[dropcap]T[/dropcap]he recent exchange between newly appointed Speaker Andy Daniel and the make-believe President of the fictive Republic of Laborie might’ve been hilarious if not for the facts that once again the joke is on we the people and that repetition kills the soul. Back in the early 90s when John Compton and Julian Hunte were prime minister and opposition leader respectively, their back and forths tended less toward public affairs than with insights into their private lives. They were married to sisters equally devoted to their men, not to say similarly ambitious and competitive—even when they and their spouses were frontline members of the same political organization and referred to by local cynics as “Saint Lucia’s royal family.”
Their nasty political divorce in the early 70s made headlines throughout the region and for several years guaranteed scandal insatiables their weekly fixes, served as often inside as outside the House. During one particular House debate the leader of the opposition seemed to go bananas when the prime minister insinuated behind a devilish chuckle his relative by marriage was a one-trick pony yet to recognize the benefits of agricultural diversification. The response from the opposition leader’s chair was swift: “Oh yeah? Well, I know precisely how to diversify your damn bedroom!” From there it was only a small stoop to threatening to “break glass” in the prime ministerial ass!
But that was nothing compared to the chaos of 1982, when Compton was leader of the opposition—his party having lost the 1979 elections. The nation’s latest prime minister Winston Cenac was pursuing the passage of a contentious House bill concerned with conflict of interest. The Allan Louisy-George Odlum leadership quarrel had forced the former judge Louisy to step down as prime minister in favor of his attorney general. An MP on the government side was delivering his contribution to the day’s debate when a fellow honorable gentleman jumped to his feet, his eyes fired up with hate. “If you don’t shut up,” he hollered, “I’ll shoot from the hip and make shit come out of your mouth.”
The unforgettable House session ended with the Speaker taking refuge in his office while in the chamber pandemonium reigned. In the presence of hapless House security the sacrosanct Mace was tossed around for several minutes while frothy-mouthed MPs hurled stomach-turning epithets at one another.
In more recent times MPs associated with the Labour Party opposition defied a cowering former schoolmarm turned Speaker who did not agree with the opposition leader’s interpretation of “as soon as convenient.” With his fulminating followers in tow, he finally stormed out, all the while denouncing those still seated in the chamber, the lady Speaker included, as “criminals, renegades and money launderers!”
The last House sitting three weeks or so ago was according to the Order Paper convened for the purposes of a bill related to education. But even before the process got underway it was pretty obvious mischief was afoot. The signals were all over the Internet. For one, not so subtle appeals to know-thyself parties to congregate in white tee shirts outside the parliament building, in silent protest against the prime minister’s handling of the St. Jude Hospital brouhaha. When questioned by reporters on the battlefield, the respondents admitted they had received a Whatsapp call to arms but their presence outside the House had nothing to do with that; they were there at 8.30 in the morning “just to hang around.” As for their special tee shirts: “We are wearing white because we want to.”
Meanwhile, in the knowing eyes of opposition MPs and senators en-route to the scheduled session, the plain white tee shirts might just as well have featured, front and back, emblazoned invitations to “fondle only if you’re red!” Even the increasingly reclusive Kenny Anthony was inspired to come out and press the flesh.
Inside the House, an hour or so after the small crowd had discovered better things to do with their morning, the elected honorable gentlemen and ladies—our ostensible alter egos—solemnly prayed to the Almighty God; observed minutes of fidgety silence in deference to recently expired colleagues; got down to business as usual, by which I mean to say, customary monkey business: heckling one another like caged hyenas; carrying on as if the Speaker’s chair were unoccupied; naked demonstrations of egregious etiquette; slanderous declarations tossed across the table . . . almost none of it remotely relatable to the day’s debate—comme d’habitude!
And then it was the turn of Mr. Alva Baptiste. In the time of the last Kenny Anthony administration he had been the minister of foreign affairs. His contributions to House debates always attracted public attention, if for diverse reasons. Referencing his oratorical skills, I once had compared him favorably with George Odlum. It was not to be the first time I proved fallible. Shortly before the 2016 general elections he announced (admittedly with that certain glint in his eye that said more than his words ever could) that “Allen Chastanet will become prime minister of Saint Lucia over my dead body!”
The line earned him much flak from the expected quarters but I couldn’t help wondering whether Baptiste was understood as he hoped to be understood. Did he mean to say the United Workers Party leader would achieve his goal only after Baptiste was deceased? Or did the Laborie representative suggest there was no limit to what he would do to deny Chastanet his dream?
Not much later, a telling smile accompanying that earlier mentioned sly mongoose look in his eye, this was how Baptiste accounted for his entertainment allowance. “People talk but they don’t realize alcohol is the lubricant of diplomatic intercourse!” While the Speaker kept her St. Theresa eyes focused on some papers on her desk, the Laborie MP’s worldlier enablers whooped and hollered in vociferous acknowledgement of his wit.
On his last outing he returned to his favorite weapons of mass distraction: words—both long and short. In the process of painting an unflattering picture of the man who had made it into the prime minister’s chair two years ago without loss of a fingernail, let alone life, the soi-disant president of an imagined Laborie said: “They could not advance anything to substantiate what they were saying. Can you imagine, in the process of coming into office, they have called us neegahs, they have called us dogs, they have called us terrorists . . .”
Earlier Speakers might quickly have interrupted the MP on at least two counts: 1) Uttering on near sacred ground the raw and deeply offensive version of the N-word; 2) introducing demeaning hearsay to a debate among gentlemen and ladies of high honor and integrity. When he did intervene to advise that the MPs not use “such strong words,” the MP for Laborie countered in typical fashion. He insisted the words complained of were not his own, he had simply quoted unidentified representatives of the prime minister’s party. In all events, he observed, “the point has been made.” It would be up to Hansard readers to discover the point he referred to. Following another Speaker intervention, the Laborie representative said he did not wish to appear stubborn and disrespectful and “re-cal-sit-er-ant.” The loudest squeal of appreciation emanated from the European lips of the Vieux Fort south MP, himself famous for his own solecisms, whether or not influenced by lubricants of diplomatic intercourse.
Last month’s House session closed with more promises that the declared election-time “war on the Chastanets” will continue. Hopefully with no dead bodies!
