Barbados is 92.4% Black with a mix of White, Asian and Middle Eastern. It is now a colour-blind nation struggling to remove the taints of its past.
The daily reality of the persons once enslaved here is not part of the exhibits. The chains and padlocks succinctly described by my teacher were absent. But the Abbey offers a taste of rum from its 18th Century distilleries next door, complete with the casks and antique machinery. Sugarcane has vanished from the manicured landscape, so the Abbey tells the story of sugarcane without a stalk to showcase.
Often, the Barbadian sky plays with the mind, conjuring a thousand images on the blue canvas. Today it is a vivid colour of white and silver on blue canvas. The white shines brilliant, and pelts of silver clouds hurry across the skyline.
I forgot who wrote of Barbados as an afterthought: that God created the Caribbean Isles after He had finished forming the earth. Barbados and the other islands in the Caribbean emerged from a splash of mud as God washed off His hands here, in the blue seas, after creation.
Myths abound about Barbados, the Caribbean's most famous destination. Anthony Hinks, the author of Verbs in Storyland, threw himself into the vortex when he posted: "Barbados (is) where the beaches are the most beautiful; if you haven't been to Barbados, you haven't been to heaven." Hinks implied God had left a piece of heaven behind after He formed the island.
So did Cris, the charming 46-year-old grandmother who was our guide. Cris waxed possessive, insisting God is a Barbadian. "How else do you explain the prodigious diversity of flora on this island, plus that hurricanes rarely visit?" Cris quipped as she sleekly manoeuvred her sedan down the street at St. James' Parish, an upscale part of town. I silently contemplated the rhetorical quips, marvelling at her bond with the road. The lady was at ease with words and the wheel: Would she be that confident on Lagos roads? How would her delicate frame hold under fire from a danfo or sand loader, say in Mushin or on Lekki-Epe Road?
Barbados makes no pretensions at New York, London, or Paris; it is just Barbados, plain and rustic. Perhaps because land is scarce, expansive autobahns are uncommon here, narrow roads wind across the neighbourhoods, at times hugging the simple, elegant houses. Not far from the old church in St. James Parish, where Cris had taken us to see a 400-year-old gravesite, she slowed down again and motioned to a sprawling mansion to our right: "This is where Tiger Woods had his wedding, a room goes for $US5,000 a night. Back then the Tiger's wedding was the talk of the town. Shame it didn't last."
Every place wears a saintly halo in Barbados, so does the St. Nicholas Abbey, which has sat on Cherry Hill at St. Peter's Parish, since 1658. The Abbey lives up to its billing as a historical site, testifying to slavery from the slavers' perspective. The Big House, a Jacobean structure, is still intact, but the minders forbade us from climbing its wooden stairs for fear that they might cave in. The part opened to the public loudly tells of a past of ease and luxury.
Barely one mile later, she gestured to another mansion nestled in magnificent flora: "It used to be a hotel, but Rihanna owns it now." Rihanna, like Cris, is a Barbadian, before she was grabbed by America and Hollywood. According to an apocryphal version, the house was one of the top hotels in Barbados when Rihanna came to party there with friends. Things got unruly, and they messed the place up a bit. The hotel management was angry and sent a bill to the diva for the clean up. But Rihanna wouldn't stand the slight and did not hide her feelings. She asked the management to name its price, bought the place and converted it to a condo. I thought that was the perfect definition of a hostile takeover.
Cris dug into history along the winding stretch from Bridgetown to Cherry Hill, recounting the decline and fall of sugarcane, once the staple product of the island. Barbados is still home to vintage rum from sugarcane, but it has moved to tourism, and the sugar plantations are relics of its past.
I am a history buff, particularly of slavery, the type that operated in Barbados. My primary school teacher, Mr S.A. Adeniyi, stimulated the interest when he related how planters padlocked the mouths of enslaved people to prevent them from eating sugarcane on the farms. I was elated when Cris suggested we see St. Nicholas Abbey, one of the plantation relics on the island.
Every place wears a saintly halo in Barbados, so does the St. Nicholas Abbey, which has sat on Cherry Hill at St. Peter's Parish, since 1658. The Abbey lives up to its billing as a historical site, testifying to slavery from the slavers' perspective. The Big House, a Jacobean structure, is still intact, but the minders forbade us from climbing its wooden stairs for fear that they might cave in. The part opened to the public loudly tells of a past of ease and luxury. The Renaissance portraits of its long-dead occupants stare down the walls. They set the dining table, replete with 17th Century goblets and cutleries, as if someone was expecting the bygone owners would show up for a meal.
The daily reality of the persons once enslaved here is not part of the exhibits. The chains and padlocks succinctly described by my teacher were absent. But the Abbey offers a taste of rum from its 18th Century distilleries next door, complete with the casks and antique machinery. Sugarcane has vanished from the manicured landscape, so the Abbey tells the story of sugarcane without a stalk to showcase. It also offers a bumpy train ride across Cherry Hill to give a feel of how they transported products from the plantation back in the days.
But not a single slave cabin here. Are the curators deliberately mute on the story of the enslaved? The guide politely answered in the negative, pointing to some motley artefacts on a small table. A fading register from 1882 opened besides it, bearing names of 'men, women, boys and girls' in servitude on the plantation at the period. The record also catalogued the market values of more than 100 enslaved people in quaint cursives...
But not a single slave cabin here. Are the curators deliberately mute on the story of the enslaved? The guide politely answered in the negative, pointing to some motley artefacts on a small table. A fading register from 1882 opened besides it, bearing names of 'men, women, boys and girls' in servitude on the plantation at the period. The record also catalogued the market values of more than 100 enslaved people in quaint cursives: Jack was worth £150, and Mary, a woman, was worth £60, less than Jack, and Sammy, valued at £170. Little Jessica had £90 against her name, and Membe, probably a baby girl, attracted a paltry sum of £10. All eight horses on the register were worth £40 apiece. I noticed each horse was worth more than poor Membe to the 1882 reckoner. The owner of the Abbey did not keep the records to celebrate humanity but to reinforce the inhumanity of the enslaved people.
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'Take me to this land of sweet sugar cane/and Mount Gay Rum/Take me to Barbados', chants the poem on Barbados by Charmaine J. Forde. She (Forde) is also a Barbadian. This morning I saw why Barbados still holds the magic for Forde and the tourists. But I wonder if the smooth rum or the blue sea held any allure for Jack, Mary or Little Jessica. Would those enslaved people have willingly chosen to come here in 1882?
Barbados is 92.4% Black with a mix of White, Asian and Middle Eastern. It is now a colour-blind nation struggling to remove the taints of its past. According to UN calculations, literacy level is well above 90%, and most Barbadians like Cris are educated and savvy. It is a lovely society with a thriving democracy. You see democracy etched boldly on the beaches, with every stratum of society snatching a bit of the sun. All the beaches are public; even the fat cats like our diva are not allowed to own the beaches in their backyards. Cris' eyes glinted as she recalled how some ordinary Barbadians took a bulldozer to remove a wall built around a beach by a particular fat cat up in St James.
Barbadians voted an entire parliament out in 2018 on allegations of graft that wouldn't make the headlines in Nigeria, and elected Mia Mottley, the current prime minister, and the first female to hold the office. "We love our prime minister", Cris crooned as she parked the car to bid us farewell, "barely a year in office, she (Mottley) had brought tremendous improvements to the island's economy, schools and the sewage system."
It was refreshing to hear a random citizen talk so glowingly about a politician.
Wole Akinyosoye, a member of the Nigerian Institute of International Affairs (NIIA),writes from Bridgetown Barbados.
