I wasn’t planning to write this. But then I saw the headline: “Come and hear the facts of the Alfa Nero sale.” That’s not the opening line of a government report or the beginning of a long-awaited press conference. It’s the theme of a political rally scheduled for this Friday night—complete with a sound system, entertainment and government ministers flanking the Prime Minister, and a crowd expected to cheer while “facts” are presented from a stage instead of through formal, independent scrutiny.
Before the rally, there’s more choreography. Tonight, a sit-down interview with the Prime Minister will air—not on an independent platform, not at a press conference where journalists from across media houses are free to ask unscripted, uncomfortable questions—but within the safe walls of the state broadcaster, ABS. This is not accountability but storytelling, managed and manicured. It’s not truth under fire but narrative under soft lighting.
Let’s be clear: the Prime Minister isn’t facing the press. He isn’t standing in front of reporters, editors, or even the public in any raw, unfiltered form. Instead, we’re getting a sit-down in the comfort of a state-run studio with his favorite- handpicked broadcaster. A space where the questions are careful, the tone is polite, and the intention is crystal clear—present his version of events and call it closure.
And all this is happening while court filings exist—real ones—lodged in the United States, naming Gaston Browne directly in connection to the Alfa Nero sale. But instead of a serious reckoning, we’re being offered a rally and a broadcast. Sure, there will be plenty talk tonight. Soft as cornmeal porridge. And honestly? I wouldn’t want to be the one masquerading as a journalist in that show. Because if truth is what we’re after, that’s not where you’ll find it.
That’s why I’m writing this now—because while they prepare the podiums, I’ve been reading the court filings. And while they fine-tune the microphones, I’ve been following the patterns. And if they won’t face the people with real answers, then I’ll face the people with real questions.
Because this silence is different. It’s circling the very top.
This time, we’re not talking about a senator, or an ambassador, or a backbench minister caught in scandal. We’re talking about the Prime Minister. Gaston Browne.
The man who has spent years calling for the resignations of others in the name of “good governance,” “integrity,” and “optics”—but now sits unbothered under the rain cloud tied to the Alfa Nero yacht.
And still, there hasn’t been a word about stepping aside. No press conference where the Prime Minister offers his resignation. Not even the courtesy of political reflection—just staged performances and verbal abuse. So let’s talk about that. Because if you’ve been paying attention in this country, you know: political scandals don’t just pass. They leave a residue that never really washes off—not in Antigua. And the thing is, we’ve seen this pattern before. So let’s rewind the tape.
In 2017, Senator Michael Freeland had to step down. The issue? Proceeds from a Customs auction—just under EC$120,000—weren’t transferred immediately. He explained it (not to the media). He repaid it (said Gaston). He even said it was an arrangement agreed upon with Customs.
But as the political pressure built and the whispers started to circulate, it became clear the optics weren’t right. So, Michael Freeland was asked to resign. The point is—he stepped aside when the heat came, even though there was no criminal charge, and no court filing. Just pressure. And expectations. Gaston Browne accepted that resignation.
Casroy James followed a similar path. He resigned amid swirling accusations tied to the Odebrecht bribery scandal. Though he denied any wrongdoing, agreed to repay funds, and maintained that his role was that of a consultant, the political environment demanded an exit. And he gave it. His resignation wasn’t a guilty plea—he said it was a move to preserve the government’s image. And once again, it was accepted without hesitation from Gaston Browne.
Then there was Asot Michael, a long-standing Cabinet minister whose name became entangled in bribery allegations involving British investor Peter Virdee. Michael denied the claims, but it didn’t matter. The Prime Minister moved swiftly, distancing his administration and publicly stating that they were committed to transparency and accountability. Browne made it clear: Michael had to go. He was “encouraged to resign in the interest of government,” and it was framed as a necessary step to uphold the integrity of leadership. At the time, the message was firm—anyone facing serious allegations had no place in his government.
“We are gung-ho about operating a fully transparent and accountable government…” That was the bar. Until now.
Now to the Alfa Nero Allegations. This isn’t gossip. It’s not a leaked WhatsApp message or some wild voice note from the village. This is a formal discovery document, filed in a U.S. federal court by attorneys from Boies Schiller Flexner LLP—one of the most respected and aggressive law firms in the world. And right there, printed in black and white, is the name: Gaston Browne.
And who’s footing the bill for Gaston Browne’s legal defense? Well, that would be you and me—the taxpayers. At a rate of US$900 an hour, we’re covering the cost of legal representation not just for him, but for other family members also named in the court filings. The government has retained a U.S.-based law firm to handle the case, and an initial payment of US$35,000 has already been made—straight from the public purse.
But you’d think, at the very least, we’d be given the courtesy of knowing exactly who we’re paying, what we’re defending, and why the bill lands in our laps. I guess they haven’t learned yet that silence has a way of getting loud—especially for him. Because the truth always seems to find its voice. Not in state-run broadcasts or sponsored tributes, but across the globe, in big, splashy headlines that money can’t buy. The kind of headlines you can’t walk away from.
So basically, the public is footing the bill in a legal matter tied to an international investigation—yet the same public hasn’t been given the space to properly question any of it. Michael Freeland didn’t get that. Casroy James didn’t get it. Asot Michael certainly didn’t get it. So the question is—why now, and why him? This is where the pattern becomes impossible to ignore. In Antigua and Barbuda, accountability isn’t a principle—it’s a tactic. It’s applied when convenient, enforced when politically useful, and suspended entirely when it gets too close to the top. We’ve created a system where ministers are disposable, but leaders—especially the ones with the most power—are untouchable. And Gaston Browne? He’s navigated both sides of that system with precision, knowing exactly when to demand resignations from others while sidestepping that same standard himself.
And while we were combing through court documents, the Prime Minister was planning something else entirely—a political rally. With ministers at his side and microphones in hand, the event is billed as: “Come and hear the facts of the Alfa Nero sale.” As if facts now require a sound system, and a rally could somehow erase court filings. So political theatre has now become a substitute for actual governance?
Public trust doesn’t vanish in a single, dramatic moment. It erodes slowly—quietly—one unanswered question at a time. As the great Jameson Kublai Mannix sings in his calypso “You”—a song many of us now half-jokingly refer to as “Stinking Dirty Liar” after its unforgettable hook:
“Truth crushed to the ground shall rise again.
Truth is no respecter of persons.
And truth don’t beg no friend.”
We laugh at the lyrics sometimes—because, well, they hit harder than a slap from your granny when you backtalk in church. But let’s be honest: that song? It’s no longer just entertainment. It’s prophecy. You can watch it unfold, verse for verse, in real time.
And then there’s the line that people quote in half-whispers, with half-smiles, because it cuts too close to home:
“If Labour give dem [%#¥] fu nyam, they would nyam um, lick off them finger, and say yum yum.”
We all know the word he used and the taste he was talking about. And we all know people who’d defend it anyway, just to stay loyal to the colour of their jersey. But this—this entire mess—is bigger than one man. And it’s far bigger than just a yacht.
It’s about how long a people can be expected to believe in democracy when the rules only seem to apply to some—and not to those at the top. It’s about how far a leader can go before the people start to remember that power isn’t permanent. It’s borrowed. Not inherited.
I don’t write these things because I hate this country. I write them because I love it—too damn much to stay quiet. I love how people still look you in the eye when they say good morning, even when they’re hurting. I love Antigua. I love Barbuda. And real love? It doesn’t stay silent. It demands accountability. It means believing that this little place we call home can be better—if we’re brave enough to demand it.
So no, I won’t stop asking. I’ll ask why files disappear. I’ll ask why some are forced to resign while others get to rally. I’ll ask why taxpayer dollars are being used to cover the powerful, while the powerless are brushed aside.
I’ll ask why truth now needs a stage, a DJ, and a mic just to be heard. Because as long as they stay quiet, I’ll keep writing. As long as the system keeps protecting itself, Ill keep digging.
And as long as this land belongs to us, I’ll keep reminding them:The truth nar beg no friend.
