Dwayne Baptiste

Another shooting on a Wednesday morning, and the police are “appealing for help” like it’s a lost dog. Where was the patrol? Who was supposed to be watching Pointe Michel before a man got shot in broad daylight? The article says nothing about why nobody saw anything, or why witnesses would talk to a force that never seems to be around until the body’s already cold.

Six debutants from overseas. Brilliant. Another rebuild, same ending.

Remember the 2019 “clean-up” that vanished after the photo op? Different this time, sure. Still a ribbon-cutting away from nothing.

Forty-eight years of “independence” and we still can’t fix the potholes on Victoria Street. Skerrit goes on national broadcast to celebrate, and I’m supposed to clap while the bus stop by the market has been held together with tape since Carnival. Looking ahead to 50? Great. Maybe by then the drainage will work when it rains. Independence is a fine word. Try driving to Roseau after a storm and tell me how independent you feel.

Remember Tiananmen vigils? Charges fizzled. Not this time, sadly.

I’ve seen this story before: CARILEC says the rules are too slow, then nothing changes and the next report says the same thing. This time it’s different only because the bills are higher.

Sorry, but who’s been fooled here? An apology is cheap, reparations are the bill, and Healey just made sure nobody’s paying. Same old script.

Forty-eight years of independence and the party in power still needs a slogan about a “journey” to tell us where we’re headed. Nobody in Roseau is asking for a journey. We want the potholes filled and the power on. Every anniversary brings the same speeches, the same flags and the same promise that the future is bright, and every year the young ones keep packing their bags for Antigua or Canada.

Temporary surcharge, sure. Show me the fuel invoices first.

Eleven point three per cent above average, and the school roof still leaks.

Ah yes, CARICOM “takes note.” Brilliant. Nothing says decisive leadership like a bloc of heads of government sitting in a room, nodding solemnly at a process that’s been grinding along for months and will grind along for months more. Did anyone seriously expect them to announce a candidate in an intersessional meeting? The real headline is that they noticed the calendar.

Same tired script: warnings in March, fogging trucks in July, dead people by September.

Here we go again. Remember the “National Sports Excellence Week” back in 2019? Big banners, a ribbon-cutting, and then nothing. No follow-up, no budget line anyone could find, and the trophies went missing somewhere between the ministry and the storeroom. This one has the same smell: a shiny event announced first, the substance promised later. What’s different? Nothing I can see yet. Same ministry, same tired format, same promises.

Found, sure, but nobody says where he was or why it took this long. Who gets held accountable when a kid goes missing?

Sure, a Bolsonaro dynasty bigger than most of our parliament’s family trees.

Shocking that a man who spent months praising Putin’s “tough negotiating” suddenly discovers Ukraine has a president. Stop pretending this is a surprise.

Twelve announcements, zero nurses hired. Progress, eh?

Beijing guards its AI exports while here we can’t export a stable internet signal. Comedy gold.

Same old nothing. Except now with Typhoons.

Food security. Sure. Where I live, that means three scraggly plantains in a backyard and a goat that eats better than I do. Meanwhile the shelves stay stacked with somebody else’s rice. One day of speeches, one photo of a farmer holding a basket, then back to business. Local production needs water, roads and a market — not a calendar slot. Cute ceremony, though.