By Winston Donald
From now on I intend to provide articles of a nostalgic nature as we forgot our past too early. I intend to provide the usual fair and “incontestable” voice. As I reiterate , I have no political leanings and do not care who may my articles may refer to. I am 150% sure that what I write is the truth, the whole truth which can stand up to scrutiny , up to heavy scrutiny that no one, no one can dispute my facts.
My first article regards Sir Alexander Bustamante. I have deliberately waited on time before making adding my voice. My memory is still strong from a small boy coming to town. Trying to boost Hugh Lawson Shearer as his heir Busta came to Greenwich Town in South West St. Andrew. I remember thje first deceit of a politician. The chief (Bustamante) came down East avenue with his labourite throng. Busta stop at the swankiest nightclub then in the city – “Coolie boy Fishermen’s Paradise” and the crowd grew bigger. What Busta did next has left a distaste in my mouth today. Certainly I have heard of Busta dissing black people in a subtle way as he admonished them to plant coco (taro) and yams seeing education as secondary while Norman Manley pushed education for the masses. But to get back to Busta that day as a little boy in 1967 , Busta came at the entrance of Fisherman’s Paradise and said he has not eaten since morning. I knew that was a damn lie because earlier that morning I had passed him on the verandah of Miss Andy , a light skinned Jamaican who was the first person I knew who was married to a Kong Kong Chinese. Busta again told the crowd that he was the man for the people and although he did not eat since morning he ate poor people’s food. He proceeded to take out two water crackers with salted codfish embedded between them and told the crowd that this was all he had and he was not afraid to eat it. . It put a damper on me, a leader , a national leader outrightly lying to the masses.
Who Busta was fooling , certainly not me. I just was not too young for him to take for an idiot. Worst, my grandmother had spoken about Busta enticing those who were politically weak, those who were gullible to accept rotten saltfish and weevil flour. People who offered those political victuals were chased from our gates, so when this tall “high colour man” shouted that crackers and salt fish were all he had for a meal I realized how devious was his words. It was that day that I decided Butamante was a liar. His belly was earlier fed by the bountiful breakfast table at Miss Andy;s house.
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