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Sometimes it's hard being black. Right now is one of those times.

Way back in the days when the men who had no colour, and who sailed their ships from Europe, and who came to Africa's shores seeking wealth, and who created their wealth by trading in black slaves; way back then, those men who had no colour had accomplices.

The men who had no colour traded with men whose skins were like my skin. The men who had skin like my skin - black men - captured other black men and black women. These black men took their captives down to the sea where the men who had no colour waited. The men who had no colour had empty boats. They had come with empty boats. They had come to trade in men and women. Black men. Black women.

The men who had no colour traded with the black men who had captured other black men and black women and who wanted to sell these captives. The men who had no colour crammed their new purchases into the holds of their ships, sailed their ships across the Atlantic Ocean; and, on slave auction blocks in North and South America, in the Caribbean, and in Bermuda; they offered their surviving black cargo as fresh black slaves.

In those days, it was hard being black. It was hard. As a black Bermudian, that's part of my heritage.

After Emancipation, my black ex-slave forebears had to scrabble for a living in an isolated land under an unfriendly and often hostile Bermudian government that was run by men who had no colour. My ex-slave forbears sweated, toiled and persevered. In their perseverance, they formed lodges and built establishments.

Most of the lodges that they formed have died away. Many of the buildings and establishments that they created have been knocked down and have gone. The old Colonial Opera House has gone. The old wooden bandroom at Bandroom Lane, Pembroke has gone. Now it seems that this government is about to let Alexandrina Hall be taken away and be knocked down.



Admittedly, this government doesn't own Alexandrina Hall. Neither do I. Nor did I own the old Colonial Opera House. But the Alexandrina Hall is still a part of my black heritage and my black history. Though I was never - and am not now - an owner or part-owner of that building, that building is as much a part of me as is the oft-told story of the men who sold and the men who bought black men and black women.

Today, in the 399th year of Bermuda's first settling, a black-led black-run government is prattling about celebrating an unfortunate stormy day accident that turned into our present day good fortune. That same black-led black-run government seems to have no intention of preserving, or of even acknowledging the black heritage that is stored in the sweat-stained wood and limestone of Alexandrina Hall.

This black-led black-run government seems to place the same value on Bermuda's black heritage as those African chiefs who used to capture their fellow black Africans, shackle and chain them, herd them to the water's edge, and then sell them to the men who had no colour - back in the time when it was hard being black.

Now, 392 years after the first black man took up residence on these shores; 388 years after legalized slavery was instituted on these shores; 174 years after Emancipation; black Bermudian chiefs - displaying the same values as those old black African Chiefs - seem about to approve - or have already approved - the sale and destruction of an important part of Bermuda's Black heritage.

Selling black men and black women was wrong. Selling Bermuda's black heritage is just as wrong.

For me, Bermuda's black 'chiefs' are acting like those African chiefs of old. Bermuda's black 'chiefs' are selling.

Three hundred years ago when African chiefs were selling my forebears, it was hard being black. In 2008, in Bermuda, it's again hard being black. n

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