The way the brightest New Labourites tell it these days, our nation never had a better leader than John Compton; not before Independence and certainly not now, except for The One!
Gone up in smoke are all recollections of Jessica, Plywood City, and the 1982 House session when the chamber was turned into a basketball court and the sacred Mace into an elongated basketball.
Also leached out of New Labour’s memory banks are the leader for life’s typically scathing 2006 references to Sir John’s CARICOM medal and his knighthood.
As demeaning as were the comments about the eighty-something Sir John’s sexual potency by a highly advertised SLP virgin, they too have been drowned in the bilge water under the bridge. Oh, but was there ever an election-campaign strategy more obvious?
Suddenly, the charcoal “Compton legacy” has transmuted into gold. To hear the alchemist-apostles of New Labour, the now dearly departed had throughout his long life been a fearless champion of every conceivable wondrous thing, from the rights of pre-pubescent girls to accountable government and free speech and justice for all.
If when John Compton walked the earth the SLP’s party organ had renamed his wife Delilah, one of the Top Ten Bad Babes of the Bible, her image had since been photoshopped to resemble a botoxed Mother Teresa, a model for wannabe good girls everywhere.
New Labour’s attitude had also undergone a sea change—especially after Lady Janice recklessly announced she had in her vault documented proof that the Taiwanese ambassador and the government her husband headed until a short time before his death are corrupt peas in a pod. Moreover, she would not hesitate to publish the damning details if they even attempted to mess with her daughter. By which she implied, if only inadvertently, that if Stephenson King agreed to play ball and delivered to Jeannine all her pumping little Compton heart desired, the government’s secret would remain under wraps. Conceivably the ultimatum applied equally to the Taiwanese ambassador’s generosity.
If heaven had been the reward of a 15-year-old Jewish virgin for delivering in a miracle child who went on to become “savior of the world,” then surely Lady Janice deserves some credit for having produced, without divine assistance, a daughter who is not only the spitting image and likeness of her father but is also determined to follow in his footsteps, even if it means having to “drag her backside from house to house.” With such genetically programmed determination, who would dare doubt that what had taken Daddy Compton years to accomplish, Jeannine will achieve in the time it takes to say “balance of power?”
Today Micoud, tomorrow the whole damn ball of wax. Yea, though she walk through the valley of the shadow of banana trees, Jeannine need fear no evil king. Not with God and the American Embassy on her side!
Childish impertinence, you say? Then at your own risk deny the indisputable evidence that a desperate Kenny Anthony may understandably have bought into the latest Janice-Jeanine fantasy. Remember Jeannine’s explanation for publicly announcing her resignation from the UWP before betraying the smallest hint to those who had elected her to parliament, albeit reluctantly? She assured pesky reporters that her actions were not dictated by ingratitude and contempt for Micoud quashie but by the Almighty, in whose name she would move the threatening mountains of lard on either side of the political divide.
It remains conjectural whether “almighty” referred to her departed papa or to Ausbert d’Auvergne, who is the embodiment of all that John Compton had represented from the mid-nineties until his passing. Certainly Ausbert had been the brain behind at least three of Compton’s election outings, including his last stand when Labour’s over-publicized virgin queen had dismissed him as “a toothless tiger” and “a spent force.” Ausbert had written all but one of the prime minister’s addresses to the nation. He had also penned several of his Budget speeches.
More often than not, The Word as Compton delivered it, even before royalty, had been handed down by d’Auvergne. Perhaps better than anyone else, Jeannine appreciates the vital role he had played in her father’s storied political life. Chances are that in her politically-pureed mind, her father was in his time the equivalent of Moses receiving the Ten Commandments from God—God being the mighty Ausbert.
That being the probable scenario, how then does the Janice-despised Kenny Anthony hope to cash in? Well, always there to lean on was the mother of all Machiavellian truths: “The enemy of my enemy is my friend!” It wasn’t as if the lady and the New Labour leader for life did not share common goals and common enemies. For starters, there were the notorious Super Eight that mother and daughter continue to blame for the death of Sir John, regardless of what his death certificate might say to the contrary. There was ample evidence Ausbert d’Auvergne subscribed
to that story. If it served the leader for life (LFL), then why shouldn’t he also keep the faith? Already some serious wounds had been placed near the heart of the Super Eight. All that remained was for the final nail to be put in place—the coup de grace. And no one was better placed to deliver it than the fruit of the loins described in U S Embassy dispatches as “a faithful partner,” the precise opposite of what embassy officials thought of the LFL. Where they are concerned, a Compton in the bush had always been more useful to American foreign policy than a Kenny or a King in the hand.
In the meantime, why not promise never again to associate Jeannine with
the suspected Taiwanese money shenanigans? Why not separate her from the renegades? Jeannine alone had given “a faithful and true account” of how she disposed of her own red letters. Why not speak of her father only in terms most endearing? Why not demand police protection for Lady Janice after she placed her life in jeopardy by saying what she alone knows about the secret and corrupt arrangements between the government and Mr Chou? Chances are she might be grateful enough to whisper a few words in an American ear about the Super Eight, its leader in particular. Already the revelations of one attorney general and a customs comptroller had
shocked the pants off embassy officials. If the right mama and daughter should not only corroborate what already was on the record but also enhance it, well, dear reader, you get my drift!
Meanwhile, there was the oilman who for ten years had secretly controlled Saint Lucia’s most valuable asset. Should the near future prove unkind to his Looshan partner, chances were . . . hey, it never hurt to take out a little insurance. Trouble is the oilman’s fellow Americans have nothing good to say
about his Looshan partner, whom they believe to be in bed with another strongman-oilman they consider the region’s Saddam.
From whatever angle you consider the local situation on the eve on elections, Jeannie easily is the American choice for leadership in Saint Lucia. But then, where does that leave the NDM? Will the now independent Jeannine join its leader in time for the next general elections, or will she enlist with the SLP’s LFL? Will Jeannine try first to win her seat as an independent and then bargain with the other winners?
Should circumstances demand, will New Labour’s leader for life support a Jeannine- for-prime minister campaign? And what if d’Auvergne pulls off a miracle, will he and the LFL together drink from the cathartic blige water under the bridge?
From my not altogether obscured vantage point, if it comes to Jeannine having to choose between Kenny Anthony and Ausbert d’Auvergne, the latter stands the better chance of sealing a deal with her Mommy Compton—and I, for one, would support that choice, bearing in mind the gentlemen’s credentials!
As for the rest: with the apparently U.S.-backed assault on King’s castle now at full throttle, will the Super Eight still be super come Polling Day?
I’ll attempt to answer all of the above in my next dispatch!
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