I Found My Ancestral Home In Barbados During Crop Over & It Changed My Life

“It’s her!” I bellowed as I ran through a crowd full of glistening brown dancing bodies covered in glitter and fevers. I was in Barbados for its Crop Over Festival and I was dragged through the Grand Kadooment Day parade as soca music thundered in my ears and people “jump up” under the hot Caribbean sun. It was, of course, Rihanna who caused me to sprint like a bullet train. The superstar had returned home to Barbados and was playing mas in custom jeweled adornments and expansive feather wings. “It’s like she’s Princess Diana,” someone in the crowd laughed as hundreds spilled in around the superstar’s truck, hoping to get a touch of her hand. The moment has now become a core memory. 

It was my first time in Barbados since I was a child. My memories of my time on the island — living with my gran (gran-gran) and great-grandmother in our familial home — are hazy and I’m not sure which memories are mine or simply the retellings of my parents. On the very same day that I would see Rihanna in all her regalia, I’d also search for and find my gran-gran’s house (my house) for the first time in decades. My dad had texted me the address on Grand Kadooment Day and my taxi driver confirmed that my grandmother’s house was only five minutes away from the Crop Over celebrations. I was elated. There are no street names or numbered houses so the taxi driver and a van full of journalists asked strangers on the street if they knew of my great-grandmother and many said no. I was resigned to not finding the house when — call it fate or coincidence — one of my travel companions told the driver to stop the car in front of an old woman and her son walking by. They said they had lived on this street all their lives and remembered my family, who they described as “the ones that went to England and stopped coming back to Barbados”. My ancestral home was just a few short yards away. I stood in the street that I recognized from photo albums. I saw the steps where I chased geckos and played with local kids. And, on those steps, I cried for my much-beloved gran who died 10 years ago. This trip would reconnect me with a core part of my identity and it was life-altering — seeing Rihanna was only the icing on the cake. 

In what was an unfortunate coincidence, it was during this transformative week in Barbados that England became subject to widespread racist riots. After the tragic murders of three young girls in Southport last month, EDL members had hijacked the pain of those mourning in an attempt to justify violent attacks on Muslim people and other ethnic minorities. In Manchester where I live, a Muslim family was chased by a man with a chainsaw; A Black man was jumped by far-right members in the town centre where I frequent. From the safety of palm trees and idyllic beaches, I watched videos of politicians struggling to bend their mealy mouths to say the words “racist” and “Islamophobia”. I watched as “rioters” smashed and burned the very home they said they were fighting to “take back”. I worried for the safety of my family. I was in Barbados, the home of my father and grandparents, but my actual home was in chaos. Since the trip and the riots, I’ve been ruminating on what home means to me ever since. 

As a third-generation Black British woman, both Barbadian (Bajan) and Antiguan, I was brought up on stories of the Caribbean. My Bajan grandmother fed me Bajan bakes and coconut bread as treats, while my Antiguan grandmother’s ‘Saturday' pepperpot soup would leave my belly full of pumpkin, sweet potatoes, and boiled dumplings. By spending extended time with my beautiful grandparents in Manchester, I learned a lot about their “homes” and was often reminded that Barbados and Antigua were my homes too, though far away.

My grandparents traveled to the UK during the 50s and 60s as part of the Windrush generation and like many Caribbean immigrants faced discrimination and racism but also helped foster Caribbean hubs where you could buy plantain and speak in patois with others from the islands. They also integrated (not always happily) with white working-class people and other immigrants to create new multicultural communities. However, I always got the sense they longed for the islands they left (from ripping open mangos with bare teeth to reconnecting with the family members I’d never met). 

Like many Black Brits, claiming the UK as home can feel complicated, especially now. But it is home. I am British; there’s no escaping it and the Heinz beans in my cupboard confirm it. But even though my passport says so, it has never stopped a racist in the UK from telling me to “go home” on multiple occasions in my life. My Caribbean-ness is built into my factory settings but until recently, I hadn’t traveled to the islands for years. Being Barbadian (Bajan) and Antiguan is who I am to my core but my accent says otherwise. I often feel like a contradiction. Going back to Barbados as an adult was an opportunity to affirm a part of myself that often feels overpowered. 

I had traveled to Barbados as part of a press trip, to celebrate the Crop Over season and all the glorious celebrations, or rather “fetes”, including J’ouvert to Grand Kadooment Day. The origin of Crop Over can be traced back to the 1700s when Barbados was one of the world’s biggest producers of sugar because of the indentured labor of enslaved Black men, women, and children. It was because of the untold suffering and violence of slavery in Barbados that Britain became wealthy and a superpower. At the end of the sugarcane harvest period, Barbadian men and women would celebrate with a parade; however, once the sugar industry fell into decline so did the celebrations. Crop Over was reignited in the ‘70s and like in Trinidad, came the tradition of playing mas when thousands “jump up” in resplendent costumes. It is a celebration of freedom. 

During Crop Over, I was reminded why London’s Notting Hill Carnival, as well as Caribbean carnivals in Leeds and Manchester, are so integral to the sense of belonging for Caribbean communities in the UK. Notting Hill Carnival was founded in 1959 by Trinidadian activist Claudia Jones in response to race riots that targeted the homes of West Indians for over a week. Resolute, Jones introduced the Caribbean carnival as a means to build unity and showcase Caribbean heritage. Over 60 years later, in the wake of the recent far-right riots, Notting Hill Carnival feels especially defiant in the face of racism. Notting Hill Carnival attracts hundreds of thousands of visitors globally each year and 2024 was no different — it is an economy-building tourist attraction that greatly benefits the UK. As the impact of the latest race riots is still felt, carnival feels like a middle finger to those who treat Britain's multiculturalism as a threat. 

Unsurprisingly, in Barbados, I was also at peace. In the sun, soca and calypso music sounded sweeter in my ears. I regretted not playing mas but I danced my heart out and it was glorious. I stayed in the luxurious Wyndham Hotel at Sam Lord’s Castle, on the southeast coast of the island. I was kindly invited to stay at the resort's premier room overlooking the sea and that view will stay with me. The all-inclusive resort is expansive with 422 luxurious guest rooms with private balconies, of which 37 are spacious suites. There are multiple restaurants including the Castle View Restaurants serving amazing steak and seafood. There is also a stunning spa where I was able to relax after days of parties and dancing. And rum, there was so much rum. 

In one precious moment, Wyndham Hotel’s Chef Anissa taught our group how to make Bajan bakes (a delicious yet simple combination of flour, sugar, and water) in the way her grandmother made them for her growing up. I hadn’t had bakes since my grandmother passed away and I loved helping Anissa drop the batter into the hot oil. This recipe is now firmly burned in my brain.

The group and I took an incredible trip on a catamaran and scuba-dived to see marine life, including turtles and stingrays (sadly this island girl’s swimming skills aren’t up to much and I stayed on the boat). We also went to the famous Oistins Fish Fry, where we ate flying fish (Barbados’ national dish) and macaroni pie and watched a very average but hilarious Michael Jackson impersonation. One of my highlights from the trip was waking up at 3 am to make a Mimosa Breakfast Party that started at 5 am. We danced to soca and calypso before most people brushed their teeth in the morning. Here I met Barbados’ trailblazing Prime Minister Mia Mottley. I had admired Mottley’s steadfastness when severing Barbados’ ties with Britain, removing the Queen as head of state to become a republic in 2021. At the time Mottley said the island was fully leaving its colonial past behind and said in a speech, “This is the ultimate statement of confidence in who we are and what we are capable of achieving." I told Mottley I admired her leadership from afar. She told me to embrace Barbados for everything it has to offer. 

It’s easy to romanticize a place when you’re on holiday and much of Barbados' difficulties were hidden from the view of tourists like me — but, like anywhere, Barbados is a paradise that isn’t exempt from social and economic issues. I had traveled to the island not long after it was hit by Hurricane Beryl, a category 4 storm said to have caused “heavy damage to fishing infrastructure and assets” along the island's south and southwest coasts. Speaking to one of the hotel staff about life post-hurricane, he told me with a shrug that preparing for a hurricane such as this was a case of “wait and see” and assessing the situation later. Other Bajans I spoke to told me about needing multiple jobs and having to miss Grand Kadooment Day celebrations because of real-life obligations. I felt I had only scratched the surface of what it is really like to live in Barbados. 

As I sat in the airport and waited for my flight home, I flicked through photos of my ancestral home beaming with a deep sense of joy. I thought about how happy I was to see my gran’s home and the legacy she left us in bricks and mortar. I felt a sense of belonging that I hadn’t felt in years. I also felt a grief I hadn’t felt in years; I mourned for my gran and some of the culture and traditions we lost when she passed. Then my thoughts turned to the home I was returning to in the UK. How the very idea of “home” is so powerful to any individual that it causes the worst among us to become possessive and rabid, marking their territory like wild dogs. Yet, as my British passport was stamped and I flew back to Manchester into what felt like the unknown, I felt armed with the knowledge that home to me is multiple, glorious places; I went back to “my own country” and it was beautiful.