede to prayers.

I must admit that I do not care very much about the initial origins of Carnival very much, as I am very sure I do not worship the ancestors when I parade in the streets. I prefer to live in the now as much as possible. Carnival and mass (masquerade) today have little to do with the traditional European Christian celebrations that evolved from the wealthy and landed plantocracy of the sugar estates. Yes, we have returned somewhat to the past as there are balls in wealthy homes catering to a certain class (ie Lara fetes) but it is now fair to say that it has evolved into a festival of abandon, a kaleidoscope and a riot of colour and glamour. Our vestments are no longer elaborate bulky costumes and masks- we are acolytes of the beads and bikinis. We bear staffs instead of candles and we wait in anticipation for the altar of the “Stage” to strut our stuff. Our celebrants are the King and Queen of the Bands and their sermons are delivered by the vicarage of the kaiso and soca artists- jump and wave, misbehave, get on, wine, jook, palance. Religious leaders often condemn Carnival today as promoting idolatry and immorality and a mere excuse for drunken debauchery. The ones who take themselves ultra seriously quote Jeremiah and Ephesians and liken it to the rampant behaviour of Sodom and Gomorrah. They warn us that it will provoke the wrath of an angry God on a nation. Jourvert (Jour Ouvert) they say is the typification of all that is wrong with Carnival- the dressing like black devils at the crack of dawn is true idolatry of Lucifer.

In my eyes, Carnival is a mirror of the society in which we live. If it is immoral, it means our society is immoral, if it is hypocritical and debaucherous, it means that our society tolerates debaucheries. It is true that drink is consumed in copious quantities, but the same could be said of wedding celebrations- sanctified by God. Fact is that in Caribbean society, alcohol is often freely consumed and Carnival day is no exception to the rule of a drunk. Carnival no Carnival some of us do not drink to excess and Carnival no Carnival some of us do. Others warn us that nakedness and “wriggling bodies” are advertisements for sex. Oh save us from the evils of sex that will grasp up in its claws, unawares in a Carnival Band! The last time I checked most of us are thinking adults. It is impossible to ascribe sexual licentiousness to a festival: it is impossible to be sexually loose for one day and to live like a hermit for 363 days. If anyone is free with sexual favours around Carnival time, then it is highly likely that those favours were fast and loose (no pun intended) all year round. Character speaks louder than reputation or even behaviour- in spite of my less than holy Carnival behaviour (memories of those cheese sandwich wines live on), I have never ever been propositioned for sex: the individual in question would be certain to be the subject of a flying kick! To be honest, if one has participated in all the feting and excitement of the day, sleep is the only word with s which will be sought at the end of the evening.

As for J’ouvert, anyone knowing its true origins would be loathe to call it idolatry. It is the ultimate irony : the portrayal of the slave masters as black devils. More than anything, it is a rejection of veneration, a sarcastic and mocking cultural role play of the slaves’ masters at masquerade balls. The criticisms rivalled at Carnival today seem to represent a very colonialised view of culture and is reminiscent of the fears of the planter class who reported after emancipation “ in our towns, commencing with the orgies on Sunday night, we have a fearful howling of a parcel of semi-savages emerging God knows where from, exhibiting hellish scenes and the most demoniacal representations of the days of slavery: then using the mask the two following days as a mere cloak for every species of barbarism and crime” (Philip Scher, George Washington University) when they themselves committed one of the greatest atrocities on humanity. Who were the real savages?

They were fearful of the ceremony of the Cannes Brulées and stamped it out of carnivals in Trinidad and Grenada. Cannes Brulées was the ex-slaves’ nocturnal journey through the streets, burning the canes, symbols of their oppression- a re-enactment of the slaves’ tasks to put out the fires of the burning cane (sometimes set by them) and so dousing their freedom so to speak. Jouvert is the only time of the year when the hoi polloi, the great unwashed, are engaged in satirical political commentary on the rulers of the day through “Ole Mas” : they represent figures in the community and in traditional Caribbean folklore with cunning and tact. The Dame Lorraine, the Neg Jadin, the Burrokeets, the Short Knee, the Wild Indians, the Jab Molassie and the Moko Jumbies all have their own stories to tell. The calypsonians regale the year’s activities and serve as the omniscient narrator of the most newsworthy stories- they were the first bloggers of Caribbean life. Didn’t Jesus come to set the captives free? How can I separate myself from my cultural identity in the pretence that it would make me a better Christian? Or do I simply separate myself from the wining and jamming and what is termed lewd “dancing” that is not at all Christian-like? But isn’t this a part of the general fervour of the celebration?

I pledge allegiance to Carnival because it is a great equaliser. It is the only time of year when superfluous titles of lawyer, doctor, cleaner and politician are all erased and we are all just human. We are unified only by the pulse of music and march onwards with one spirit, together. At the risk of sounding blasphemous, isn’t this the meaning of Christianity- that we are all one flesh? Isn’t it a fact that Ecclesiastes 3:1 says that for everything there is a season and a time under heaven- including a time to dance? The Jamiesson Faucet Bible Commentary believes that this means that there is a time for all earthly pursuits. And isn’t Carnival simply the polar opposite of the solemnity of the Passion of Christ?

True Christianity is to live as Jesus lived. Jesus walked. Among all. He came for all men- Jew as well as Gentile, slave as well as free. Maybe it’s my image of this man as a free spirited individual, chanting “fire burn” on the Scribes and Pharisees, overturning the tables of the den of thieves in the temple, rolling twelve deep – with some close “brethren” for disciples, getting more wine when it ran out at the wedding in Cana that makes me feel that he does not appear to be a self righteous, prescriptive, egoist.

Review: Good Hair

I spend a lot of money on my hair. I was going to say comparatively speaking, but I realised that that was a bare faced lie. I spend a lot of money on my hair period. I was then going to say “spent” because I no longer have a weave habit but to be honest- remaining napptastic still requires a lot of effort and a lot of cash. You would be amazed. The price of being a weava-diva used to be high. Getting good quality human hair for a weave required at least two packets of extensions at £30- £60 a pop. Installation ranged from £40 (my homie Fulana in Peckham) to £90 (From the Root, Lewisham). Then there would be hair sheen or curl spray (another £10) to take care of the shedding, the shine and the matting that happens when the hair on your head doesn’t really sprout from your scalp. I must admit that I loved the glamour of it all but I decided to give it up once I decided to give up the “creamy crack” otherwise known as hair relaxer aka sodium hydroxide aka lye that can disintegrate a can of Coke. Now that my hair is natural, it is probably as expensive- £50 for each retwist every four weeks and then £40 to £100 for a “full head unit” for work. Compare that to a haircut every three months for my European friends and a colour and blowdry probably every six months.

Chris Rock’s Good Hair is erudite and candid in throwing up all these facts and more. Did you know that black people comprise 20% of the population but purchase 80% of all hair and hair products? That the hair industry is worth more than 9 billion dollars? That in spite of this, black people are disenfranchised and that the black chemical straightening industry is owned mostly by super corporates such as Revlon and L’Oreal? And that the Koreans have a monopoly on the hair extension industry; that they refuse to sell to black distributors because the profit margin on hair is so high? That human hair from India is worth more than gold, kilo for kilo? Rock brings to light all of these interesting facts and polemic discussions, via interviews with a diverse range of black personalities who offer special insight on all aspects of the hair industry- from Reverend Al Sharpton, the civil rights campaigner (who perms his hair) to poet and writer Maya Angelou (who didn’t have a perm till she was 70), self confessed weave addict and hip hop video-ho Melissa Ford, singer Eve and actresses Raven Simone and Nia Long.

This film is a must-see for all races as a study about race, gender and the perception of beauty. It will be informative for people who are not of colour to see why we explain going back to natural hair as a “journey”, why hair seems like an “obsession” and why a black woman’s hair is such a complex and contentious issue (for those who let it be that way). It was disturbing to see human hair being scraped of the heads of babies for the sacred ceremony of tonsure in India and the deep convictions that this was a holy sacrifice to the gods, only for these locks to be bartered over on shop shelves only a few days later. Chris Rock’s hilarious commentary made me realise that it was actually not that funny that ordinary working class people were not purchasing property and investing in education and were instead on “lay away” plans for hair units that did not look even better than their natural hair or the ordinary hair in the beauty shops. What a tangled web we weave! The expense of hair extensions for the average black woman ($1000 upwards) could put a black child through private school. It broke my heart when young people in Harlem still thought that an afro was not “groomed” enough for work. In 2010. No one put it better than Al Sharpton: “we are attaching our economic exploitation on our heads”.

On some levels, I wish Chris Rock could have focussed more on the facts instead of paying what I felt was disproportionate attention to a largely entertaining- but not much else- hair show in Atlanta. I wanted him to speak to scientists and research analysts about the effects of sodium hydroxide on human scalp over a sustained period of time and to investigate whether there had been any substantive studies on the health effects (I found only such one study that related to breast cancer only, and none in the EU). The production budget seems to have been strained- I would have wished him to not only confine his study to Los Angeles but also to visit Africa and the UK and the Caribbean to obtain perspectives on hair and attitudes to it. Maybe he would have encountered the natural hair movement and presented a different side of the coin. In that way, the documentary would have come across as more balanced- there are a lot of black people who wear their hair as is and who do not spend thousands of dollars on weaves and hair relaxers and straightening products. Where Chris Rock equates black with “weave wearing” he makes an expensive generalisation that risks pissing people off as not all black women eschew intimacy and swimming in favour of hair (I don’t give a rat’s arse) and spend hundreds of dollars to maintain it, or expect their men to take care of bill. This risked perpetuating a very dangerous stereotype.

Similarly, the interviews with the members of the community seemed to be based in only a few hair shops and barber shops- it would have been useful to obtain the view of a few professionals and their perspectives on hair in corporate America. His attempt to be funny in selling black hair fell flat but I felt that this could have been tackled as a serious issue: if Afro type hair existed on the scale that we see Indian hair and Malaysian hair and Remy hair,  would there would be a market for it for those of us who wish to embellish/lengthen our own tresses? I would have also liked to see him source and question the distributorship networks and the managers of the companies manufacturing “kiddie perms”.

The documentary is amiable, funny and incisive but I think that Chris Rock had the capacity to make it even funnier and even more incisive. Hair after all, is no different from any other beauty industry- it is based on an unattainable standard. My spirit soared when actress Tracie Thoms said just what I explained to a friend over lunch yesterday; it is a shame that “to keep my hair the same texture as it grows out of my head is revolutionary”.

Waka Waka to all our Black Stars

A few days ago, I read the Evening Standard and in the middle there was a heart warming feature about a very kind South African man who decided to return to South Africa to build a house for his black nanny-coincidentally he had two spare tickets going for a World Cup Match, and rather benevolently, he decided to provide this woman- Joyce Mbolo with a ticket. She was ecstatic, but kept it quiet, because many of her friends had wanted and planned to go to a World Cup Match, but could not afford it. The feature was touching in the sense that there was this young white man in South Africa, quietly making reparation so to speak, in the midst of all the noisy frantic celebration. It read like a piece on Holy Communion in the middle of the bacchanalia of carnival. It’s nice to see that there are still some good, grateful people around. In that feature, however, there was a comment which caught my attention and which stayed with me – Joyce when deciding to pick a team to support between France and Mexico, decided to back France purely “because they had black players”.


This led me to think about the way in which I aligned my position in the World Cup. When supporting teams in the World Cup, does race occupy a privileged position? Is it almost like tribe, trumping nationality? With the African teams it is very easy- who could ever forget the goading of Eto’o with peanuts in Spain and Italy ( to imply that he was a black chimp- yes only a couple of years ago) and his brave retort of dancing like a monkey and his defiant fist cuffed in the instantly recognisable symbol of black power? I will root for this man for whatever team he plays for because of his tenacity. I would have cried. The fact that this was the first World Cup on African soil made it all the more right to will an African team to win. So I backed Nigeria, Ghana, Ivory Coast and South Africa with gusto and felt that I was almost duty bound to do so. Algeria was a bit more difficult. Yes, it is on the African continent, but those of us who lived in France could never forget the sense of difference cultivated between us and them- Arab and Black, as different as A &B even though in some ways we were both patients, suffering the same disease. Still, Africa is Africa. They get a pass.

On the home front, I found that while I support England wholeheartedly (except when commentators mention 1966) I am especially proud when I see Ashley Cole defending, Emile Heskey deflecting, Jermaine Defoe scoring, Shaun Wright-Philips tackling, and David James saving the team from defeat. The Rob Green scuffle? I was gutted for him but just glad it wasn’t a black man who was the fall guy (for once!). Why shouldn’t I be? It was not even 50 years ago that Jack Leslie, a black man, was selected to play for England but was not afforded the opportunity to get on the pitch because of the colour of his skin. It was only in 2005 that Ivoirian Marc Zoro was reduced to tears on the pitch, and as an act of protest, took the ball and threatened to leave the field because of racist taunts from Inter Milan. Bravely, he was convinced to finish the game, but explained later that he had been playing for Italy for three years and that he encountered such daily. It was also only in 2004 that Ashley Cole and Shaun Wright Phillips were taunted with racist insults- the Spanish FA was fined £44,000- peanuts. I have read about the abuse that Paul Canonville faced as the first black player to play for Chelsea from his own fans shouting “we don’t want the nigger” and the bananas landing at his feet-I have no doubt that the almost holy black allegiance to teams like Arsenal and Tottenham stems back to this. Paul explains that this went on for more than two and a half years and even when he scored his own fans shouted “it’s still 0-0 the nigger scored, it doesn’t count”. Notably, his career ended when he got into a pre-season fight with a teammate who called him “a black cock”. He was transferred to Reading.

For all other teams, I am afraid that I do feel the same way as Joyce. Indeed we have come a long way- for example in England, Paul Ince was the first black captain of the England team in 1983 and this weekend we just saw Ashley Cole become the most capped black player for England (80 caps). However, whenever I do not have any particular allegiance to a team, it is true that I support the team which has the most black players. I am sure that there are worse reasons. In fact, I could not think of a better criterion. There are a few genuine multiculturalists who love to say that we now live in a post racial society but they need only have a quick look at the Daily Mail’s vitriol against Germany’s “foreign team” who despite being born in Germany are labelled not true Germans. Also, France’s exit out of the World Cup which was largely blamed on Anelka led to a blanket statement of condemnation from senior ministers of the “scum who grew up on council estates in the banlieue”; he could not have been speaking about any other players other than the players from poor and yes, black, backgrounds who inhabit the cites at the edge of Paris- the same “scum” mind you who brought them to victory no less than a few years ago. In the Caribbean, we have has always appeared unwavering in its support of Brazil- this possibly stemmed from the rise of Pele and his ascendancy as a top player of African hue taking his place not among the best, but as the best. However, whilst I have tremendous respect for the Brazilian side, I must say that their almost caste-like reliance on colour for social ascendancy does not sit very well with me, so my support is grudging.

This is why I shared an almost universal pride for Ghana when it trounced the United States of America yesterday. This one was for Africa, for us. And it was particularly telling that it was the proverbial Black Stars who achieved this- based on the Marcus Garveyite Black Star on the Ghanaian flag- symbol of post colonial liberty. When I visited Ghana I was so impressed by the resilience and warmth of its people, I am not surprised that it is the team charging the way forward. Trite as it might seem, it is really a symbol of what the developing world can do, on near equal footing. Were the game not so passionate, I would say it was probably part of the political machinery to ensure that at least one African team was left standing, and that one African country would charge forward as a beacon pilot project for illustrating the benefits of democracy. Jerome Boateng, who is half German and half Ghanaian, and who opted to play for Germany whilst his half brother Kevin-Prince Boateng played for Ghana must be bereft. I read that the players gathered in the hotel to drum the djembe and sing African battle songs. Our stars are indeed ascending.

A Stormy Future in the Caribbean Basin

On my last sojourn home, I looked out of the windows of the noisy, claustrophobic 747 expecting to be greeted by the youthful but full bosom of green mountain peaks, garlanded by lush green vegetation, almost  like nature’s necklaces across the rich forests. Instead my island looked forlorn- a rustic, dry harmattan brown which painted so sorrowful a disguise that it only confirmed what I did not want to accept- my island in the dry season was a skeleton, a veritable arsonic corpse of its former self.

“You are now free to leave the aircraft. Please take all your belongings with you”.

As if I would leave anything behind me for these wretches who didn’t even want to give me extra peanuts! I leave the airplane, only to wade through the thick, almost impenetrable air that swamped my nostrils and crept over my throat at MBIA- the air was so balmy it didn’t feel like air. Asthma threatened, I struggled to breathe for about one minute. Get a damn grip I told myself. This is your country! Smoky wafts of heat escaped from the pitch.

I jumped in the car where I found my mother waiting, eagerly. “Oh gawd it dam hot” I exclaimed. “Don’t swear” she admonished. I love my mum. She often complained about the heat, but I paid her no mind, neatly filing her complaints about the heat into the miscellaneous “menopausal” cabinet in my mind- it was the cobwebbed compartment that held other complaints- the time it took to drive from Victoria to St. George’s, the little munchkins who stole her carefully tended corn, fencing, and the high mortgage interest rates at the Public Service Credit Union. I started the engine and began the one hour journey across Grenada that was so pleasurable each time I did it when I returned as I was able to see what was new and to hail old, familiar faces. “Plenty plenty jacks coming up- if you see jacks”, was my mum’s commentary as we passed the fishing mecca of Gouyave, referring to a particular species of fish, similar to sprat, that was usually plentiful and was the staple of island life. Jacks were usually very abundant but that year there was an over abundance. Boatfuls and boatfuls of jacks trashed onto our coast and over spilled, to the extent that fishermen could not manage a sale and some were left rotting. Too many jacks to dry, too many jacks to buy- too many to clean and to corn.

Something else was new when I stepped outside and entered my house and the small room that I outgrew a long time ago- there was a persistent vuvuzela-like droning, and I only managed to work out who were the culprits when I noticed purple and red welts on my now ultra sensitive arms and legs. I was insulted that I had stayed away so long even the mosquitoes (and their progeny) did not remember who I was! These wicked beasts, along with the vicious biting sandflies were in full bloom, almost resplendent in their plentifulness and splendour, were I not aggravatedly scratching and itching away. I took a glass of cold water out on my verandah and asked my mother- was it always like this? I do not remember my island to be this hot, the sun’s rays to sting so harshly, the air to be quite so muggy, the ocean so rough, the climate so steamy? It confirmed what I began to suspect. Had we already succumbed to the perils of climate change and global warming?

We have already learned that 2005 was the hottest year on average since records began. Apart from the warmer seas causing more extreme events and activity, warmer waters are already damaging our coral reefs, causing bleaching. The UK Guardian reported on 24 June 2008 that warmer seas and a devastating hurricane season resulted in more than half of the Caribbean’s coral reefs being destroyed. Interestingly, according to a presentation given by Ulric D’Trotz (PhD),developing island states only account for 1% of emissions but will probably experience over 50% of the effects of climate change. In fact, low lying small islands are reported to be the most vulnerable group, and the least adaptable. As such, since we have no control over global mitigation, the strategy seems to be one of resigned adaptation. What a cop-out! Predictions in 2008 were dire: in the next few years we would see sea levels rising- saline intrusions in freshwater aquifers, coastal flooding and erosion. We would also see increased temperatures, increased vectors and vector borne diseases. Our rainfall patterns will change drastically- we would see extended periods of droughts and extended periods of heavy rains. There would be decreased fresh water availability. Storm activity was also expected to be more intense. What is shocking is that a mere 2 years later, some of these “predictions” are already our experiences.

The effects can be far reaching. Apart from an ecosystem that is messed up, this can result in the direct loss of our agricultural and tourism revenues on which almost all Caribbean islands depend. The region would lose its attractiveness and in fact, the milder winters in the North might obviate the need for a retreat to our climes (which might be considered a health risk because it would be infested with mosquitoes anyway). Jobs in the industry would be lost as hotel rooms go empty. Insurance costs of promises close to the shoreline will soar. The Adapting to Climate Change Project for the Caribbean has gone some way to sensitising the public, strengthening technical capacity and training, and developing a business plan to contain the risk. But there seems to be an overwhelmingly complacent attitude of “there is only so much we can do”. Never mind that over 1.4 million people might lose their livelihoods and possibly their lives, due to flooding.

Although the Caribbean Community Climate Change Centre has planned a series of projects to assist in managing the crisis and has launched a series of practical strategies in partnership with the University of Oxford (including Caribsave), there has not been much pressure placed collectively as a region on the more culpable parties (probably because we are too busy prostituting for aid). How much more louder we could have spoken in Copenhagen if we had only one envoy and spoken with one voice?

Strategists consider the costs of inaction to be in the region of 75 per cent of GDP in countries like Grenada, Haiti and Dominica in 2100. This means that unless we come up with alternatives, we are creating a serious crisis for our children. The pundits tell us that all we need is time to come up with viable solutions. I am defiantly cynical. Chances are, with our current track record, the Caribbean will become uninhabitable and time will be the only thing left.

(Photo from triniforums.com. All rights reserved).

Paper Chasers

The word paper is fairly neutral. When we were children, we scribbled on it. We used it to paint, to draw and to create art, with varying degrees of success. I was rubbish at art but I loved paper as there was nothing quite like a clean sheaf on which to scribble my ten year old thoughts. As we grew older, the word paper was adulterated to become synonymous with the cold hard face of currency. Today, the plural form of the word takes on a special significance in the vocabulary of the immigrant. Papers are a whole new currency- it is a hot commodity representing a passport to the right to reside in the developed world. The value of this currency never fluctuates.

There are paper chasers on the streets of Paris: the processions of sans –papiers of Cameroonian men and Ivory Coast women in Barbes-Rochechouart fill the churches of Saint Denis to pray to a God who would wash away old lives and give them new documented ones, in the same way that they fill the bank accounts of unscrupulous avocats who promise every year, next year they will have the legal right to reside and to remain. There are paper chasers in London- Nigerian men and Jamaican women who have overstayed the duration of their permits, armed with either a false British passport or a fake residence permit, or both. They work cash in-hand in hairdressers’ salons in Peckham and on construction sites in Hackney. There are thousands of paper chasers in Brooklyn, New York- Grenadian men and Guyanese women who have literally given up solid, reasonably well paid jobs in the Caribbean or brighter prospects at home, to become one of Patterson’s invisibles- they babysit in New Jersey literally cleaning up the shit after affluent slave-owners employers, they try to fleet in and out unnoticed in Caribbean hair shops and nail shops and takeaways. They make us believe that all is okay with their combination of Baby Phat, lace front weaves, Clarks and Timberlands or all of the above.

Paper chasing has its own rules, its own honour code of conduct and regulations, which vary according to the host country’s norms and mores. I quickly learnt that in the United States, a sophisticated money marriage system exists and it is rare to find a paper marriage for free. When it comes to marriage, there appears to be an irrefutable presumption of illegitimacy. I explained to a friend that someone I knew got married. The immediate question was “Papers?” Wedding photos on Facebook are gossiped and whispered about. More often than not, citizens are paid for their time and trouble, often to sums topping $5000- $10,000. This is presumably to represent the cost of the hassle- mere green card holders do not have permanent rights to reside, so often these arranged marriages subsist for over 7 years to ensure that the deal is seen through to completion. The United States’ Citizenship and Immigration Services is often swiftly on the heels- they require photos showing evidence of long marital life, and I have heard, anecdotally, that the questions they ask require intimate knowledge- what colour is your husband’s toothbrush, what was the colour of the dress you wore on your wedding day? A marriage for papers therefore requires forward planning- an easy familiarity with spouse’s family members and background- it is not for the faint hearted. However, many are unperturbed. I know of citizens who have married three times over to allow spouses to obtain rights to reside. I have heard of couples who plan to migrate and each to marry US citizens to obtain that elusive green card, and then to marry each other after the ordeal. I hope it is worth it and it lasts.

In the UK, there is a more covert, laissez faire approach to paper marriages. There is almost always the ruse of love, and even in cases where there is no ruse- overstayers use the criteria of citizenship to filter out any potential marriage applicants. It is the ultimate economic cost-benefit analysis. What good is it falling in love with someone who cannot help? Older women are often targeted. Lots of Eastern Europeans in economically strained circumstances consent to these marriages and contract them for sums as low as £1,000.

Nothing really surprises me about green card marriages in the US anymore except for the profile of those who overstay and who seek to undertake them. I probably expect them of persons who are unemployed in their home countries or those who really have nothing to lose. College graduates really should know better. Is at home so bad? The bourgeois set from the Caribbean/Africa whose parents sent them abroad every summer. Surely during their many sojourns proper research could have been undertaken as to the myriad ways to enter and to remain legally in the West. Up to two years ago, the UK offered working holiday visas and nanny visas to Caribbean nationals, yet thousands still chose to come through the system illegally. Is it the thrill of the chase or is it pure ignorance, the failure to question and to be informed, accepting this indignity of crouching low in another man’s country as the only way? Papers are ascribed an almost mythical significance- "she ehn fix up yet". Someone I know referred to a mutual friend with a  BA, MA and PhD as "not having shit" on the basis that she did not yet have the permanent right to reside. This, to me, is incredulous.

Many who migrate do not tell us the real story, they present a skewed picture of what they romantically term the “hustle”. They do not tell the truth- that the hustle is really a sale. It is a trade in peace of mind for economic gain, without which many of our families would probably not have advanced, but this does not make the choice any more viable or sane. They do not say that the wheel of the hustle is notoriously difficult to climb atop because there are thousands, if not millions of hustlers running along for that chance, to do the job for longer hours than they would, at a pay vastly cheaper than they would, and yes, probably better than they would. They keep quiet the fact that not many employers would take the risk so that for every yes there are maybe one hundred no’s. That to pay bills and to keep on top of rent and demands at home, the hustle becomes two and three and even four hustles, with no time for rest. They keep it on the down low that they are often paid less than permanent residents for doing the very same job. That unscrupulous rich families in the East side would try to hold on to their passports and make them work for more than their contracted hours because they knew that they do not have a choice. That every hustler knows of at least one mother or father whose sons or daughters died whilst they were abroad and that he/she could not come home to bury their own children. And that yes there are no taxes, but undocumented there is also no NHS, no insurance, no services if you happen fall sick. That the hustle may also involve having sex with a man you do not like or love. That very often you learn to love the man you are having sex with, because only that offers a way out.

I do not judge our paper chasers. I envy their audacity and their resilience. I could not do it. I have too much pride to eat at the crumbs that fall of the table of another man’s country whilst its citizens dine Michelin-style. I judge instead the failure of our own countries to harness the skills of its citizens, to create employment opportunities, to encourage initiative among our people so that it won’t be necessary for us to leave. If all the “hustlers” hustled at the same rate in the same way in their home countries, the Third World would be buzzing with vibrance and economic actitivy. I judge the developed West with its McFoods and McJobs and McEducation that lure us with McPromises. And I hope, that by the Grace of God, I would never be placed in a position where all I feel I can do is to paper chase. No one should.

(Pic from www.paperchase.co.uk. All rights reserved. Paper Chase has nothing to do with paper chasing or illegal immigration).

Oedipus Usher

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Nollywood Dreams

As I write, I am watching a Nigerian film “My Wicked Uncle”. Like any melodrama worthy of its name, it features death, jealousy and cunning. In it, a man dies and his younger brother decides on an ingenious way to inherit his wealth: to sow the seeds of discord between his children and his wife. There is a beautiful introduction, a  jaw biting climax and a  successful denouement.  Such a plot would not be out of place in Hamlet. The same goes for Games Women Play which I watched an hour before- it is a solid tale of treachery, betrayal and the use of feminine wiles that likens itself to a Greek tragedy.

My experience belies the fact that it is tempting when thinking of Nigerian movies to only think about the end product- the mass produced DVDs which hold over 7 “movies” each, usually bought from a street seller on the corners of Harlem, Peckham and Accra. In fact, this is the image held by most of the snobbish bigwigs from the West, who held the Fespaco African film festival in 2007 and did not invite a single Nigerian film maker. They believed Nollywood to be the poor languishing relative in the corner, but in fact, truth was that Nollywood was unable to fit within its self imposed brackets of pseudo-intellectualism.

Truth is Nollywood is big. $236 million dollar big. The second largest film industry in the world big. Nollywood now produces more films than Hollywood, and is second only to Bollywood in terms of numbers of films produced annually. This is no easy feat for a cinematographic industry that began less than ten years ago, moreover for an industry in which actors and actresses often have very limited professional training, shoot from no fixed location, where filming equipment is minimal at best, where there is only one professional film studio and where minimal government support and investment exist. Nollywood manages to churn out hundreds of titles a year (over 800 to be precise) that manage to knock Hollywood blockbusters off the shelves in Africa, the Caribbean and in the greater black Diaspora.

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A Nollywood film shop

It is a modern day example of what Africa can achieve were it given the chance. Today, Nollywood (whose films are not commercially distributed) is responsible for a wave of entrepreneurship in Africa- the film industry employs over 300,000. Hundreds of thousands of men and women sell and resell popular titles in a vast distributorship network. Thousands of African men and women now have jobs as script writers, photographers and many more rent films and are involved in the sale and export of titles. All over the Caribbean and Western, South and Eastern Africa (I do not use the term sub Saharan Africa because I think the use of "sub" reinforces stereotypes) , women and men gather to be entertained by films such as Keeping Faith and Engagement Night. Although the stories are set in Africa, I am often am amazed at the universality of the themes and lessons- the role of the extended family, the triumph of morality over money and vanity, religion as a panacea. However, this is ultimately for-Africa-by Africa, a decidedly home-grown product, and the market is ripe.

Someone I know really grated on me by poking fun at these movies, emphasising that the standard was subpar and hinting that the people who watched them and enjoyed them somehow had questionable tastes. For someone like me, however, who savoured the early books of Samuel Selvon and Earl Lovelace and VS Naipaul primarily because the characters ultimately reflected my experiences, the reality is certainly different. I can only imagine the delight and the comfort that the African community feel when their own storytellers tell their own stories. For every Blood Diamond and Last King of Scotland, told from the voice of an outsider, there are now hundreds of DVDs recording everyday urban life in Africa- the supernatural, the romance, polygamy, economic struggles, rivalry- all told without pretensions and presenting a gritty unpolished truth. The painting may be crude, the hand may be shaky, they may sometimes shade outside the lines, but as a picture of the potential for business in Africa, it makes an indelible mark and is truly inspirational. These films mark a definite break in the over intellectualised didactic Francophone film making that often attempt to present Africa as a study and a sense of other. Africa has never been pretentiously serious. By letting the story triumph over the form, Nollywood appeals to us and unapologetically (and rightfully) so.

It is true that at times, the acting gives rise to pantomime howlers and the technical, sound and lighting skills are markedly amateur. However, even Hollywood, with its hundreds of years of cinematographic history behind it produces a vast number of shoestring films with amateur technology, bland chick flicks and action movies with predictable story lines based on its own popular culture (Kill Bill, Iron Man). Why is it then that when African cultural exploits take centre stage, they are immediately seized on and interpreted as being sub standard? A Nigerian government minister recently complained that there was a penchant to focus on voodoo, crime and advance fee fraud, and that this has harmed the image of Nigeria. Why do our own people indulge in perpetuating an inferiority complex- these films simply mirror some aspects of Nigerian life- a few even elevate to the level of social and anthropological criticism. Class conflicts, racialisation, tribalism and the struggle of immigrants in the West are all attacked with clarity and humorous insight- surely this should be encouraged.

I found it heartening that in a report commissioned by the World Bank and produced by economists Ismail Radwan and Pierre Strauss, I was able to see that the Nigerian economy is not driven by oil (18%), as is commonly perceived- but by industry, agriculture and the service sector. Creative industries lie at that crucial intersection between business, technology and the arts and are recommended as a key area in developing exports, creating jobs and driving the economies of developing countries.

The quality of Nollywood films would definitely improve if there was some investment in film making, training and production and if the legal framework could be ameliorated to protect the intellectual property rights of film makers. The fact that the African film industry has been underinvested is chicken and egg with the lack of availability and high quality.

Nollywood films not only serve as inspiration to other film makers from the continent and beyond as a mere business initiative, but are also an example and a reminder to us that we are the ones who should be telling our stories. Why should Joanna Lumley be taking us on a trip down the Nile? Why are BBC news readers and commentators explaining South Africa to us? Nollywood shows us that our stories are important, and the identity of the author is pivotal- only then perhaps we would see Africa and our cultural identities as they really are, and not as what others with preconceived notions expect them to be.

Yes, I am from the Caribbean but No, I don't smoke weed

The first dinner party I hosted in Europe with a Caribbean theme took place within the my miniscule room situated within the secluded loft of my leafy college, for a few fellow student union members. I remember assiduously cycling to Mill Lane to purchase ripe hands of over-yellow plantains, pungent bottles of caramel browning and jerk sauce, hoping to impress with pure guesswork, my then unhoned culinary skills and a few bottles of overproof rum. It went well – meaning no one was violently and instantly ill) but there was a dip of disappointment as everyone looked expectantly in my direction for the perceived traditional Caribbean petit four of some wacky backy: high grade, home grown weed. I think I was too embarrassed to say that I did not smoke, and I concocted a half hearted excuse of having none “at the moment”. I was petrified to admit the bare truth: I had never smoked weed in my entire life.

Since then, however, I have been surprised at how many people expect me to be a ganja connoisseur. “Surely you were surrounded by it”. Yes. “Is the weed in the Caribbean stronger and purer?” I haven’t the foggiest but I suppose so- we do everything better in the Caribbean. “Can you post us some when you go back?” Heck no. I would probably know where to get it, but they would probably refuse to sell it to me, and then tell my mother who would give me a proper licking, even at my age. So would the woman at the Post Office.

A guy I used to date briefly once complained “You are so goody-goody, so square”, and tried to persuade me to try a cigarette. Asthmatic that I am, I was puffing and huffing at the sheer odour before the darned thing ever had the front to get to my lips. The constant requests for sweet lucy probably means that I have been probably been very unsuccessful in harbouring home the fact that although the Caribbean has a deserved reputation for being ultra cool and chillaxed, the easy-going attitude of its residents has nothing to do with cheeky cannabis. Many are surprised to know that in general, Caribbean culture is very conservative, in fact almost prudish when it comes to attitudes towards drugs and alcohol.

For example, away from the cannabis analysis, beer is not considered to be a woman’s drink. Nice girls would never drink beer. At parties, fetes and social gatherings, most women would have the sweet barley based non-alcoholic malta. For those feeling a bit adventurous, maybe watered down rum and Coke; the more well-heeled would have a glass or two of wine. A woman bearing a Heineken or Carib or Stag proudly (except maybe at Carnival) would be looked upon oddly. (Personally, I don’t care. There is nothing like a beastly cold beer on a hot day.)

Weed, on the other hand, is another thing altogether. It is strange because I quite like the smell. I can match certain childhood memories with its fragrance permeating the air, almost like nature burning her incense. My neighbour was a heavy smoker and he often congregated on the walls of the old battered bakery behind our house with his pals, lighting up several ounces of spliff at a time and ruminating on obscure topics in the indolent and sluggish way that only men who are high can. Smoky billows wafted across, under the gospo tree, and over the wooden fence to provide the sweet-smelling olfactory footage that accompanied me while I was doing my homework. My neighbour across the road sold it and the number of heads that disappeared in between the two stone houses on a daily basis, was like a Catholic procession. The weed disciples would leave the trading temple, stoned, eyes bloodshot but displaying lackadaisical signs of peace. The pungent aroma was never far away on big celebratory occasions and activities. To be honest, on most Sunday afternoons. I often saw large trays of dried marijuana at the home of a friend, whose father built up a steady relationship with la marijeanne. I was somehow, never tempted. I was never presented with it (it would be an affront), and the idea of smoking even a cigarette was so preposterous to me, that it never crossed my mind. None of my friends smoked. Cheeky drinking was more daring, and yes, more acceptable.

Fact is, Caribbean countries’ attitudes towards cannabis varies. The Holy Herb, revered by Rastafarians, occupies a unique musico-cultural and historical significance in Jamaica, for instance. It is by far the largest manufacturer and exporter of marijuana. That is not to say that the official stance is not decidedly miltant, to comply with European and American big stick anti-drug policies. I would say that there is an attitude of grudging tolerance. Contrast St. Vincent and the Grenadines, which after the collapse of the Caribbean banana industry, has occupied a singular place as having the largest and most systematically cannabis fields in the Eastern Caribbean. The topography of hilly mountainous land and the liberal attitude of Prime Minister Ralph Gonsalves easily lend themselves to covert farms in the inaccessible north. Mr Gonsalves was elected on a mandate of “Rastafari, I am your friend” and he currently leads the charge for the decriminalisation of marijuana in the region, especially for those who use it for religious rites. In Grenada, and many of the other Caribbean islands, weed is readily available and sold on the black market although there is a faux militancy about its use and cultivation. A few ganja farmers’ plantations are targeted sporadically to appease the Christian religious communities.

I have a fairly level-headed attitude towards consumption of marijuana. I believe in its decriminalisation for personal consumption for the mere reason I think law enforcement should be freed up to deal with child abuse, sexual abuse, incest, cocaine trafficking and other more serious and harmful offences.. After all, Bill Clinton, David Cameron and Barack Obama all admit to smoking weed and they have not turned out too shabbily.

I do not think it should be legalised, primarily because it would ultimately become useless for income generation, as with all other products, India and China will ultimately flood the markets. There is a hope that perhaps, Caribbean grown cannabis can become like Habanero cigars, a luxury product but the debate on legalisation will come in a subsequent blogpost. For me, however, I am a risk-adverse person so I am unlikely to touch it, especially having heard of and investigated the link between ganja and paranoia, depression, long term memory loss and schizophrenia, especially among young black people. No thank you very much. I can’t help thinking that I might just be that one person who goes off the rails, thinking I can fly after just that one spliff, and I am too much of a scaredy-cat to justify the jeopardy. Let’s just say that the number of young, potentially productive persons I have seen walking around like lethargic zombies, red-eyed crusts of their former selves truly startles me. Call me dull, call me wet around the ears or boring. I can do without this high. Please can I have a bottle of Ruinart instead.