ANTIGUA| "She is not too bright, she’s Antiguan," says the foreign store owner

ST. JOHN'S  Antigua,  In the heart of St. John's, a disturbing encounter lays bare the persistent colonial attitudes that still plague Antigua and Barbuda. As dawn breaks over the capital, a white foreign store owner arranges his merchandise, including a black mannequin, on the sidewalk. When prompted about the mannequin's daily positioning, he delivers a statement that reveals centuries-old prejudices: "She's not too bright, she's Antiguan."

This casual racism, delivered with the comfortable certainty of someone who feels entitled to disparage the very people whose island they profit from, serves as a microcosm of the broader power dynamics at play in this Caribbean nation.

The black mannequin, static and voiceless, becomes an unsettling symbol of how some foreign interests still view the Antiguan people – as props in their economic display.

Antiguans and Barbudans increasingly find themselves marginalized in their own homeland, standing like well-dressed figures on the pavement of time while watching their birthright slip through their fingers.

The nation's people appear transfixed, their aspirations seemingly limited to superficial desires: "longer braids, really colourful boxers or money to get KFC."

The metaphor extends beyond the storefront into the corridors of power. These "mannequins" have infiltrated key institutions, their presence felt from the treasury—where millions mysteriously vanish—to law enforcement, where they "stand rigid as crime after crime takes place."

In government offices, these figurative dummies don expensive attire, their compliance secured through stuffed pockets, turning a blind eye to questionable contracts.

Yet history teaches us that subjugation has its breaking point. Like the donkey in the viral video that finally retaliated against its abuser, creating a "life changing experience," there's an underlying fear among those who benefit from this status quo: the fear that one day, these human mannequins might awaken to reclaim their rightful place in society.

The nation cries out for a defender, a champion who can galvanize those "held hostage" by circumstances, those "demobilized and riveted to a dwindling paycheck," and those for whom "the bottom of the barrel has dropped out." The average citizen, trapped in this web of socioeconomic constraints, awaits liberation.

Most poignantly, the voices of ancestors who arrived on slave ships, their blood mingled with the very soil of these islands, demand action. Their legacy requires more than mere aesthetic appeal; it requires an awakening of the "God given life spirit" that transforms passive observers into active participants in their nation's destiny.

The message resonates with particular urgency given the context of that morning encounter: "Don't just stand there, you are not a mannequin, you are brighter than that." It's a rallying cry for a people to shed their prescribed roles as decorative pieces in someone else's display – roles still being assigned by those who view Antiguans through a colonial lens – and reclaim their agency in shaping their nation's future.

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