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sciencelings-writes · 4 years

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The Golden Birdcage

A quick fic of my ocs in my fantasy au type of thing - This one features Rose and Adisa mainly but if there is any interest at all, I’ll write in more of my ocs

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Rose dreaded the coming day, more than she dreaded any normal day. Today she cemented her place in the monarchy of the high fae. Before she was just a princess, an heiress, a disappointment. But today she was forced to step up to start taking power over the people she was destined to rule.

She was sure that she wasn’t the only one to dread it, she’d never really been popular among her people. She wasn’t born with a power that was seen as honorable or anything. While her mother could create massive crystalline spherical shields that protect the thousands of miles of their kingdom and her father could harness the power of their sun with powerful blasts of energy that could decimate armies, Rose could only heal. Sure, healing was an important and necessary power, but for a royal sunborn fairy? It was incredibly weak for the royal line, which was known to be the most powerful of the fae. There were rumors of her not being a true heir, being adopted, or a product of infidelity, but they were false, and there was no conceivable reason that she was born the way that she was.

For years she held her head up high and ignored those who looked at her like she was less than anyone else. She could not retaliate or express how she felt about it to anyone, not even her family. But it got so tiring. The only time she could rest was after she was dismissed for the day and could be herself alone in her room without any serving fae. She would take off her corset and release the tightest parts of her elaborate braids. She would let out the pent up emotions that she had been keeping inside all day, usually by writing which would be promptly burned with a candle or she would release her frustrations by sparring with a dummy. She always felt better with a sword in her hands.

But today would be worse than any of the days before. Not only would she not be alone for a single second, but it was one of the biggest days of her life and there was a lot of pressure on her. She had spent weeks preparing herself. Writing and memorizing a speech that she would have to recite in front of thousands of very important people, rehearsing the ceremony a dozen times with her mother pointing out a flaw every time. Sometimes it was something small like a hair out of place or a break in her facial expression, or a wrinkle in her dress, and sometimes it was detrimental like when she forgot a word or she stuttered causing her mother to yell at her. A stutter meant weakness and a mistake in words meant a lack of preparation, both of which were not a good sign in a new leader. Rose had always been sick of the perfection demanded of her.

Since the moment she woke up, she had been attended to with a handful of her servants focused on different parts of her appearance. Three doing her hair, two doing her makeup, and two more working with her clothes. She didn’t love being crowded at the best of times but this was definitely not comfortable for her in the slightest. She could barely breathe, her skin was covered in golden paints and powders, and the heeled shoes she had to wear everywhere was just the tip of the iceberg. She already deeply anticipated the end of the day when it would all be over and she would be free.

What made the day more bearable was that she was friendly with her servants. She wouldn’t call them friends but they respected each other and gossiped about anything that was going on in the palace. They were some of the only people who talked to her like she was a person and not a princess under the protection of the most powerful fae in the lands. They learned not to be afraid to joke around with her and be upfront with her as they were fully aware that she had no plans to punish them for not agreeing with her at every point. She knew that not all of them were on board with her becoming the queen but they still encouraged her and let her be at least slightly open about her feelings about things like food and music. She wouldn’t dare let their conversations stray close to topics she was more passionate about where she might let something more unsavory slip.

They arrived early in the morning when the shields were still dark. They were much more excited about the day than she was. Their excited chatter echoed throughout the pale stone halls enough to wake her several minutes before they even arrived. She relished her few moments alone before she was to be swarmed with familiar faces.

The handful of assorted fae scrambled in, a man adorned in indigo who was in charge of her dress and was the best at tying up her corset all nice and tight with barely enough room to breathe, a few older women in orange and violet respectively who would weave her hair like it was a decadent tapestry to place in the throne room to be showed off to prestigious guests, a young woman and a young man tasked with turning her face from pale and freckly to a work of art.

Rose was embarrassed to say that she didn’t know their names, not because she didn’t care to know but because she was just horrible at that kind of thing and had forgotten. Now after years of service, she was too afraid to ask. She remembered that the older women had grandchildren that worked in the kitchens and at the market and that one of them used to sing as the castle bard but pairing them with names was harder for Rose to remember. She was pretty sure that one of them was named Hesta but she could never remember which one it was.

“Good morning!” One of the elder fae sing-songed, “Today is the day!”

“It sure is isn’t it…” Rose said less than enthusiastically.

“Well now, don’t be nervous!” The serving fae collectively dragged her to get to work. She did her best to follow along and work with them but with all the chaos, she had a bit of trouble. Within seconds there were brushes passing through her orange and white hair and powder already being applied to her face. She rested her hands on the poles on both of her sides in anticipation for when the corset was to start its asphyxiating process.

“I’m not nervous…” She gained a few trivial stares when she said it, “Okay, yeah, I’m a little anxious this isn’t exactly a small thing.” She sighed.

“Of course, but you’ll do fine. You’ve prepared so much, I’d frankly be surprised if you managed to breathe at an imperfect moment.” The older fairy chuckled.

“Yeah, I know…” Rose took a couple of deep breaths, it didn’t help but it made her look more in control. She gripped the posts tightly and planted her feet on the ground as the white corset started to squeeze her organs. “It won’t all be bad, I guess I’m going to have to start to get used to being stared at.” She grunted at a particularly violent pull of the threads.

“You’ll do fine princess. You’re much stronger than they say that you are. Believe me.”

***

After several painstaking hours, Rose emerged for the pre-coordination ball in the ceremonial flowy iridescent white and gold gown. Her pearlescent pale segmented wings emerged from the openings in the white drapery that trailed behind her. She wore her small gold winged crown that would be replaced with a bigger more elaborate one during the ceremony. Her hair was braided tightly in a beautiful if a little painful bun style with ribbons coming from a flowery hairpiece made of pink and gold lilies and full white roses. Her makeup was filled with warm pinks with gold details framing a golden sun painted on her forehead. Her pointed ears were adorned with gold earrings linked with chains and dangling white opals.

She had to admit, the look was impressive. She looked like a celestial sun goddess and it made her feel better from how painful it was to achieve. She fluttered through the air to the dark chamber for the hour of meditation before the first ball. She was only left alone to wait for a few seconds before a voice broke through along with the sudden sounds of muffled crowds from the nearby rooms as the door opened and closed.

“You’re slouching.” Roses mother announced from behind her.

“I don’t think it’s possible to do so your highness. This corset feels like it’s made of steel and melded to my body.” She said bluntly.

“Your posture includes your neck darling.” The red-haired queen of the sun fae walked around her daughter as if she was inspecting her for a single piece of lint.

“If I had my neck any more vertical I wouldn’t be able to see the floor.” She sighed. When her mother looked satisfied she placed herself in front of her.

“You look…” Rose waited for her mother to nitpick something, saying that she looked like a golden pig or a crane in a dress. “Like a queen.” Rose raised her eyebrows in shock. That was probably the most positive thing she had said in weeks.

“Don’t mess up your makeup!” Her mother demanded, back to her old attitude again, nothing good could last for very long apparently.

“I could sit through a hurricane and my makeup wouldn’t even smear.”

“It’s almost time. I have guests to attend to, do not be caught off-guard.” Her mother demanded, “We have practiced this a hundred times, you would have to be an idiot to get something wrong.” Rose tried not to feel hurt from the comment.

“Thanks.” She grumbled.

“Do not miss your cue!”

“How would I miss it, Someone literally yells my name.”

“I’m sure you’d find a way.” And with that, her mother traded places with a guard in golden armor.

Rose closed her eyes to start the hour of meditation. Others in her place have claimed to see visions or deceased members of the royal family or even the sun herself. For the first half-hour, she just saw the back of her eyelids. Pure darkness. She had to let her mind wander or she would fall asleep or worse, get bored. She focused on the warmth of her magic through her veins, it was the warmest at her palms, like she was holding hands with someone. The comforting warmth combated the unnatural darkness around her.

After an eternity of all-encompassing silence, she heard a voice. It was quiet but in the impossibly silent room, it was as clear as day.

“You’re being wasted here.” the voice was deep and female. Blunt, like she was stating a fact. “They can’t help you. This place is killing you.”

Rose wanted to answer out loud but she knew the voice was in her head and she was acutely aware that she wasn’t alone in the room. She didn’t expect the things she would hear in there to be so… real.

“She’s suffocating you. You were meant to be free.”

‘I want to be free.’ Rose tried to manifest the pure yearning through her thoughts to whoever was speaking to her.

“You will be freed. Are you willing to pay the price?”

‘I’m going to be free if I have to do it myself. I’m sick of not having any control over my own life! I don’t care about your price.’ Anger started to bubble in her chest, the normal heat generated from her powers was amplified by the years and years of rage that had built up.

“I like you, princess,” The voice chuckled, “I feel like you’re going to be a great ally.”

Rose heard something beyond the voice, like in the world outside of her mind. She opened her eyes and the dark room was no longer dark in the slightest. Glowing gold and pink clouds swirled around her and she emitted a golden light from her skin and eyes. The guard was huddled in the corner with his eyes wide. He looked afraid. For some reason, this gave Rose a powerful sense of euphoria.

Unfortunately, as soon as she had realized her power around her, it started to regress. The swirling clouds started to slow and her skin started to fade. Not before the door opened though. The chamber’s main door opened to the ballroom, filled with every important fae in the Dawn and Dusk kingdoms. They all saw the thick clouds exit the room as she did and even more bazaar, she was smiling. Not like the polite smile she had practiced all her life but one of true genuine delight. Even her mother was staring.

Rose walked out of the dark room and to the balcony for all to see. The room was quiet. The music had stopped playing. Not out of respect but out of shock. After a long enough moment, someone very familiar spoke. The voice front the dark chamber.

“Now that was quite the entrance, Princess.” A fairy approached from the crowd dressed in black and green wearing a white mask that featured a long beak.

“What’s the meaning of this?” Rose's mother announced as she stood up from her golden throne.

“Don’t interrupt your majesty.” The strange fae spat. “I’m sure you’ll want to hear me out.” The queen managed to control herself and she sat back down. The dark room fairy waved her hand which caused a green intricate witches circle to appear at her feet and dark black clouds to swirl around it. Gasps erupted from the room. This wasn’t a fairy at all. A witch had snuck into one of the most important fae places. The natural enemies of the fairies were the magic folk and one had managed to slip into a major fae event.

The witch’s dark thunder clouds expanded throughout the massive room and her glamour faded. Her green butterfly wings turned into huge black feathered wings. Her curly brown hair cascaded off of her shoulders from their hiding spot and a black cloak waterfalled from her shoulders. A black staff topped in a birdlike skull appeared in her hands. Rose thought that she was so incredibly beautiful in the most unorthodox way.

“Relax relax,” The witch bellowed. “I’ve come bearing a gift for the princess. Better than any gift the fae could hope to offer her.” She disappeared in black smoke and appeared right next to Rose. But she wasn’t afraid in the slightest. Both the king and the queen stood abruptly at this action.

“I have a purpose for you. The lost Fae Princess needs to be found, and who better to find her than her sister! The caged bird will be trapped no longer.” The witch grinned. “Oh, and if you refuse-” she pointed her staff at the king and queen and they were covered in smoke. Once the smoke lifted it looked like nothing had changed but by the look on the monarch’s faces, something certainly had. “Your kingdom will remain unguarded and unprotected by the most powerful among you.” Surely enough, when Rose looked out the glass windows, the crystalline shielding around the palace was gone, without the shields, there was no night and day. Only the eternal light of the sun blazing onto the lands. “I’m sure my kind would be enthused to know of your newfound vulnerability.”

Rose stayed silent. She wasn’t afraid of the witch, she had been taught that the magic folk were wicked and scheming. But though the appearance of this witch was sinister and destructive, she was giving Rose exactly what she wanted under the guise of it being to lift a curse. She wasn’t just giving Rose a way out, but also a purpose, a quest, an adventure, a sister? Rose had only heard rumors of a lost princess but she thought they were just that, rumors. Like she was not her father's daughter despite having his white hair woven through the red she had inherited from her mother.

“You won’t even be alone on your journey. For a price, I will give you an object that summons me whenever you need me. I am nothing if not giving.”

“What kind of price?” Rose raised her eyebrow, speaking for the first time since the witch appeared.

“A small price for my help. All I ask for is a kiss.” The witch smirked, as if she didn’t expect Rose to take up the offer. The crowd had gasped, a kiss from a witch was said to be cursed. It was like signing a contract with the devil. But Rose didn’t need the promise of help from the woman, she would’ve kissed her anyway for freeing her.

“Deal.” The witch looked a little surprised but she laughed as all the onlookers looked horrified. Rose however was not remorseful in the slightest. The sooner she could leave her mother's presence, the better. Rose knew the corrupt nature of the fae more than anyone and she was sure that they wouldn’t even miss her.

“Wonderful. Now, you can’t go on a quest looking like that!” The witch spoke directly to her instead of projecting to fill the whole room. She gently lifted Rose’s chin with a dark claw-like finger and their lips met.

Around her, the decadent white gown started to get covered in smoke and changing dramatically. Rose felt the corset loosen and the skirt tighten and wrap around her legs to form pants. The smoke rose to her hair where the tight braids fell around her shoulders and unwove into freshly curled locks. She felt weight on her back of her small assortment of weapons that were forged by the fire giants for sunborn royalty. A sword with a golden hilt adorned with a triple set of feathered wings, a matching bow and a quiver full of arrows and a golden dagger to finish the set. Her heels were replaced with practical laced up boots that were a hundred times more comfortable. Even her makeup was affected. The layers and layers of powders and paints lifting in an instant leaving only the flaked remains of the sun imagery on her forehead and her golden lips.

Throughout her transformation, her lips were still firmly planted on the witches. She probably lingered for too long as the kiss made her heart flutter and she tried her best to preserve the feeling.

They parted, and the witch held out a dark metal object. A razor sharp knife with the imagery of a white bird skull carved to it’s hilt.

“Point it to the sky and say my name and I will come to you.” The witch assured.

“What is your name?” Rose took the knife and examined it before looking upwards at the witch.

“Adisa. Adisa Crow.”

#This is basically a first draft of a few scenes in my original series that im working on #at least the fantasy one #Rosalia Scarlett Dawn #Adisa Crow #Doctor Plague #my ocs #my writing #original writing #original content #original character #original characters #oc #ocs

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andrebagoo · 5 years

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Thanks to Opal Palmer Adisa for this interview which was published in the Jamaica Observer of February 10, 2019.

OPA: For me, the history of Trinidad and Tobago is synonymous with Pitch Lake as that was one of the first facts I learned and because it also saved Columbus and allowed him to continue his colonial voyage. So what is the meaning and implications of this title for your collection?

AB: With Pitch Lake I was drawn to several things. Firstly, the polyvalence of each word. Pitch, a quality of sound, a measurement of steepness or highness, a degree of intensity, a space for play, an act of service in a game, a proposal, the density of words on a page and, of course, especially in Trinidad, another word for asphalt, bitumen, tar. Lake, a place within a terrain, a space filled with water, a metaphor. The conflation of these dynamic words pleases. They resonate in a potentially bottomless kind of way.

And of course the layers of geography, myth, history. The Pitch Lake is itself the world’s largest asphalt lake. Its history is not limited to Columbus, the indigenous peoples of this land developed myths about its formation and purpose long before him. (Incidentally, it seems there is some uncertainty as to whether it was Columbus or Sir Walter Ralegh who encountered the lake first). The lake itself is a natural wonder, its level has barely changed over the centuries. Ancient fossils and objects are spit out of its depths every day. It is a link to the past and the future. Scientists have said there are organisms in it that might give us clues as to what life on moons might be like.

Meaning and implications? That’s really not for me to say. All I can offer is that I was drawn to the lake as a symbol. I hope the whole book asks questions about language, the environment, sexuality, politics, the post-colonial condition. Asphalt from the Pitch Lake has reportedly been used to pave roads and runways all over the world including at Buckingham Palace and La Guardia Airport in New York. So too I hope my words travel.

In addition to the actual lake, Alfred Mendes’s 1934 novel Pitch Lake was also a presence. There is a bit of intertextuality. So there are lots of layers for me. Which I find interesting. Which says something about me and my sad life. Ha.

OPA: Some of your work is definitely a talking back to certain Caribbean iconic markers, such as “Sargassum,” and others seem a mirror trying to break beneath skin and thought such as “Poui.” How do you attend to your craft, the development and debut of a poem?

AB: Each poem is its own thing, and it's not often easy to predict where or how the idea is going to find expression. The most thrilling part of writing is the preparation to write, yes, but also the moment when you throw everything out the window and just let things happen to you and your poem. ‘Sargassum’ references the sudden proliferation of that seaweed in recent years due to climate change, but of course, it’s also alluding to a history which reaches well beyond the Jean Rhys novel. I see ‘Poui’ as a kind of aubade.

OPA: As poets, we sometimes write about our life or use it as a point of departure. There are hints of autobiography in some of your poems, but they feel more like pieces of a puzzle, the whole of which we will never get, or private revelations that is really a mask for something else, for example, “The Lost Earrings.”

AB: The closing section of the book is a series of poems which I regard as small thought experiments, playing with the idea of narrative, interrupting linear notions of time, allowing a stream of consciousness to be dammed then released then remixed then reversed—each a curation of complex emotions. I’m always interested in what the reader finds and their journey.

As for autobiography and masking, think of it this way: a poem is a Carnival costume. It might have a lot of fabric and fancy trimmings. Or it might be slender and revealing. Always, we get a sense of the human body beneath. Always, the choice of mask reveals something about the wearer of the costume. Paradoxically, it’s when we deploy masks that we show more of ourselves.

OPA: As a gay man living in the Caribbean, specifically Trinidad, where homophobia was, and perhaps still remains an issue, how have you addressed that topic in your writing? And now that the buggery law has been struck down, and Trinidad had its first Pride celebration, do you feel safer as a gay man to express that topic more openly in your work as in the poem “After Andil Gosine”?

I don’t ever want to feel safe in my writing. I think the question of “openness” has a lot to do with expectations. Do we expect certain poets from certain backgrounds to always write poems about certain topics? When they defy us with poetry which is not overtly lined to any specific agenda does that make us inclined to regard them as hiding behind masks? Would we hold up heteronormative society to such standards? Are only certain types of poets allowed to deploy the fullest range of artistic expression and experimentation?

The ruling on the buggery law and our first Pride parade were touchstone moments which inspire hope. But the problem of homophobia in our society is a long-term problem.

I don’t address issues in my writing. I just write. And I let whatever comes to the surface rise. Hopefully, this brings me closer to a truth and that truth allows me to bridge different worlds, including worlds of diverse sexualities.

For me, the question of how open you get in your work is more about experience than a wider social narrative, though they undoubtedly blur. It’s like asking would you like to be the subject of a reality TV show or not? Each person has a different answer depending on their personality.

Some of my sexiest poems, or poems in which queerness is part of the fabric of the poem were written and published (and performed) years before recent developments.

That said, every poem, no matter how clothed, is a deeply personal artifact. Take it or leave it. And poetry is a freedom that I am entitled to. Feeling free in real life does enable me, somewhat, to be braver in whatever I write. And, yes, who knows what a sense of freedom might bring to the mix.

OPA: I really enjoyed the “Art Teacher,” which seems strictly a prose piece, so I am curious about its inclusion in this collection?

It comes in the LAKE section, where I examine language itself, the idea of words forming an endless sea of (broken) narrative. The juxtaposition of a conventional linear narrative alongside the other pieces is meant to trigger comparison; to create the sensation of something suddenly out of place, complicating and interrupting the three-section schematic of the book. Part of me wanted to ask the question: what’s the distinction between prose and poetry? Why is a story not a poem? Heidegger says poetry is the essence of all other art forms.

OPA: Do you have any urge to write strictly prose, where the story element takes precedence?

AB: Poems tell stories. Stories can be poetry. Dylan Thomas. Borges. Baudelaire. All wrote both. That said, I do have those urges. I have lots of urges. Don’t we all? It depends on the pressure giving birth to a particular idea. It’s a matter of feeling things out. There are times when I have written the poem, then the story, then done the painting.

You can read the full interview here.

#Pitch Lake #Poetry #Caribbean #LGBTQ #Gay #Caribbean Literature #Literature #Poems #Jamaica #Observer #Interview #Poets

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nikkitajiri · 6 years

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“women go / to the hale pe’a / in hawaii / nourish their power / restore balance / jah-man / nu wan him woman / cook food / during dat time / stories whispered / nu eat stew peas / from any woman / yu can never tell / it will bind / cast a spell / tie you to her / forever

simbu people / of papau new guinea/ among indonesians/ west africans/ almost everywhere / sister-to-sister / relief from work / break from men / removed from community / they told stories / guarded their solitude / grew powerful/ influenced / the men / using their blood / real / sometimes staged / to clear a space/ for feminine / positioning

most times / i’m an even tempered / congenial person / some even say / i’m gregarious / but not today

no private room / or isolated contentment/ give me/ shared space / where women-to-women /gather/ laugh at man’s folly / and squash his fear / a menstrual hut / where women can just be / in charge of / nature’s energy”

- Opal Palmer Adisa

Artwork by Caroline Maniere

#period talk #feminist blog #menstruation #periods #feminism #goddess #feminist #period #poems

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cinader · 1 year

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Spoken Word Special

Featuring poet, Anne Myles, about Late Epistle, Sappho's Prize in Poetry, and spoken word about heat, longing, love and late life by Sekou Sundiata, Cultural Consciousness, Rosalie Sorrels, Bob Holman, Odd City, Lord Buckley, Devorah Major...

Poet, Anne Myles speaks about Late Epistle Anne Myles Tony Robles interviews poet, Anne Myles, in Greensboro, North Carolina. Her debut full-length collection Late Epistle, Headmistress Press, winner of Sappho’s Prize in Poetry 2022, and her chapbook What Woman That Was: Poems for Mary Dyer was published in 2022 by Final Thursday Press. Spoken word about heat, longing, love and late life by…

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sexydeathparty · 3 years

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William And Kate ‘Benefitting From Blood, Tears And Sweat Of Slaves’

Prince William and his wife Kate Middleton have been accused of benefitting from the “blood, tears and sweat” of slaves as they arrived in Jamaica to be met by a protest calling for reparations from the British monarchy.

The Duke and Duchess of Cambridge will celebrate the culture and history of the island where there have been calls from politicians in recent years for Jamaica to drop the Queen as head of state and become a republic, and for a formal acknowledgement of slavery.

Anti-colonial sentiment has been growing across the Caribbean against the background of the Black Lives Matter movement, which has inspired many around the globe to campaign for equality.

Protesters gathered outside the British High Commission in Jamaican capital Kingston, with one placard held by a little girl reading: “Kings, Queens and Princesses and Princes belong in fairytales not in Jamaica!”

A royal source said the duke was aware of the protests and was expected to acknowledge the issue of slavery in a speech on Wednesday night during a dinner hosted by the Governor General of Jamaica.

Opal Adisa, a Jamaican human rights advocate who helped organise the demonstration, also called for an apology, saying: “Kate and William are beneficiaries, so they are, in fact, complicit because they are positioned to benefit specifically from our ancestors, and we’re not benefitting from our ancestors.

“The luxury and the lifestyle that they have had and that they continue to have, traipsing all over the world for free with no expense, that is a result of my great, great grandmother and grandfather, their blood and tears and sweat.”

The Advocates Network coalition of Jamaican politicians, business leaders, doctors and musicians wrote an open letter detailing 60 reasons why the monarchy should compensate Jamaica, to mark the country’s 60th anniversary of independence.

Adisa said an apology would be the “first step towards healing and reconciliation”.

She added: “You know, we don’t have anything personally against Kate and Prince William, and even the Queen, for that matter, but we’re simply saying you’ve done wrong, and it is way past time that you admit that you’ve done wrong and when you do, redressing it.”

60 REASONS FOR APOLOGIES AND REPARATIONS FROM BRITAIN AND ITS ROYAL FAMILY After 60 years of Independence, we have not forgotten and we demand an APOLOGY and REPARATIONS pic.twitter.com/RsMDUMYnJl

— Advocates Network Jamaica (@Advocatesnetja) March 21, 2022

In contrast to the angry scenes, the couple posted videos on social media of them diving in the waters off Belize among sharks following a private invitation by the country’s government to see conservation work to preserve the world’s second-largest barrier reef.

The footage was released a few hours before the couple arrived in Jamaica, where Mark Golding, the opposition leader, reportedly intends to tell the royals many Jamaicans want an apology from the monarchy for its role in transporting humans from Africa to the Caribbean.

As they stepped from the Voyager ministerial jet the couple received an official but warm welcome to Jamaica, but it was the blustery conditions that had the duchess clutching onto her flowing dress in case it was whipped up by gust.

While the duke took the salute from a guard of honour formed by Jamaica Defence Force troops, the duchess stood nearby under a marquee that shook in the wind as she held onto the hem of her yellow maxi-gown by Roxsana.

She laughed with a dignitary standing next to her as she battled the conditions ahead of their trip to Trench Town, the Kingston neighbourhood where reggae great Bob Marley grew up.

The royal couple were the subject of protests in Belize. the first stop of their Caribbean tour, with opposition to a royal tour of a chocolate farm forcing the event to be cancelled and hastily arranged at another site.

Golding has been invited to a royal event in his St Andrew South constituency and the Governor Generals’ dinner where William will give his speech.

He told The Gleaner, a national Jamaican newspaper: “I would hope that I get the opportunity during the events that I will be attending to have that dialogue with them and to bring it to their attention in a courteous and respectful way that this is the view held by many Jamaicans.”

The leader of the People’s National Party added: “And that I think it would be helpful both to the Royal family and Jamaica for them to consider this as a means of starting to move forward to a new future.”

The Prince of Wales addressed the “appalling atrocity of slavery”, describing it as something “which forever stains our history” last November when he attended the ceremony marking Barbados’ historic transition to a republic.

The British royal family were involved in the transportation and selling of people for profit for centuries with Elizabeth I becoming involved in the lucrative dealings of John Hawkins, one of Britain’s first slave traders in the 16th century.

When his first adventure proved successful and his ships returned laden with goods she supported his future expeditions by providing vessels to carry the human cargo.

The connections between the royal family and slavery continued with Charles II who encouraged the expansion of the slave trade.

He granted a charter to a group of men, the Royal Adventurers, who later became the Royal African Company and the monarch and the Duke of York invested their private funds in the venture.

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