Alright, so I am someone who is absolutely tired of watching calypso performances that feel apologetic, hesitant, and unsure of themselves. Tired of watching singers step on stage like they are asking permission to be there.
Tired of hearing “twenty odd years in the business” used as a shield for mediocrity. Because what Akada showed at the finals of the Independence Song Competition is what calypso is supposed to look like when it is alive, fearless, and honest.
Let’s be clear. This wasn’t just a good performance. This was a statement.
Akada didn’t walk onto that stage, she claimed it. She commanded it. She owned it. She connected with her audience like she knew, deep in her bones, that the stage belonged to her for those few minutes.
She sang with conviction. She moved with purpose. She looked like she wanted to stay there forever, not like someone counting seconds until the final note so they could escape.
And this is only her first year. Do you understand how damning that is for some of the so-called veterans? Because here’s what it looks like from the outside: we have people who boast about two decades in calypso, but perform like they are afraid of their own lyrics. They stand frozen in one or two spots or pace from side to side like lost tourists on a stage. Their bodies don’t believe what their mouths are singing. Their eyes say, “Let me finish this quickly and get out of here.” That is not performance. That is survival.
This isn’t delivery.
This isn’t mastery.
This is timidity dressed up as experience.
Meanwhile, Akada, in her first year, showed confidence that many never develop in twenty. She showed energy. She showed hunger. She showed respect for the art form. She reminded us that calypso is not meant to be whispered. It is meant to be declared.
And then there is the irony. The heavy, embarrassing irony. Some calypsonians are always loud in the media. Always demanding crowns. Always questioning judges. Always insisting that when someone else wins, something must be wrong.
The same calypsonian who last carnival tried to publicly discredit the Dimanche Gras results by declaring that the winner did not deserve to win and should give back the crown, suddenly found his voice when it came to criticising others, but lost it when it was time to criticise himself.
Because if you truly believe in fairness, this was the moment. This was the moment to say:
“Take back my third position and give it to Big J, Papa Jerry, Shamak or Quako and his lady partner. They deserved it more than me because my performance was weak.” But that didn’t happen.
Instead, we watched a performance that was riddled with nervous energy, a Vieux Corp portrayal that came from God knows where, a Vieux Corp that was badly out of character, one that stood and paced and never tramped. Not once.
The Vieux Corp ancestors must have ruptured their blood vessels in anger at such a blatant denigration of their sacred art form. And yet, no call for justice. No demand that wrongs be corrected. No dramatic appeal for integrity. Silence.
So let’s be honest. You cannot demand crowns when you cannot command a stage. You cannot cry robbery when you deliver uncertainty. You cannot talk about excellence while avoiding self-examination.
That moment could have been humility.
It could have been growth.
It could have been honesty.
Instead, it became hypocrisy.
What makes Akada’s performance even more powerful is that before she ever opened her mouth on that stage, the murmurs had already started. Among calypsonians, the whispers were that the melody was recycled, familiar, tired.
After she was proclaimed the winner, one veteran even felt emboldened enough to suggest that her song leaned heavily on a Bajan calypsonian’s melody, and also borrowed melody lines, phrasing, and actual lyrics from a calypso that was sung last year by the Calypso Monarch entitled “Come for Me”.
In calypso, that kind of talk is usually enough to rattle a performer, to inject doubt, to reduce delivery to apology. But it did not touch her. It did not shake her. It did not throw her off her game.
Akada did not step on stage to explain herself. She stepped on stage to perform. She delivered the song with certainty, authority, and belief, daring anyone to say it did not belong to her in that moment.
And that is the part many seem to miss: judges do not reward footnotes, disclaimers, or pedigree charts. They reward conviction. They reward confidence. They reward a performer who stands in the fire and does not flinch.
This young woman showed something dangerous to the old order: that passion, preparation, and belief matter more than seniority.
This isn’t about disrespecting veterans.
This is about respecting the art.
Because calypso is not about how long you’ve been here.
It’s about how boldly you show up.
From the outside, I truly hope that the future of calypso will be carried by performers who are hungry and fearless.
Let those who claim ownership of the tradition keep performing like tenants, afraid to touch the furniture and mark them down accordingly. Not third place but somewhere around last where they truly deserve.
So Akada Lewis did not just perform.
She taught.
She showed what stage presence looks like.
She showed what confidence feels like.
She showed that calypso, when delivered properly, is not timid, not nervous, not apologetic.
It is commanding.
It is alive.
It is fearless.
And this is only her first year.
Tessa Lacrette