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).

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.