I wasn’t planning to write this—but the truth wouldn’t let me sleep.
Things have been piling up in this country, like storm clouds just offshore. You don’t always see the thunder coming, but you feel it in your chest. One issue bleeds into the next, ripple to wave, wave to flood. We brush past the headlines, nod through the press conferences, and keep moving, but something in the pit of the nation’s gut knows: something’s off.
I love Antigua. I love Barbuda. I love the way the light bends through the salt air at 5 pm, and how you can sit on the seashore and listen to the waves carry stories. Stories we don’t talk about loudly enough—like subpoenas issued by US courts, missing persons, land battles, luxury yachts sold in silence, and leaders who have learned how to walk the line between power and truth.
Reader, this isn’t just another political article. This is the sound of boots walking into smoke. And I’m asking—what is really going on? Another eye-roll year of “Only in Antigua,”? You shake your head, sigh heavy, and move on—or worse, you just hum along to your neighbour’s radio blasting Shanti’s famous calypso: “We in dey!” Come on—we’re supposed to be past this. But the rate at which our notoriety keeps climbing? It’s not funny anymore. It’s frightening. This is not about tearing down. It’s about demanding better. Because if we stop asking questions, we stop being a democracy. And if we stop caring, we lose the soul of this country. The truth doesn’t hide forever. Eventually, it forces its way into the light.
I’m not even sure where to start—but maybe I’ll just start with the biggie. The one that got a U.S. federal judge to issue subpoenas, and a high-profile law firm involved. Martin De Luca, of Boies Schiller Flexner LLP, told the Associated Press they’re digging deep into what happened with the Alfa Nero sale. That’s not just any law firm, that’s the same one that’s gone toe-to-toe with governments and billionaires. So when they show up asking questions about money, you stop. You listen. You start connecting dots.
These are the people who went after Microsoft for the U.S. government, defended Al Gore in Bush v. Gore, and regularly represent billionaires, foreign governments, and Fortune 500 companies. And leading the charge in this matter is Martin De Luca, a senior attorney known for tracking money across borders like a bloodhound. When he told the Associated Press that they’re scrutinizing Antigua’s handling of the Alfa Nero sale, it wasn’t idle talk. If Boies Schiller is involved, it means this country’s dealings aren’t just making headlines—they’re under a magnifying glass, and the questions coming are not the kind you can dance around with PR.
I’ve read the court filings. I’ve traced the timelines. And the more you dig, the more it feels like the Alfa Nero didn’t just bring controversy—it revealed a fault line.
So, this isn’t just about a yacht anymore. It’s about how the world sees us. Because when subpoenas come from a U.S. federal judge, and when a firm like Boies Schiller is circling, Antigua’s name isn’t just in the news—it’s in courtrooms, in intelligence briefings, in quiet diplomatic talks. And if we don’t start answering questions ourselves, someone else will answer them for us. With consequences we may not be ready for. So let’s not pretend this is a one-day headline.
Interestingly, after months of us asking in Parliament, across the airwaves, on call-in shows the documents tied to the sale finally dropped. Not because they wanted to. Because they had to. Because subpoenas from a U.S. federal judge have a way of forcing hands.
And while the government drops documents like breadcrumbs, hoping we’ll get tired of following the trail, Barbuda is still fighting. Still standing its ground. Because over there, the games aren’t about yachts, they’re about land. Identity. History.
Since Irma, Barbuda has become a battlefield in slow motion. One “development” at a time. With land being cut, surveyed, and repackaged as opportunity for outsiders. The airport came, then the adjudication program. But the people said no. Loudly. Repeatedly. Democratically. They just swept the Council elections. Sent a message as clear as the Codrington breeze: You don’t own us.
Barbuda’s voice may be small in number. But when it speaks, it echoes across the islands.
So, the real question is: what can Antiguans learn from Barbuda?
Because while we’re busy shaking our heads at headlines and saying, “so it go”, Barbuda is out there drawing lines in the sand. Literally. They’re defending land the old way, with voice, vote, and presence. They’re reminding the rest of us that power is only borrowed. And that governments answer to people, not the other way around.
They’re not waiting for permission to resist. They’re showing up. In town halls. At the polls. On the land. And they’re not blinking.
Meanwhile, here in Antigua, we’ve normalized silence. We grumble, yes. We call into radio shows, yes. But we’ve also accepted too much for too long. Yachts sold with questions. Land moved like chess pieces. Documents half-delivered. Names gone missing.
Barbuda is showing us the blueprint: show up, speak up, stand firm.
We’d do well to listen.
And while the country debates land and yachts and politics, there’s something even heavier in the air—grief. The quiet kind.
Because people are missing. Not just from statistics. From dinner tables. From birthdays. From life. And somehow, that has become normal. Background noise. A segment on the news that fades into weather updates and sports scores. But it shouldn’t be.
We are a small nation. Too small for people to vanish without answers.
One of those names was Chantel Crump. Her face was everywhere. Her name became more than a whisper, it became a national wound. Chantel wasn’t just missing. She was taken. Brutally. And her murder forced the country to feel what too many families had already known: that something is deeply broken in how we search, how we protect, how we respond.
Her death lit a fire—brief, but burning. It was only after that, the outrage, the cries on the radio, that the Royal Police Force announced a Missing Persons Unit. A proper one. Or so we were told. A unit with a mandate. With structure. With supposed resources.
But here’s the uncomfortable truth: it shouldn’t have taken Chantel’s death to get there. And even now, with that unit in place, families still wait. Still search. Still live between dread and hope.
I’ve spoken to some of them. They don’t want headlines. They want movement. Or at the very least—they want to know that someone is still looking.
Because right now, too many feel like the moment has passed. The public has moved on. Like the search for their loved one has gone cold, not because the trail ended, but because the noise died down.
But that silence wrapped around the missing feels familiar. Because it’s the same kind of silence we hear around everything else that matters.
So no, we’re not done. Not when subpoenas from a U.S. federal judge are still in play. Not when Barbuda’s communal land is still under quiet siege. And certainly not when we still have unanswered questions about the Air Peace Antigua Connection, Antigua Airways and all the strange, quiet dealings that came and disappeared with no accountability, no reports, no reckoning.
We’re told to move on. Shake our heads. Hum the calypso and call it culture.
But I won’t.
Because I still love this country.
And when you love something, you don’t let it sink beneath the weight of silence. You don’t let the powerful rewrite the story in real time. You don’t forget the missing, excuse the corrupt, or shrug off the truth as just another headline.
You fight for the soul of the place you call home.
The soul of the nation.
Because this land – this twin island nation – is not for sale. It’s not a pawn. It’s not a punchline. It’s ours.
And so is the truth.
And we will not stop until both are accounted for.
