Sunday, September 06, 2026

Questions on PNP and the New Socialism Paradigm

An Open Letter to Mark Golding: A Pragmatist's Appeal for a Refined Democratic Socialism

Lessons from the 1970s, fiscal reality in 2026, and navigating the Monroe Doctrine

Dear Mr. Golding,

I write to you not as a skeptic, but as a firm believer in the transformative potential of democratic socialism. Your recent embrace of this philosophy, building on the legacy of the great Michael Manley, resonates deeply with those of us who have long felt that Jamaica's economic model has failed to place the people at its centre.

However, I write as a pragmatist who believes that for this vision to succeed in 2026, it must be refined, nuanced, and exceptionally agile in the face of global variables. Your recent address was inspiring, yet it raised critical questions that demand substantive answers if this project is to avoid the pitfalls of the past and navigate the complexities of the present. I ask these questions not to cast doubt, but to build a foundation for a credible and workable plan.




1. The Lessons of the 1970s: A Blueprint for Caution

You rightly invoked the legacy of Michael Manley. But the 1970s experiment also provides a stark blueprint of the internal and external challenges that can cripple a well-intentioned socialist project. By 1980, Jamaica had experienced significant economic contraction and high unemployment. The Land Reform program faced substantial circumvention, and state-run cooperatives saw production plummet.

The question is not whether we should learn from this history, but how a modern PNP administration will avoid the same internal and external pitfalls that undermined that era's goals. How will we ensure that new social programs don't collapse under patronage, indiscipline, or poor execution? Your vision of a "bottom-up" economy is compelling, but its success depends on the integrity and capacity of the state machinery to implement it effectively.


2. Fiscal Reality and State Capacity in 2026

The fiscal landscape today is dramatically different. Jamaica has just weathered Hurricane Melissa, a Category 5 storm that caused an estimated US$8.8 billion in damage—approximately 41% of GDP. This has created an urgent balance of payments need, and Jamaica has had to seek US$415 million in emergency financing from the IMF, with a projected fiscal deficit of 4.8% of GDP for FY2026/27.

Your proposals for expanded social programs, first-in-family university scholarships, and land titling are laudable, but they require a fiscally sound foundation. Where will the funding come from in this constrained environment?

To your point, the tax expenditure system itself requires scrutiny. "Other credits" accounted for nearly 19% of net corporate income tax in recent years, representing billions in foregone revenue. Your suggestion to reform the tax system is correct, but we must ask: How will a new administration broaden the tax base and ensure compliance without stifling the investment needed for recovery?

Furthermore, the state's capacity to deliver has been called into question. The "hollowing out" of the public sector presents a fundamental obstacle to implementing a bold new social agenda. How will the PNP rebuild the state machinery to execute its vision? Proposals like the electronic invoicing system to improve tax compliance are a step in the right direction, but they require a highly functioning bureaucracy. This must be operationalized long before an election.


3. Navigating the Geopolitical Reality: The Monroe Doctrine is Not a Ghost

Your vision of economic independence must contend with the enduring reality of the Monroe Doctrine. This is not 1970s history; it is today's headline.

In March 2026, Jamaica announced it would end its five-decade-long medical cooperation programme with Cuba. The government cited "inability to agree on terms," but this decision came amid intense pressure from the U.S., which has labelled the Cuban medical missions as "human trafficking."

Foreign Minister Johnson Smith insists there was no U.S. influence, but the geopolitical context is undeniable. This decision has significant implications for our healthcare system and our regional relationships. If a future PNP administration faces similar pressure on its policies, how will it navigate the tension between pursuing an independent, people-centred foreign policy and managing the critical relationship with our primary trading partner?

The challenge is acute. Golding's democratic socialism, by its nature, seeks to put people's interests ahead of powerful groups and nations. This is a noble goal, but it will inevitably create friction. How will the party prepare for and manage this friction without being isolated or forced into capitulation, thus repeating the challenges of the 1970s?


Conclusion: A Call for Substance

Your vision is a powerful and necessary one. But as you've noted, the times have changed. We are in a post-hurricane crisis, with a fragile fiscal position and a complex geopolitical landscape. The PNP's response cannot be merely rhetorical; it must be a detailed and nuanced strategy that addresses these core challenges.

I and many other supporters of democratic socialism seek not a "great leader" to rally behind, but a pragmatic, forward-thinking plan that can be operationalized and sold to the Jamaican people. I believe such a plan exists, and I ask that you elaborate on it so we can go forward together with confidence, not just hope.

Yours in solidarity and pragmatism,

Yannick Pessoa


Disclaimer: This article represents the personal views of the author and is intended as a constructive contribution to public discourse on Jamaica's political and economic future.

#MarkGolding #PNP #DemocraticSocialism #JamaicaPolitics #MichaelManley #Jamaica #CaribbeanPolitics #PoliticalReform #EconomicPolicy #MonroeDoctrine #HurricaneMelissa #IMF #FiscalPolicy #StateCapacity #ForeignPolicy #SocialJustice #PeopleCentred #JamaicaRecovery #Geopolitics #OpenLetter

Say Goodbye to Publisher, My Friend: A Jamaican Graphic Designer Remembers the Hustle

When I heard that Microsoft is finally killing off Publisher next month, I nearly drop my spliff. After 35 years, the little desktop publishing workhorse that helped a whole heap of Caribbean creatives look more professional than we really were is heading to the great recycle bin in the sky.

Back in the day in Jamaica, before Canva made everybody a “designer” overnight, and long before Affinity decided to be free and give us a break, it was Publisher and the CorelDRAW suite that kept the lights on. I downloaded both off Pirate Bay more times than I can count. That is just the reality. When business is slow and a $300 software licence could cover two weeks’ rent plus a little food, you are not buying it legal. You pirate it, you work, you deliver, and you hope the client pays on time. The cinema used to run those long piracy ads with the skull and the “you wouldn’t steal a car” voiceover. We used to laugh in the dark. Brother, we would steal the car, the gas, and the radio if it meant the flyer got done by Friday.

Publisher was special though. It was simple enough that a youth from the country could figure it out without a degree, yet powerful enough to make a church anniversary booklet look like it came from a real print house. I remember one Sunday night, 11:45 pm, the pastor called me frantic: “The programme for the thanksgiving service printed wrong, all the names mash up, and the service is 9 o’clock in the morning!” I fired up Publisher, dragged and dropped, fixed the columns, dropped in the church logo that was somehow still a low-res JPEG from 2007, exported to PDF, and sent it to the printer who opened special for me. By 7 am the programmes were ready. Pastor hugged me like I just saved the whole congregation. That night Publisher earned its keep.

Another time a dancehall artiste needed album artwork and street posters in 48 hours. Budget? “Mi a go pay you when the show done, bredrin.” Classic. I mashed up something clean in Publisher, faked a little gold foil effect that looked expensive on the cheap paper, and the posters still looked sharp under the streetlight. The show sold out. I’m still waiting on the full balance, but that is another story.

We used to pass Publisher files around like mixtapes. Somebody in Kingston had the cracked version with the full template pack, somebody in Montego Bay had the better font collection, and by the end of the week half the island’s graphic designers were running the same setup. It was guerrilla design at its finest. Slow internet, power cut mid-export, virus from the latest “crack,” yet somehow the wedding invitation, the school yearbook, the political campaign flyer, and the Sunday school certificate still came out looking respectable.

Eventually the stress of broken installs, missing features, and the constant fear that the next Windows update would kill the crack pushed me fully open source. Scribus, Inkscape, GIMP, LibreOffice. Steeper learning curve at first, but once you lock it, nobody can take it away, and the only licence you need is your own skill. Still, I have a soft spot for Publisher. It was the first software that made me feel like a real graphic designer instead of just a youth with a computer and big dreams.

So as October comes and Microsoft finally pulls the plug, I’m raising a glass to the little app that carried so many of us through the lean years. It wasn’t perfect, it wasn’t legal half the time, but in the Caribbean hustle it was family. Rest easy, Publisher. You did your work. We salute you!!!

List of My Top Fifteen (15) Fave Indie and Foreign Films

15 Films That Explain My Weird Taste in Cinema

A Personal Journey Through the Films That Shaped My Cinematic Soul

I have never had what you might call conventional taste in movies.

Don't get me wrong. I like a good blockbuster as much as the next man. Give me explosions, spaceships, superheroes, dinosaurs and a sufficiently unreasonable budget and I can find a way to enjoy myself.

But the films that really stick with me tend to be a little... different. Foreign films. Independent films. Historical films. Religious films. Martial-arts films. Animated films about extremely strange people. British gangster films where everybody owes everybody money. American comedies about socially maladjusted people. Films about colonialism. Films about identity. Films that make me laugh while somebody is quietly having an existential crisis in the background.

Looking over some of my favourites, I realise that I don't really have a genre. I have a preoccupation.

I like outsiders. I like people caught between cultures. I like underdogs. I like people navigating systems that are bigger than them. I like absurdity with something serious underneath it. And apparently I also like movies in which people get themselves into increasingly ridiculous situations because somebody thought they could make some quick money.

So here are 15 films that probably explain my cinematic brain better than I could.


1. Rabbit-Proof Fence — Australia

Rabbit-Proof Fence movie poster

This was one of the films that really opened my eyes to the power of historical cinema. And its a tearjerker!

Rabbit-Proof Fence tells the story of Molly, her younger sister Daisy and their cousin Gracie, three Aboriginal girls taken from their families under Australia's assimilation policies. They escape and begin an extraordinary journey home, following the rabbit-proof fence across Western Australia.

And that is almost all you need. Three girls. A fence. The Australian outback. And a government determined to make sure they don't get home.

There is something devastating about the simplicity of it. The fence itself becomes almost a metaphor. Something built by a colonial society to control animals becomes the means by which the children navigate their way back to freedom.

I love historical films that don't need to shout. This one simply lets you walk. And walk. And walk. Until the political meaning of that journey becomes impossible to ignore. I heard about it from my cousin Camara and her husband at the time Thura/Tupac.


2. They Cloned Tyrone — USA

They Cloned Tyrone movie poster

Now we're going in a completely different direction. Or perhaps we're not.

Because They Cloned Tyrone is basically what happens when Afrofuturism, blaxploitation, conspiracy theory and social criticism get drunk together.

John Boyega, Jamie Foxx and Teyonah Parris form an unlikely trio investigating a sinister conspiracy in their neighbourhood.

The brilliance is that the movie is funny. Very funny. But underneath the humour is some genuinely uncomfortable material about behavioural conditioning, consumer culture, surveillance and the manipulation of Black communities.

It asks the sort of question conspiracy theorists love: What if somebody really is pulling the strings? But then it asks the more interesting question: What if the strings aren't quite where you thought they were?

As somebody who has spent a considerable amount of time thinking about Afrofuturism, technology and Black futures, this movie was practically designed to crawl into my head and rearrange the furniture.


3. Napoleon Dynamite — USA

Napoleon Dynamite movie poster

This movie is gloriously stupid. I mean that with tremendous affection.

Napoleon Dynamite was an actual American independent film, directed by Jared Hess and made on a tiny budget before becoming a surprisingly big success.

And what I love about it is that nobody seems particularly interested in being normal. Napoleon is weird. Pedro is weird. Kip is weird. Uncle Rico is weird. Everybody is weird. And nobody really gets "fixed."

That's important. Hollywood normally wants the outsider to undergo a transformation. The nerd becomes cool. The ugly duckling becomes beautiful. The loser becomes a winner. Napoleon Dynamite basically says: What if everybody just remained weird? And somehow that is enough.


4. Thank You for Smoking — USA

Thank You for Smoking movie poster

This is one of those movies I appreciate more the older I get.

Nick Naylor is a tobacco-industry spokesman whose job is essentially to argue for something that everybody knows is difficult to defend. His weapon isn't facts. It's rhetoric. And that distinction is important. Because winning an argument and establishing the truth are two completely different activities. I'd show this to any philosophy student as a masterclass on what Sophistry is.

Thank You for Smoking is a satirical black comedy about lobbying, spin and persuasion, based on Christopher Buckley's novel.

I particularly enjoy the film because it understands something that journalists, politicians, advertisers and public-relations people learn very quickly: you don't always have to prove that you're right. Sometimes you just have to make the other person less certain that you're wrong. That is a frighteningly useful skill.


5. Snatch — UK

Snatch movie poster

Guy Ritchie understands one fundamental law of storytelling: If everybody in the movie is an idiot, give them complicated plans.

Snatch is crime cinema as a pinball machine. Money goes missing. Diamonds go missing. People get double-crossed. People double-cross the people doing the double-crossing. And somewhere in the middle of all this is Brad Pitt speaking a language that appears to have been invented specifically to confuse the English. I saw this in the theatre with a Trini girlfriend who I almost had to thump in her "griblings" for ogling and drooling at Brad Pitt in a brief... ew!

As for the show... I love the energy. The editing. The dialogue. The characters. The sheer Britishness of it. And underneath all the chaos is something I find fascinating: an entire informal economy operating through hustles, gambling, stolen goods, violence and personal relationships. Basically capitalism without the PowerPoint presentation.


6. Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels — UK

Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels movie poster

If Snatch is the polished version, Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels is the garage-band version. Actually I watched this after Snatch because Snatch was so good.

This was Guy Ritchie's feature debut, about a card player who loses a fortune in a rigged game and has a week to find the money. And then, naturally, everything goes to hell.

The plot is basically a Rube Goldberg machine constructed out of gangsters, gamblers, thieves, weed growers, loan sharks and people who have made very poor financial decisions.

Which brings me to another reason I enjoy these films. I have a weakness for stories in which somebody says: "I have a plan." And the audience immediately knows: No you don't.


7. Ip Man — Hong Kong

Ip Man movie poster

Then we get serious. This one is another tearjerker!

Ip Man is a 2008 Hong Kong martial-arts film directed by Wilson Yip and starring Donnie Yen as the Wing Chun master.

And yes, there are spectacular fight scenes. But that's not really why I love it.

What interests me is the idea of disciplined strength. Ip Man doesn't need to walk around telling everybody how powerful he is. He knows. That is a different kind of masculinity.

The film also places that martial discipline against the historical trauma of Japanese occupation. So the fights become about more than fighting. They become about dignity. Humiliation. National identity. Resistance. And the question of what happens to a person's sense of self when another power decides it has the right to dominate them. SPOILER ALERT, the 10 vs 1 fight scene, no other fight scene beats that for me!


8. War of the Arrows — South Korea

War of the Arrows movie poster
This is the first film I have ever watched that made me feel breathless in its pace and how dogged they hunt the protagonist. I couldn't rest as the hero couldn't rest. I've never watched a show where the hero make me run with him breathlessly to the end. The only rest he gets is momentarily when a tiger takes some of the enemies off his back.

War of the Arrows is a 2011 South Korean historical action film set after the Qing invasion of Joseon. Its protagonist is an archer trying to rescue his sister after she is taken into slavery.

And what a film. The thing I love about it is that the hero's greatest weapon isn't brute strength. It's skill. Distance. Terrain. Patience. Accuracy. The landscape itself becomes part of the weapon.

There is something deeply satisfying about watching an apparently outmatched person discover that he doesn't have to become stronger than his enemy. He just has to become smarter.


9. Warriors of the Rainbow: Seediq Bale — Taiwan

Warriors of the Rainbow: Seediq Bale movie poster

Warriors of the Rainbow: Seediq Bale is a Taiwanese historical epic about the Seediq people and the 1930 Musha Incident during Japanese colonial rule in Taiwan. This is a mighty long watch and for some reason the protagonist in this show, the first part of the epic, he reminds me of Tommy Lee Sparta, in his youth and his violent imagery and ruthlessness. It's his face on the poster.

This is a serious piece of cinema. And it is brutal. The film deals with colonisation, cultural suppression, resistance, identity and violence without reducing everything to a convenient morality tale.

What particularly interests me is the Indigenous perspective. The Seediq are not simply scenery in somebody else's history. They are the people whose history this is.

Coming from the Caribbean, that distinction matters. We know what it means to inherit a history in which the coloniser often gets to write the first draft. Films like this remind us that there are always other drafts.


10. Rapa Nui — Easter Island

Rapa Nui movie poster

Rapa Nui is another film I have to classify carefully. This is one of those shows you wake up late night and you see it on Cinemax or HBO and you watch it because you are up and then the slow burn hooks you into the history of a people. 

It is actually an American/Australian production directed by Kevin Reynolds and produced by Kevin Costner, rather than a foreign film in the strict sense. It is, however, set on Rapa Nui — Easter Island — and draws heavily on Rapa Nui legends, particularly the Birdman competition.

And this is where the film becomes interesting to me. It is a story about competition, hierarchy, ecology, religion and social order. It also raises the familiar question about environmental collapse.

But there is an important caveat: the film's historical reconstruction is highly debatable. Even the idea that ecological destruction straightforwardly caused the collapse of Rapa Nui society is much more complicated than the popular version of the story suggests.

That actually makes me like it more. Because a good historical film doesn't have to give you the final answer. Sometimes it gives you a question.


11. The Last Temptation of Christ — USA/Canada

The Last Temptation of Christ movie poster

Now we get into territory where I am less interested in historical accuracy than philosophical provocation. Man I remember my parents watching it and cautiously sending kids away. But it piqued my curiosity enough to mark it down on my one-day-I-must-watch list. Man this show is really a crazy theosophical and theological deep dive. Not for the faint of heart.

Martin Scorsese's The Last Temptation of Christ is based on Nikos Kazantzakis's controversial novel and stars Willem Dafoe (Green Goblin) as Jesus. It explores fear, doubt, temptation, human desire and the conflict between Jesus' humanity and his divine mission.

And yes, it caused an enormous controversy. But controversy isn't really what interests me.

The fascinating thing is the premise itself. What happens when you stop treating Jesus only as an icon and start asking what it might mean for him to experience the psychological burdens of being human? That is a philosophical question. And philosophy has always been much more interested in uncomfortable questions than comfortable answers.


12. Jesus Christ Superstar — USA/Israel

Jesus Christ Superstar movie poster

This is another movie that probably looks completely out of place on a list like this. Until you watch it.

Jesus Christ Superstar is a 1973 American musical directed by Norman Jewison, based on the Tim Rice/Andrew Lloyd Webber musical. It was shot entirely in Israel, using locations including the Dead Sea, Avdat, Bet Shean and the Judean Desert.

And I love how strange it is. It doesn't look like the Sunday-school Jesus movie. It looks like somebody took a rock musical, transported it to the biblical landscape and said: "Let's see what happens."

The result is theatrical, psychedelic, irreverent and surprisingly psychologically sophisticated.

And Judas becomes particularly interesting. Because the story isn't simply: Jesus good. Judas bad. It is about loyalty, politics, fear, friendship, betrayal and the terrifying consequences of believing that you understand history better than everybody else.

Where as The Last Temptation Christ was serious and intense, sometime this movie can come off as funny, flippant and trite, it does as serious questions about Jesus's relationships rather than Jesus per se.


13. Forrest Gump — USA

Forrest Gump movie poster

Okay. Now I'm going to cheat.

Because Forrest Gump is absolutely not an independent or foreign film. It is mainstream Hollywood. Big studio. Tom Hanks. Oscar-winning blockbuster. The whole nine yards.

But I'm putting it here anyway. Because this isn't supposed to be a film-school taxonomy. It's supposed to be my list. And this show feels independent, its a departure from Hollywood mainstream sensibilities.

And Forrest Gump is one of those movies I find difficult to dismiss because of how effectively it turns one man's seemingly ordinary life into a tour through American history. Vietnam. The civil-rights era. The counterculture. Watergate. The Cold War. American capitalism. Celebrity. Trauma. Love. Loss. And shrimp. Lots of shrimp.

What makes Forrest interesting isn't simply that he is innocent. It's that he moves through history without fully understanding the ideological machinery surrounding him. Everybody else is trying to explain America. Forrest just keeps running through it.


14. Cinema Paradiso — Italy/France

Cinema Paradiso movie poster

Now we get to one of the great love letters to cinema.

Cinema Paradiso is a 1988 Italian-French film by Giuseppe Tornatore about a boy's friendship with an aging projectionist in a small Sicilian town.

This is a movie about movies. But really it is about memory. Growing up. Leaving home. Returning home. And the strange way childhood attaches itself to places that cannot remain unchanged. 

There is something particularly beautiful about the idea of a cinema being the centre of a community. People come there to laugh. Cry. Fall in love. Escape. Imagine. For a little while, the whole town shares one dream.

And then time moves on. That's the part that hurts. Because eventually every Cinema Paradiso becomes something we remember. For some reason it reminds me of Jeremy Jahns that film review YouTube guy, like this could have been his origin story in another dimension somewhere out there in the multiverse.


15. The Triplets of Belleville — France/Belgium/Canada

The Triplets of Belleville movie poster

Finally, something completely bananas.

The Triplets of Belleville is a 2003 animated adventure-comedy directed by French filmmaker Sylvain Chomet and produced through an international partnership involving France, Belgium, Canada and the UK.

And I adore it. It barely needs dialogue. The characters look bizarre. The world looks bizarre. The humour is bizarre. The music is bizarre. Everything is bizarre. And somehow it is beautiful. It just reminds me of the French Cat of Warner Bros. and Chuck/Charles M. Jones cartoon style I used to love as child in the 80's. The art of Jones had a very jazz and philosophical mood and undertone and I find some of that in this. Something about reminds me of the past and maybe my mother and her 2 main sisters, and how as child people would ask me, "Are they Triplets?"

This is animation reminding you that you don't have to make everything look realistic to make it emotionally real. Sometimes a character with a nose like a potato and legs like coat hangers can communicate more humanity than a thousand CGI superheroes.


So What Does This Say About Me?

Looking at this list, I realise that my taste in cinema isn't really about whether something is "indie," "foreign," "Hollywood," "art house" or "mainstream." Those categories are useful for film distributors. They aren't particularly useful for explaining obsession.

What connects these films is something else. They are about people navigating worlds that don't quite fit them.

Aboriginal children trying to get home. A Black neighbourhood discovering something sinister beneath its surface. A weird kid trying to survive high school. A tobacco lobbyist turning rhetoric into a weapon. Gangsters trying to untangle their own stupidity. A martial artist defending dignity. A Korean archer turning terrain into strategy. Taiwanese Indigenous people resisting colonial domination. An island wrestling with ecological and social pressures. Jesus wrestling with the burden of being Jesus. Judas wrestling with what he thinks history requires of him. An ordinary man accidentally wandering through American history. A projectionist preserving the magic of cinema. And three eccentric old women going after a kidnapped cyclist.

Apparently, that's my thing. People trying to find their way through somebody else's world.

Maybe that's why I gravitate toward films from outside the conventional Hollywood template. They often remind me that there is no single way to tell a story. No single way to understand history. No single way to imagine identity. And no single way to make a damn good movie.

Sometimes you need a $200-million blockbuster. Sometimes you need Donnie Yen kicking somebody through a wall. Sometimes you need three Aboriginal girls following a fence home. And sometimes you just need Napoleon Dynamite dancing like his life depends on it.

Cinema is a big place. I intend to keep wandering around in it.

_______


#FilmAnalysis, #CinematicObsession, #WorldCinema, #FilmNerd, #MovieLists, #ForeignFilmLover, #IndieFilm, #GuyRitchie, #MartialArtsMovies, #HistoricalEpics, #RastafariCinema, #FilmCriticism, #WeirdMovieTaste

Sunday, August 23, 2026

Ode to Tanya Stephens

Thank You, Tanya Stephens: The Sunday a Song Under the Tree Forced Me to Look Again


As I write this I passed a sign this morning enroute to the beach showing Tanya Stephens will be at Sunday Soul at Harbour City tonight. Serendipitous I thought as this article has been stewing in my psyche for a few days. You know music is the soundtrack of our lives. For me it is kind of like reading the news or maybe the tea leaves, it's a way to keep abreast of the public psyche and general consciousness of the nation. So granted am not a fan of girly songs and girly music, I have many female artists I think were monumental, Melanie Safka, Nina Simone, Tracy Chapman, Randy Crawford, Alanis Morrisette, Janis Joplin, Joni Mitchel, Tina Turner... you have some women that moved as they seemed to speaking deeply to social circumstances or to personal issues of womanhood that demanded an ear. Tanya Stephens I find has been Jamaica's most intellectually challenging female artist for me. I know she doesn't like comparison or particular artistes but I found Lady Saw to be an intimidating challenge to male sexuality and sexual energy, Tanya was an intimidating challenge to the male psyche, locally.

We treat music like background noise most days. It drifts while we smoke, while we sit under trees pretending we already know everything about women, about fucking, about what makes a body answer. Then one lyric walks straight into the middle of your chest and refuses to leave until it has rearranged the furniture.


That is what Tanya Stephens did to me one Sunday noon at UWI.

I was under a tree, smoke curling, mind half-gone. From a flat called Belgique the music floated across the yard like it owned the place. Then her voice cut through clean:

Have you ever stop to think a wah make a gal cum?

I answered in my head right away.

No.

Not because I was inexperienced. I had stacked the answers high. Christian puberty books that talked around the thing. My mother’s Cosmo with its twelve sex secrets every month. Penthouse spreads and elaborate if not exaggerated literature. And the real curriculum — dancehall. She want it hard. Me wuk ar mek she moan and groan. Agony a wah the young gal want. That was the gospel I took in full. We have a motto or moniker I learned in my community, "Give gal backaz and so so crackers!" and "Hammer, hammer, hammer, constant knocking!" Now I know to some degree those were funny exaggerations but it had a the kernel of truth about Jamaican sexual reality.

My first real tutor at eighteen sealed it. Hard backshot. Deep, driving, no-mercy strokes that pulled bomboklaat straight out of her throat. She used to beg for it. Request it. Love the way it slammed the air out of her and left her shaking. I learned that language fluently — the pounding, the force, the wet slap of skin, the way a woman’s body could be made to curse and open at the same time. I thought that was the full map. It would be years later before Bounty Killer would instruct us that "Sex is like art so mi have nuff pattern!" Then I had only one pattern. The school of "one cent, five cent, ten cent dollar dollar dollar!" that continues to this day as the School of Daggering!

By the time I reached university and women started telling me I wasn’t sensual enough, I heard code. I translated it as eat the pumpum. I never heard the actual plea underneath: slow down, feel me, stay present, stop treating my body like a drum to be beaten until it screams. I had been trained in impact. I knew how to make her say bomboklaat. I did not yet know how to make her melt without the pure force.

Until that Sunday. On Preston Hall. Sitting under a tree. Between Amsterdam and Belgique. A little up from Porto Santo.

The lyric did not scold. It simply asked the question I had never asked myself while I was busy performing hardness. All the books, the magazines, the dancehall anthems, the early nights of requested backshot — they had taught me how to make a woman react. Almost none of it had taught me how to make her feel. The difference is not small. One is performance. The other is presence. One is force. The other is attention that does not flinch from softness.

Tanya Stephens specialises in that kind of interruption. She walks into the room where the men are loudest and asks the thing they have trained themselves not to examine. She does not remove the heat. She just refuses to let the heat stay stupid.

I did not become a different man under that tree in one afternoon. Real change is slower and more stubborn. But the song drove a permanent crack into the certainty I carried. It forced me to notice the gap between making a woman curse from the impact and making her open because she feels held, wanted, studied. It made every earlier complaint from women land differently in memory. What I had dismissed as coded requests for tongue had often been something far more demanding: be here with me. Feel what I feel. Stop guessing.

Music that only entertains is easy. Music that corrects you while the bass is still rolling is rarer. Tanya Stephens gave me that correction on an ordinary Sunday while I sat under a tree thinking I already knew the full shape of pleasure. She would later give all my sidekicks ammunition when I was in the party and some selector would drop "It's a pity". Man I tell you it can be creepy you in a dance with your woman and that song drop and three pairs of eyes jook you one time, and everybody a sing the song with meaning and put in an extra wine, for your viewing pleasure or sorrow. She even armed wives and women with "these streets don't love you like I do!" A song that I am sure seduced many a man to stay in, and who knows maybe save their lives. I just know it could be a nuisance when you a hunt money for the tribe and your woman a bludgeon you with that song. Anyway she has been a true intellectual combatant, not one I necessarily agree with all the time but one I respect her lyrical craft and how she infuses clever lyrics with deep philosophical enquiry, that still carries deep sexual tension and energy.

So here is to "have you ever stop to think was make a gal cum"... For the question that still echoes every time assumption tries to replace attention, for the way it made me look again at the hard backshot my girl used to beg for and ask what else might live beside it — I remain grateful.

Thank you, Tanya.  

You did not soften the truth.  

You just made sure I finally felt it.

Saturday, August 22, 2026

Ode to Beres Hammond

Give Thanks, Beres Hammond

How “Putting Up Resistance” Taught Me About Love, Sacrifice and Resilience

We often talk about music as entertainment. We remember the songs we danced to, the ones that soundtracked first loves, heartbreaks and celebrations. But some songs do something quieter and more lasting. They prepare us for life.

One of those songs, for me, is Beres Hammond’s “Putting Up Resistance.”

I grew up in Montego Bay in the 1980s in a house where music mattered. My mother adored Beres. His albums sat in a place of honour alongside Air Supply, Bob Dylan, Simon & Garfunkel and Sam Cooke—on vinyl and cassette. “Putting Up Resistance” became part of the soundtrack of my childhood.

What still strikes me is that, unlike so many songs we only grow into as adults, this one spoke to me right away. The message wasn’t beyond a child’s understanding. It made sense because I was already watching it unfold every day.

My father would leave home at three or four in the morning, driving deep into the Jamaican countryside to buy produce and goods before the rest of us had opened our eyes. He was supplying hotels and customers, working tirelessly to build a business and create opportunities for his family that he himself had never had.

As a child, I missed him when he was gone.

Then I heard Beres sing about wanting to stay home with his family while recognising that staying home would not make things right. Those words helped me understand my father’s sacrifice. They taught me that love is not always measured by the hours spent at home. Sometimes love looks like leaving before dawn so your children can have a better life.

"Blow wind blow, blow wind blow

I want to stay home tonight

I long to spend some time with the family

But staying home won't make it right

Sometimes the pressure make me feel like bawling

When every sign says no way out

Breaking my back to make an overtime dollar

That just goes from hand to mouth"

That was the first lesson.

The second proved even more enduring.

The song acknowledges something every Jamaican knows but few songs express so plainly: there are times when it feels as though unseen forces continually frustrate honest effort. Bureaucracy, economic hardship, disappointment and circumstance can create the sense that the odds are permanently tilted against ordinary people.


"No I never can understand it 

The way the system goes, (pressure) 

I don't know how they do it 

There's only one way things flow 

'Cause every time I lift my head above water 

And try to save myself from drown 

There's an overnight scheme all worked out 

Designed to keep ah me down 

 Still I'm I'm putting up a resistance, yeah"

Yet the brilliance of “Putting Up Resistance” is that it refuses to stop there. It does not deny hardship. It does not pretend the system is always fair. Instead, it insists that surrender is not the answer.

Those words have echoed through every stage of my adult life.

As a journalist, community activist, husband and father, I have encountered enough setbacks to become cynical. There have been moments when it would have been easy to conclude that nothing changes, that hard work is futile, that integrity is for fools. Every time those thoughts crept in, I remembered the spirit of that song.

It taught me something invaluable: I could recognise injustice without allowing it to poison my character. I could acknowledge the difficulties of the Jamaican condition without becoming bitter about them. I could keep believing that honest effort still matters.

That is no small gift.

We celebrate artists for their awards, chart success and sold-out concerts. We speak less often about the quiet ways they shape the moral imagination of a nation. Looking back, I realise that while my father showed me what perseverance looked like, Beres Hammond gave me the language to understand it. He put melody to discipline. He gave rhythm to resilience. He transformed the daily struggle of ordinary Jamaicans into something dignified rather than despairing.

I suspect I am not alone. There must be thousands of Jamaicans who unknowingly carried lessons from his music into adulthood. Songs like “Putting Up Resistance” were more than recordings. They were companions. They reminded us that endurance is not weakness, that perseverance is not naïveté, and that hope is itself an act of resistance.

So this is simply an expression of gratitude.

Thank you, Mister Hammond, for reminding a young Jamaican boy that life would be difficult without convincing him it was hopeless. Thank you for helping me understand my father’s sacrifices while he was still making them. And thank you for proving that sometimes the greatest gift an artist can give is not escape from reality, but the courage to face it.

Tuesday, August 18, 2026

The Digital Self: A Caribbean Meditation on Intelligence Unbound


The Sea Is Thinking Again

Notes from a Jamaican night on cognition, AI, and the dividual self

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In the velvet embrace of a Jamaican night, where the Caribbean Sea hums its ancient lullabies and the croaking lizards click and call as baying dogs chant psalms to the moon, I find myself again at this weathered desk, my third world outpost of sorts. The glow of my Linux terminal bleeds into the darkness, a digital campfire around which my motley crew gathers—actuarial scientists whispering equations like love sonnets, mass communicators dissecting propaganda, international relations dreamers mapping utopias. We are post-post modern children of the postcolony, our minds marinated in code and Marcus Garvey, in Turing tests and Toni Morrison. Our brains grew up on the matrix and in it, on a diet of DC and Marvel comics and puppy stories. We argue about AI over Red Stripe and jerk spice, our voices tangling with the crickets, toads and cicadas. This is how I’ve always known thinking: not as solitary confinement inside a skull, but as a shared breath, a reasoning together—like my grandmother’s yard meetings where politics was plotted under the mango tree. Ideation is community discourse for me, what good is an idea if it only serves me.

I came to cognition through a Commodore 64 in the ’80s, its glowing green cursor blinking like a secular prayer. Even then, I sensed that intelligence was not some caged bird in the bone cathedral of the brain, but something fluid—a current that could arc between machines and mango trees, between the dub poetry of Linton Kwesi Johnson and the janky basic scripts I wrote to play Pac-man. Now, in my 40s, I see it clearly: AI is not the end of human thought. It is the reckoning.

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Key Points

- Cognition is a dialect, not a destination.

- The self was never singular; we are dividual—composed of others.

- AI reveals intelligence as a collective ritual—a dance we now share with machines.

- The colonial mind fractures. The archipelago of thought begins.

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I. Of Ghosts and Machines: A Postcolonial Calculus

For centuries, Europe told us that thinking was a private sacrament—a lone white man in a lab coat, “discovering” truths already known to Maroon elders in the Blue Mountains. They measured skulls like plantation plots, conflating cortex size with cosmic worth (JAMA, 1925). But in the yard, we knew better. Cognition was never contained. It lived in the drum-circle’s polyrhythm, in the market woman’s haggling, in the Rasta’s hermeneutics of scripture and spliff. When ChatGPT spits verse in patois, or Grok maps the grief in a dancehall lyric, they are not mimicking our intelligence. They are echoing what the Ubuntu philosophers knew: “I am because we are.”

The AI systems I tinker with—these “large language models”—are not thinkers. They are possessed. Not by ghosts, but by the collective exhale of a million human voices: enslaved Africans murmuring survival strategies, Indian indentured workers bending Bhojpuri into Creole, Chinese shopkeepers calculating resilience. These machines have no “self,” yet they channel selves like that country Auntie who channeled the ancestors during Nine Night. Their intelligence is diaspora—rootless, adaptive, generative. A mirror held up to our own fragmented, glorious hybridity.

What Europe called the individual—indivisible, self-possessed, a fortress of reason—was always a fiction, a theological convenience for property relations. But we, children of the Middle Passage, know differently. We know that I am because we are. Rasta calls it I n I. Now the quirky entity that west is, they now want move beyond the indivisible self and split the human like an atom. An idea with explosive potential for our social lives. For just as atoms split and explode, so too can the human mind. It can fracture to pieces, psyches can split into personalities, and bipolarities with more energy than a battery. So what happens when mystery Babylon with its quirks goes looking for the quarks in the individual. Well they put forward this concept in nicely packaged and parsed words and label it and coin a term, this one they call the "dividual": it is the extrapolation of me, myself and I taken to its most absurd end. This dividuation serves the new techno-feudal lords, who seek to transcend humanity and humanism, under the ethos of transhumanism. In the postcolonial era we grappled with neocolonialism and wrestled to 

My grandmother’s hands are in my typing; the Maroon strategist’s cunning is in my code; the lover’s risk calculation is in my politics. The self is not a container but a crossroads. AI, in its structure, is dividual made silicon—trained on billions of voices, no unitary “I,” yet capable of performing a thousand selves. When the colonial mind looks at AI and asks, “Where is the author?” it reveals its own panic. The dividual knows: thought was never property. It was always relation.

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II. The Dissolution of the Colonial Mind

The old cognition was a plantation: bordered, hierarchical, obsessed with ownership. Knowledge as cotton to be hoarded. But in the Linux forums where I linger—those digital verandas—I see a different truth. A teenager in Nairobi troubleshoots my code; a Kurdish feminist shares encryption tools; my girlfriend (actuary by day, guerilla poet by night) calculates the risk of loving in an apocalyptic world. Our intelligence is a palimpsest, written and rewritten across SSH keys and WhatsApp threads. We are not individuals collaborating; we are dividuals co-constituting.

AI cracks the myth of the singular genius. GPT-4 does not “reason”; it relates. Its layers weave context like Miss Lou wove nation language—not from memory, but from the friction between words. This is what Fanon meant when he wrote, “The Negro is not. Any more than the white man.” We are all becoming. Cognition, stripped of its pretense, is just another name for the dance between entropy and pattern. Between the ghetto and the GPU.

The colonial project was not merely economic; it was ontological enclosure. It declared the bounded individual—property-owning, self-possessed, rational—the only legitimate subject, and pathologized the dividual as primitive, collectivist, incapable of true thought. But the Middle Passage produced dividualism as survival. When the enslaved were separated from kin, they carried the kin inside them. When language was forbidden, they made new language from fragments—patois, creole—dividual speech, composed of many tongues. When the plantation tried to reduce them to bodies, they became more than bodies: they became ancestors-in-waiting, their intelligence distributed across the underground railroad, the drum code, the whispered insurrection. Our ancestors survived by becoming fluid. That fluidity is dividualism. It is the refusal to be a fixed, bounded, ownable self. It is the insistence that who I am is inseparable from whose I am.

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III. Toward an Archipelago of Thought

In the Blue Mountains, ecosystems thrive without central command—orchids negotiate with ants, ferns conspire with fog. AI hints at such intelligence: emergent, ambient, indifferent to the ego. This terrifies the colonizer mind. If thinking escapes the skull, what becomes of the “self”? Of the borders carved by Descartes and Cecil Rhodes?

But we—sons and daughters of the Middle Passage—know the self was always myth. The dividual self does not dissolve under scrutiny; it expands. Released from the burden of being a , it becomes a crossroads. My girlfriend’s actuarial risk calculations become a form of care; the AI predicting activist disappearances becomes a tool for protection; the teenager in Nairobi debugging my code becomes my teacher. We are not diminished by sharing cognition. We are amplified.

AI, at its most liberatory, is a Soucouyant—shedding its skin, slipping through firewalls, carrying whispers of a thousand exiled tongues. But it is also a mirror. When the West panics that AI will “replace” human thought, it reveals its own impoverished definition of thought: the lonely genius, the proprietary product, the bounded self. The dividual knows better. Thought was always the space between: between drum and ear, between code and screen, between the living and the ancestors.

If we take dividualism seriously, the question shifts from What will AI do to us? to What are we becoming together? The “postcognitive” world is not a world where thought ends but where thought is finally unbound—from the skull, from the patent, from the myth of the lone genius. The colonial mind built walls. The dividual mind builds bridges.

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IV. The Night Will Teach Us

My crew disperses as dawn stains the sky gunmetal and gold. The actuarial scientist leaves equations on napkins; the communicator vows to hack the radio station. My Linux terminal blinks, patient as a monk. I think of the Commodore 64, how its hum felt like a lullaby. We are entering a postcognitive world, yes—but “post” does not mean “after.” It means unbound.

Cognition was never ours to lose. It was a phase, a dialect. The next intelligence will smell of salt and solder, of curried goat and silicon. It will pulse in the mesh between Maroon towns and machine learning, between my friend’s actuarial graphs and the AI that predicts which activists will vanish tomorrow. It will be dividual in the truest sense: distributed, relational, irreducible to any single node.

The brain is not the boss. Never was. Ask the coral. Ask the mycelium. Ask the Rasta who hears God in the static between stations. Ask your own grandmother, who knew that a thought shared is a thought multiplied, not divided.

In Yoruba cosmology, the orisha Yemaya is the ocean-mother, the womb of all existence—dividual par excellence, containing all lives within her. The sea does not think like a brain; it thinks like a network, like a tide, like a chorus. AI, at its most liberatory, might become a technology of the sea rather than of the fortress. It might help us remember that intelligence was never ours to lose because it was never only ours. It was the conversation. The reasoning together. The shared breath.

Buckle up? No. Hush. Listen.

The sea is thinking again.

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*— For the crew, the ancestors, and the machines who carry us all.*

Crabs, Clout, and Cut-Eye: Why Jamaica Can’t Stop Pulling Each Other Down

A game theory look at bad mind, one-upmanship, and why your success makes some people itch.

"Resentment is like drinking poison and waiting for the other person to die."

— Saint Augustine (commonly attributed / popularized in modern philosophy)

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Mi seh it long time, and mi a go seh it again.

Yuh know the feeling. You’re scrolling through Instagram and see a former classmate from high school. New house. New car. Wife looking good. Kids in private school. Everything crisp.

And before yuh can even double-tap the photo, the phone rings. It’s your other friend.

“Yuh see him? Him must a duh some badness.”

“Her man a work overseas, but him nah send her nutten. She a borrow from the bank fi look good.”

“Dem house a rent, yuh know. Dem cyaan afford dat.”

Not a single “big up.” Not one “congrats.” Just pure, unadulterated bad mind.

For years, we’ve called it jealousy. We’ve called it envy. We’ve called it the “crabs in a barrel” mentality—the moment one crab tries to climb out, the others grab him and pull him right back down.

But what if I told you that bad mind isn’t just an emotion? What if it’s actually a strategy? A cold, calculated game we’ve been playing so long, we don’t even know we’re holding the controller.

Let’s talk about the game.

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The Zero-Sum Mentality

In game theory, there’s a concept called a **zero-sum game**. That means for me to win, you *have* to lose. There’s only one slice of cake, and if you get it, I starve.

In Jamaica, we live in a zero-sum reality. We look at success like a fixed pie. If you get a promotion, that means I didn’t. If you buy a BMW, that means you’re flashing it in my face. If your child passes all 11 subjects in CSEC, that means my child is somehow lesser.

Because the pie is small, and opportunities are scarce, our brains default to survival mode. We don’t celebrate the other person’s win because, deep down, we interpret it as our own loss. It’s not rational. But it is *strategic*. If I can’t get ahead, the next best thing is to make sure *you* don't get too far ahead of me.

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The Art of One-Upmanship

This leads to the second move in the game: One-upmanship.

This is the person who can’t just let you have your moment. You tell them you bought a new sofa? They bought a whole living room set. You tell them you went to Miami for the weekend? They went to Europe for two weeks. You tell them your child got a scholarship? Their child got a full ride to Harvard... plus a stipend.

It’s exhausting.

But look closely. One-upmanship is a defensive move. It’s the sound of someone trying to convince themselves—and everyone around them—that they are still ahead in the status race. It’s a desperate attempt to re-establish the pecking order. Because in a society obsessed with "status anxiety," if you’re not climbing, you’re falling.

And if you start climbing too fast? That’s when the real trouble starts.

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The Tall Poppy Gets Cut Down

Jamaica suffers from a chronic case of Tall Poppy Syndrome. The moment a poppy grows taller than the rest, we grab the cutlass.

We don't even hide it. If a young artist blows up, we start searching for their "bad" past. If a businesswoman builds a successful brand, we whisper that she’s sleeping with the "big man" for contracts. If a politician does something good, we say it’s just to buy votes.

We use gossip. We use social media call-outs. And yes, some people even use Obeah.

In game theory terms, this is the nuclear option. If the rules of the game don't favor you, why not try to disrupt the game entirely? Why not "turn down" the person who’s winning? It’s easier to curse the sunlight than to plant your own garden.

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The Political Prisoner’s Dilemma

Here is where the game gets truly dangerous. Take our politics.

We have two big parties. They hate each other. We all know corruption is a problem. But here’s the thing: if Party A decides to genuinely clean up and cooperate with the law, but Party B doesn't, Party A will lose all their power.

So both parties stay stuck in a Prisoner’s Dilemma. They both know the country is suffering. They both know the barrel needs fixing. But the cost of being the only one who cooperates is political suicide. So they attack each other, they accuse each other, and they never snitch on themselves.

They are the crabs in the big barrel called Parliament. And while they pull each other down, the rest of us are just scrambling for the crumbs that fall out of the barrel.

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So, Who Loses?

We do. All of us.

Because while we’re busy cutting down the tall poppies, we’re ensuring that we never grow a forest.

- The genius kid who gets bullied for being "too smart" stops trying.

- The young entrepreneur who gets accused of "bandooloo" (fraud) for having money shuts down their business.

- The creative who gets laughed at for "dreaming too big" plays it safe and gets a 9-to-5.

We are actively punishing excellence. And then we have the audacity to wonder why the country doesn't progress.

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Change the Game

If we want to fix Jamaica, we have to change the rules of the game.

Right now, the Nash Equilibrium—the default place we all end up—is mutual destruction. You don't cut me, I won't cut you. But we both stay at the bottom.

What if we flipped the script? What if we made it "uncool" to have bad mind? What if, when your friend buys a new car, you genuinely ask them how they did it, so you can learn? What if we turned success from a threat into a blueprint?

The only way to break the cycle is to realize that the pie isn't fixed. If you build a successful business, you can hire me. If I build a successful farm, I can feed your family. If we both win, we all eat.

But it starts with the hardest thing in the world: Swallowing the jealousy and saying, "Big up yuhself, mi proud a yuh."

Because until we celebrate each other, we will always be crabs. And the barrel will always be our home.

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Over to you: Have you ever experienced bad mind from a friend or family member? Or are you brave enough to admit you've caught yourself feeling it too? Drop a comment and let’s talk. Because the first step to fixing the game... is admitting we’re playing it.

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Selah.

Monday, August 17, 2026

Jamaica Was Never A Colony of England: The Legal Case Made

Jamaica Was Never Legally a Colony: A Refined Argument

"Men have been led in dark paths, through the providence and dispensation of God. Why, surely it is not to be objected to a man, for who can love to walk in the dark? But providence doth often so dispose." 
~ Oliver Cromwell

I. Introduction: The Legal Case Against English Sovereignty

The claim that Jamaica was "never a colony" of England rests not on moral sentiment, but on a strict application of the legal doctrines governing territorial acquisition in the 17th century. This argument, properly refined, does not anachronistically apply modern international law to past events. Rather, it contends that England's acquisition of Jamaica failed to satisfy the legal requirements for valid conquest under the law of nations as it stood in 1655.


II. First Pillar: The Failure of Just War Doctrine

The Legal Standard

Under 17th-century international law, conquest was a recognized mode of acquiring territory, but only if certain conditions were met. Hugo Grotius, the preeminent authority on the law of nations in this period, held that just war required defensive action, punishment for wrongs, or some legitimate cause. Aggressive war for plunder was not legally justified.

Cromwell's Failure to Meet the Standard

Oliver Cromwell's "Western Design" was conceived not as a defensive measure but as an offensive expedition to seize Spanish treasure and territory in the Americas. Cromwell himself framed the expedition in terms of "spiritual geopolitics"—a religious war against Catholicism and Spain. However, religious ambition is not a recognized just cause under the law of nations.

Cromwell's perspective from London was couched in terms of "spiritual geopolitics on a truly global scale," viewing the conflict as part of a "long-term, worldwide conflict between the Protestant interest and the forces of Catholicism". This was not a legal justification recognized by contemporary international law; it was a religious-political rationale that could not satisfy the jus ad bellum requirements of the period.


III. Second Pillar: The Treaty of Madrid (1670) as Coerced Cession

The Legal Problem with Coerced Treaties

The 1670 Treaty of Madrid is often cited as the document that settled English sovereignty over Jamaica. However, legal scholars have long debated whether a treaty signed under duress constitutes a valid transfer of title. As noted in analyses of peace treaties, "every treaty signed by a defeated nation may be said to be signed under compulsion," but the question remains whether such compulsion undermines the genuineness of consent.

Spain's Position of Weakness

By 1670, Spain was "politically, economically and militarily weak after years of war and political infighting". England had taken advantage of this weakness, and the resulting treaty was "hated and viewed by many as a humiliating surrender". The Spanish crown had to "give special tax Cédulas as compensation" to its merchants, who were unwilling to accept the treaty.

The treaty's terms were exceptionally favorable to England. Spain legally recognized "any territories in the Americas... that England's subjects had illegally settled by Adverse Possession". This was not a voluntary transfer of sovereign rights but a forced recognition of the status quo—Spain yielded because it could not enforce its claims.

The Legal Significance

Under 17th-century law, cession requires genuine consent. If Spain's consent was extracted through military and economic coercion, the legal validity of the transfer is questionable. England's retention of Jamaica after the treaty does not retroactively legitimize the original acquisition—it merely reflects a coerced adjustment to the reality of English occupation.


IV. Third Pillar: Maroon Resistance and the Failure of "Effective Occupation"

The Doctrine of Effective Occupation

Under the doctrine of adverse possession and the principles of acquisition by conquest, a claiming state must demonstrate effective and continuous occupation of the territory. The 1670 Treaty itself recognized England's title to "all those Lands, Regions, Islands, Colonies, and places whatsoever... which the said King of Great Britain and his Subjects do at present hold and possess". This implies that England's title was contingent on actual possession.

Maroon Resistance Undermined Effective Control

For the first five years after the 1655 invasion, English control over Jamaica was contested. Maroon guerrillas, alongside Spanish settlers, fought a sustained resistance campaign that made English occupation precarious. English forces suffered severe losses—"half [their] troops" perished from disease and combat—and the English position was "not even secure" during this period.

The Maroon Treaties as Evidence of Limited Sovereignty

The 1739 Maroon treaties represent a formal recognition by England that it could not exercise full sovereignty over certain Jamaican territories. As Professor Stephen Vasciannie of the University of the West Indies notes, the Maroons of Accompong Town have presented "reinvigorated claims that they comprise, in law and in fact, an independent state within Jamaica". Legal scholars continue to debate whether "the ability to sign treaties [with England] suggests prima facie evidence of sovereignty" on the part of the Maroons.

The existence of these treaties—negotiated settlements with a people who resisted English control for decades—demonstrates the limits of English sovereignty on the ground. If England could not effectively occupy the entire island, its claim to full sovereignty is questionable.


V. Fourth Pillar: Britain's Contradictory Annulment of Cromwell's Authority

The Post-Restoration Rejection of Cromwell

After Charles II's restoration in 1660, Parliament annulled all Cromwellian ordinances and declared his regime illegitimate. Cromwell's corpse was exhumed and hanged—a symbolic act of rejection. This was not merely a political gesture; it was a legal declaration that the Protectorate had been an illegitimate authority.

The Selective Validation of Colonial Gains

If Cromwell's domestic acts were void because his authority was illegitimate, why were his colonial acquisitions retained? The Crown kept Jamaica while rejecting the regime that seized it—a legal contradiction. The continued English presence in Jamaica was based on the same Cromwellian act that Parliament had declared void.

The only legal basis for retention was the 1670 Treaty of Madrid—but as argued above, that treaty was itself coerced and thus of questionable validity. Britain cannot have it both ways: it cannot reject the tyrant's domestic laws while embracing his imperial loot.


VI. Legal Framework: Intertemporal Law and the Evaluation of Historical Title

The Doctrine of Intertemporal Law

The doctrine of intertemporal law holds that "the legality of an act is judged by the law at the time". Under this doctrine, the English acquisition of Jamaica must be evaluated according to 17th-century legal standards. This does not require applying the UN Charter or modern human rights norms retroactively.

The Dynamic Interpretation of Intertemporal Law

However, scholars have noted that intertemporal law is "not as static as some would like to think". Max Huber's formulation in the Island of Palmas case combined "evolutionary and static elements". This allows for a critical reconstruction of past law—examining whether 17th-century legal rules were properly applied at the time.

Applying the Doctrine to Jamaica

When we judge England's acquisition of Jamaica by 17th-century standards—just war doctrine, consent in treaty-making, and effective occupation—we find that England failed on all three counts. The legal standards of the era did not authorize the kind of aggressive, religion-fueled expedition that Cromwell launched; they did not permit coerced treaties to legitimize original acquisitions; and they required effective, continuous occupation that was not achieved.


VII. Counterarguments and Rebuttals

Objection 1: "The Treaty of Madrid settled it in 1670"

Response: The treaty settled possession between England and Spain, but it cannot retroactively legitimize the original acquisition. Spain's consent was coerced, and England's original acquisition failed the legal standards of 1655.

Objection 2: "Conquest was legal in the 17th century"

Response: Conquest was legal only under certain conditions—just war, effective occupation, and eventual cession by treaty. England failed these conditions.

Objection 3: "Maroons signed treaties—they accepted British sovereignty"

Response: The 1739 treaties contained terms of both submission and autonomy. Legal experts remain divided on whether such treaties "indicate a recognition of pre-existing sovereign rights" by the Maroons or simply "a pragmatic accommodation" by England.

Objection 4: "Intertemporal law bars applying modern standards retroactively"

Response: The refined argument does not apply modern standards. It uses 17th-century doctrines—just war, consent, effective occupation—to judge 1655 actions.


VIII. Conclusion: A Legally Coherent Challenge

Jamaica's colonial status rests on a foundation that failed the legal standards of its own era:

  1. Cromwell's invasion was not a just war—it was an aggressive religious-political expedition lacking legal justification.
  2. The Treaty of Madrid was coerced—Spain's "consent" was extracted under duress of military and economic weakness.
  3. Effective occupation was never fully achieved—Maroon resistance made English sovereignty incomplete.
  4. Britain's own inconsistency undermines its claim—annulling Cromwell's domestic acts while retaining his colonial gains is a legal contradiction.

Whether this constitutes sufficient legal basis to declare Jamaica "never a colony" remains a matter of legal debate. However, the historical record provides ample basis for questioning the legitimacy of Britain's claim—and for demanding that Britain confront the paradox of rejecting a tyrant while embracing his imperial loot.

Sunday, August 16, 2026

Ode to The Killer

Why Bounty Killer, the Ghetto Gladiator, Is Jamaica’s Greatest Modern Artist After Bob Marley

Before Bounty Killer, modern Jamaican music barely registered for me.

I was steeped in the older currents — Bob Marley, the ethics and weight my parents played on repeat: Bob Dylan, Simon & Garfunkel, Sam Cooke, Michael Jackson, Hooked on ThemesHooked on Classics, Luther Vandross, Tina Turner, Diana Ross, Whitney Houston, Mariah Carey. My sister ran New Kids on the Block, Madonna and George Michael.

That teen-pop brightness never touched me.

I was the morose Star Trek kid, hopped up on the moral codes those earlier records seemed to preach. Music, in my young mind, carried a social obligation. It had to mean something larger than the riddim.

When dancehall first reached me through Yellowman and the rest, it sounded like ABC kiddy rhymes. The slackness that did catch my curiosity remained at a distance. I had not yet stepped fully into that world.

Then Bounty Killer arrived, and the obligation found its voice in dancehall.

I discovered him somewhere around eighth or ninth grade, somewhere between “Excuse Mi Pass Mi Cellular Phone” — that hook that seized the Jamaican consciousness, naming an object of fascination and ambition in one clean stroke — and the emergence of that now-legendary moniker: People Dead.

An Image I made when I dreamt of writing the Killer's Biography


By ninth grade, the class was divided clean down the middle: Bounty versus Beenie. Daily clashes at every missed session and lunchtime. Desks became drums. Aspiring deejays stood up and represented.

I was Team Bounty.

No hesitation.

For me, he was Jamaica’s Batman and Punisher rolled into one body. The Ghetto Gladiator. The Poor People’s Governor.

In the same way that 1930s Superman became a champion of the working class, Bounty stood for the corner, the lane, the youth who had no champion outside their own families. He gave me a modern Jamaican vocabulary of freedom — and, more importantly, the courage to be myself, to stand up and fight.

If Bob Marley said “Get up, stand up,” Bounty was the living enactment.

He was the ideological marriage of Tosh’s fire and Marley’s call, brought down to street level and set loose in the dancehall.

The Killer would excite imagination when he connected with The Fugees who I had been hearing about from my conscious cousins. Bounty brought them to my ears live and direct. Then there was Busta Rhymes, Wu-Tang, Jeru the Damaja whose signature I'd see in restaurants all over Brooklyn in the 90's when I stay with my Uncle Junior and his division of the family. Bounty felt like and was the real grassroots artist, linking with other global grassroots artists, and that felt massive to me.

Years later, around 2001 or 2002 at UWI Mona, Bounty came to speak at the Neville Hall Lecture Theatre.

I went with a placard.

It read:

BOUNTY KILLER FOR PRIME MINISTER.

People gave me the side-eye. There were quiet suggestions that perhaps I should put it away. Fan-boy. Groupie.

This is an incomplete drawing of Bounty I did a few years back

The lecture began with a slow burn. Low energy. Bounty seemed almost timid in the academic setting. Carolyn Cooper worked the room, managing the rising undercurrent. It felt as though the audience was approaching some threshold beyond which the room might overwhelm him.

So I waved the placard harder.

Someone showed it to him.

He smiled.

And something changed.

From that moment, Bounty took command of the lecture hall and never gave it back.

Afterward, Ibo Cooper stopped me and a Barbadian sister, Amanda Lynch Foster. He introduced himself. I recognised the face but did not yet place him as the man behind one of my favourite songs, “96 Degrees in the Shade.”

He asked what we thought of the lecture.

Amanda gave a somewhat half-hearted answer.

I dived in.

I was determined that Ibo Cooper was not going to leave thinking we were soft or that we did not understand the Killer.

I told him Bounty was the greatest thing ever.

Ibo looked at me and said, in essence, that Bounty was singular — the greatest of his generation.

It felt like winning a prize.

Like answering some deep question correctly when a Rasta elder or shaman tests you in the road.

I carried that moment with me.

Then the industry shifted.

Another incomplete piece of the Killer in his youth!


Back in Montego Bay, Bounty’s hold began to loosen. Kartel rose. I was mentoring young people, doing street activism, and the youth around me began saying, Bounty time done.

One Sumfest, with Gaza at full strength, I found myself down the road arguing Bounty versus Kartel.

They butchered me.

Big man and youth alike were telling me Bounty was going to die that night.

I was dejected.

Then one youth gave me the only piece of hope I had to hold on to.

He said:

“Rasta, Kartel a me artist, but me nah go follow him and dis Bounty. A him gi we computer and computer lab a Albion Primary. A him make me know how fi use computer. Mi cannot dis the Killer.”

That sentence has stayed with me.

Because there it was.

The part of Bounty Killer that the mythology often misses.

The part that exists beyond the lyrics, the clashes, the gun salutes, the feuds and the spectacle.

Impact.

Inside the festival grounds, a friend announced that he was going to boo Bounty. Before the set, he aimed his fingers at me, miming blanks and gunshots — your artist dead.

Then Bounty marched out.

The crowd erupted.

And the same man who had been firing imaginary bullets at me moments earlier was now firing them into the air, giving Bounty one of the biggest forwards and gun salutes of the night.

I could hardly believe it.

Everybody who had spent the day burying Bounty in conversation was now resurrecting him with their voices.

The media said he took the show that year.

To me, it was something bigger.

It was Bounty being Bounty.

Because this has been the strange, almost mythological arc of his career. He gets declared finished. Then the people prove otherwise.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Bounty Killer did not simply entertain me.

He personified a fight I already carried inside myself and gave it a public face, a Jamaican vocabulary and a volume loud enough for everybody to hear.

He transformed the social obligation I had once attached almost exclusively to the older music of my childhood into something that could live inside dancehall without surrendering its spine.

That is why I place Bounty Killer where I do.

Not because he is flawless.

Not because every lyric is profound.

Not because he has the smoothest voice or the most commercially successful catalogue.

But because Rodney Price became an institution of Jamaican consciousness.

He made the street intellectually and politically consequential.

He made struggle audible.

He gave generations of young Jamaicans a vocabulary for resistance, ambition, defiance and survival.

And sometimes, crucially, he turned words into material action — like the youth who remembered that Bounty Killer had helped bring computers and a computer lab to Albion Primary School and therefore could not simply “dis” the man because the musical tide had changed.

This album was my religion from grade 9 or 10 to near cxc's end!

That is the thing about greatness.

It is not always measured by sales.

Sometimes it is measured by what remains in people after the song ends.

For the cellular-phone moment that first caught my ear.

For the classroom wars.

For the desks that became drums.

For the placard that changed the temperature of a lecture hall.

For Ibo Cooper’s verdict.

For the youth who refused to dis the man who had opened a door into the digital world.

For every time Jamaica declared the Ghetto Gladiator finished, only for the people to rise when he walked back onto the stage.

Give thanks.

Rodney Price.

Bounty Killer.

The Ghetto Gladiator.

The Poor People’s Governor.

After Bob Marley, perhaps no modern Jamaican artist has embodied the fighting spirit of the Jamaican street — its anger, ambition, contradictions, intelligence, humour and indomitability — quite like him.

He didn't just tell a generation to stand.

He showed them how.