A tribute to the Comrade

It seems obvious that it is soon another time at the polls in SVG and it is Comrade, once again, about to usher in his final attack on the weakened political system. This attack, naturally, would be his last as he shuffles reluctantly into the abyss, his shell uncovered, his soul long since pawned off for one last round of legislative massaging, manoeuvrings and judicial hijackings.

Comrade, St. Vincent and the Grenadines’ most popular political corpse, has finally come to the end of his political satire, and no matter what, he must retire — not because of some grand epiphany, not because the weight of his sins finally crushed him, but because gravity and basic bodily function caught up with him first.

It’s been quite a run, Comrade, two decades of sucking the life out of Vincentians, like the fierce volcanic ash, suffocating them, milking every drop of decency from their breasts and the political system, until all that remained is a gangrenous husk of breadfruit and partisan tomfoolery and corporate trinkets.

History now questions whether you were ever a visionary, or a leader — just like a slithering bush snake, an under-the-table dealmaker with the charisma of a huckster and the moral compass of drunkard hanging out at Toyko, waiting on the next bus to take him to Georgetown, with only 25 cents in his pocket.

And yet, somehow, against all odds, you became the most powerful man in SVG. A political crypt keeper, embalming progress, cackling over the effectiveness and success of the COVID-19 Statutory Rules and Orders, like some deranged museum curator protecting a pile of iguana bones. Your greatest achievement? Turning away civil servants from their jobs on the guise of good legislation, which was put to death by the High Court, but nursed and brought back to life by an appellate court, instead of being left to die and rot like an unclaimed corpse in the hallway of the Milton Cato General Hospital.

So, now Comrade, Vincentians are watching you glitch out like a broken animatronic at Gonsalves Winery rambling and discursive now in mid-sentence at press conferences, on the radio and television, the lustre, the flair is gone; it’s like a drunkard tumbling down his stairs, and getting that dismal look in your eyes each time a reporter asks if you plan to run for one final term.  No, please don’t! Didn’t the referendum teach you a harsh lesson?

But let’s talk about your legacy, Comrade, because that’s what really matters. What will history say about you? That you were a master strategist? A political genius? No, Comrade, history will remember you as the seducing, soulless despot who sold SVG down the DRY river one judicial scheme at a time. A master domino player, even remaining conspicuously silent even as Dr. Friday gallops, not knowing or caring that the Constitutional hangman awaits him, you hope to turn any prospects of your pending defeat into victory, oh how Vincentians wished they were waking up to Mondays or even Tuesdays, you turned the Opposition as a pawn in your greasy hands–a disturbing endnote in the great tragedy of Vincentian so-called democracy.

You could have stopped the appeal.  You could have buried the matter when you had the chance. But instead, you did what you do best — Nothing, muttering something like, “We need the Court to tell us how to deal with a future pandemic.” I guess you had a chat with Gates. “LET THE Appeal begin,” you said, knowing that the court system that was whipped up would rule in your favour.

And now look at you: retiring in disgrace, while hungry parents rummaging through Paul’s Lot trying to find food to feed their children, while you ride high, looming large and fat, surrounded by bootlickers and senseless fanatics, reshaping the landscape like it was willed to you, as if you are the ONLY Vincy at Large, reshaping the land into something so grotesque, bare, and beggarly, that even Chatoyer or E.T. Joshua would be banging at the lids of their coffins trying to escape.

You spent your whole political life consolidating power, spreading out like “Lord Map” only to end up childless, not even one decent political successor, you instead left a broken-down, malfunctioning estate, leaving it all up to the administrators to figure how to settle the estate… what a pity, what a poor example of a counsellor, you Comrade, of all persons should have arrange your affairs better.

What can we say? Enjoy your retirement! Maybe take up sailing, maybe join the Bequia Regatta… encircle Balliceaux, you might just see some Garifuna or maybe you can shuffle around Kingstown, have a sip of Gonsalves Black Wine, wondering if it was worth it after all. Because here’s the thing, Comrade! as Adam Kizinger said, history doesn’t care about “legislative genius” or “tactical brilliance” when it comes at the expense of the country. You’ll be remembered not as a mastermind, but as a political cockroach — scurrying in the dark, surviving, outlasting your enemies, but never actually winning”.

So, farewell, Comrade. May your retirement be long, humiliating, and filled with endless reminders that despite all your efforts, your greatest achievement was being the person who enabled poverty in SVG, by stealth and stratagem SIMPLICTA! pushing an EC$5 or EC$10 note here and there in they hand, accompanied by a sinister smirk wobbling along the path and then, for sending home already poor, hardworking civil servants claiming that they abandoned their jobs, when they were actively working on their jobs, what a travesty of power, what wielding of the pen, what a shame- YOU ACTED LIKE A TRUE heartless Massa.

In the end, happy retirement, Comrade. Chatoyer will write your dossier in lead as cold as your heart.

The Crypt Writer

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