MANY YEARS AGO, my brothers made me an offer. What with my stories, they no longer looked forward to Friday mornings. One brother took to telling people I was a “distant” relative.
“But isn’t he your brother?”
“Well, yeh, but he lives all in St Andrew. Distant!” So they offered to match whatever the Nation was paying if I would stop writing.
They didn’t understand. It has never been the money. It isn’t busloads of people shouting: “Lowdown!” as they pass here. It isn’t a thumbs-up last Tuesday from the nice cashier at Home Improvement on Green Hill. It isn’t a group of sexy young things parking themselves on my lawn one day and sharing intimate, alcohol-induced memories.
It’s none of that. It’s the sub-eds. Nation sub-eds are chosen for their sensual, sultry, viagra-coated voices. We columnists get to interact with them every week. “Ohhh, Mr Hoad, your article is too long!” “No, Mr Hoad, you can’t go there!”
One signs her emails “Sexy T!” On hearing I was sick last week, another offered to come and rub me down. Then she described how on these hot nights she sleeps stark born naked. That did more to revive me than all the other “Dr” treatments I’ve ever had. I’m a pervert, okay?
Enough of that. In a recent lecture Dr Sir Professor Hilary Beckles, or, “Hehusumee”, as I call him, didn’t delve into the dustbin of history, he shook it upside down. Rattling off laws designed to keep down Blacks, he roused the populace like never before. It was his finest hour. Roots, Bajan version.
One lady spoke of the “hatred” she felt, presumably towards whites, declaring that “nothing has changed” for Black people since colonial times. The eminent Carl Moore reported how all ears were “perked up” at hearing that “Barbadians once had to eat rats”. Someone suggested “Sir Hilary should be our next prime minister”.
Reverend Buddy then took us into the dismantling of white supremacy. The Queen, Nelson and a white Jesus who died for Black people must be expunged from our minds. Nello and the Queen are pushovers but he’ll have to ban Jehovah Witness magazines. My last issue has in two white Jesuses.
Mark Williams said we must change names like Strathclyde and Pine Road. Someone else blamed subliminal messages of white superiority on TV.
History tells us Hitler tried intimidation on the Jews, confiscated their wealth and property, encouraged them to leave. When none of that worked, he went for the Final Solution.
Maybe ten days after the Sir Hilary furore, a white businessman was shot dead in cold blood. Coincidence, or Final Solution? The former, of course. Black people have also been killed recently.
So, no panic. But precautions: get your will in order; make yourself right with the Lord; tell the wife you love her and are sorry she didn’t have a better life; tell her to tell the grands how grandad loved them to a fault; and that you want your ashes shaken, not stirred, and scattered by Nicole’s Treescape so you can watch the nightly action.
I see little hope that historical histrionics, government intervention and cosmetic changes will spur black entrepreneurship. I may be wrong. My suggestions would be, first, let our children study the many successful black businesses and see why they thrived. Ditto those that failed.
Secondly, read Sabir Nakhuda’s Bengal to Barbados and learn how penniless Indian immigrants, not speaking any English, transformed themselves into affluent Barbadian businessmen in short order. Did Suleiman Kasooji, Moosa Patel and Ibrahim Bulbulia walk around with British injustices and the dustbins of history on their backs?
Thirdly, Donald Trump is invariably referred to as a “jackass”. Yet he’s a billionaire. A friend of mine is forever recalling his joy at knowing a certain white boy was in the same class as he. He was sure then he could never come last. That jackass became one of our top businessmen. There are many more like him. Why doesn’t the UWI open a Faculty of Jackassery, or Jack-Fac, for would-be business students? Jackasses rule!
Last one: my cellphone rang. Call from daughter’s phone. No one there. Another call, a text message. Then another call.
We checked. Hardy the dog had the phone. Chewed the case. Managed three calls and a text. My hi-tech doggie.
Richard Hoad is a farmer and social commentator. Email porkhoad@gmail.com.