I AM Grenadian

02/08/2026

We’re hiring a Personal Assistant!

We’re looking for an organized, reliable and resourceful individual to support our team with scheduling, correspondence, travel arrangements, document preparation, meetings and other administrative duties.

Applicants should have strong organizational and communication skills. Previous administrative experience would be an asset.

Send your CV to [email protected] by August 7th.

26/06/2026

Introducing the Art of Kimon Gabriel Clarke – Abstract Artist

Kimon Gabriel Clarke is an emerging abstract artist and graduate of Sheridan Technical College in Canada, where he studied Visual Creative Arts from 2009 to 2011. Having lived in Canada for over 15 years, Kimon developed his artistic style through a combination of formal training, experimentation, and a deep passion for creative expression.

Now residing in Soubise, St. Andrew's, Grenada, Kimon creates original abstract paintings using oil paints. His work is characterized by bold colors, expressive textures, and imaginative compositions that invite viewers to interpret each piece through their own emotions and experiences.

Drawing inspiration from life, culture, movement, and personal reflection, Kimon's paintings aim to evoke beauty, energy, and thought. Through every canvas, he seeks to create unique works of art that connect with collectors and art enthusiasts around the world.

Kimon continues to build his artistic career by producing original artworks and custom commissions, sharing his vision through the timeless medium of oil painting.

To purchase any if his Art please contact him at [email protected] and +1 (473) - 415- 7792

17/04/2026

Celebrating Trisha's life

://www.youtube.com/live/tNdZSu_mwRE?si=jToxhBBAXhcr8aON

Celebrating the life of: Trisha Mitchell-Darius

08/02/2026

Part three- The End: Go read part one and two if you haven't.

I arrived at Belmont Estate at 9 p.m. sharp. The moon hung low over the rolling hills of St. Andrew, silvering the cocoa trees that lined the driveway. The old estate house was quiet—lights off in the main building, only the tasting room glowing faintly at the side.

Tia’s car was parked alone.

I didn’t go in unarmed. My phone was recording audio through a hidden app, and I’d forwarded copies of every file to my lawyer and two trusted contacts: one in Carriacou, one in the UK buyer’s office who’d always dealt directly with me.

Tia waited inside, sitting at the long wooden table where we’d once tested our first successful fermentation batch years ago. She looked composed, almost serene, a single folder in front of her.

“You came,” she said. “I wasn’t sure you would.”

“Cut the drama, Tia. What do you have?”

She slid the folder across. Inside were printouts—bank statements, emails, photos. But not the ones Kael had threatened me with.

These were worse.

They showed Tia transferring large sums from the shell company back into accounts controlled by Kael. Emails where she discussed “keeping Zara in the dark until the launch,” and one particularly damning thread: Kael promising her 60% equity in the new chocolate brand once I was “phased out.” But the real kicker was at the bottom—a notarized document dated three months ago. Kael had quietly amended the company’s articles of incorporation, removing my name as co-founder and director. Forged signatures. My signature, to be exact—lifted from old contracts and clumsily photoshopped.

Tia watched my face. “I kept copies. Insurance. In case he decided to cut me out too.”

I met her eyes. “You’re offering this to me why?”

“Because I want out. The brand was supposed to be mine—my vision, my recipes. He’s already talking about bringing in outside investors from Barbados, people who’ll push me to the side. I helped him screw you, Zara. I won’t pretend I didn’t. But I’m not going down with him.”

She pushed a USB drive across the table.

“Everything’s on here. The forgeries, the back-channel transfers, the real equity split he planned. Use it. Or don’t. But if you take him down, make sure I walk away clean. I’ll testify if it comes to that.”

I took the drive. Didn’t thank her. Just stood.

“You think this absolves you?”

“No,” she said quietly. “But it’s the only play I have left.”

I left without another word.

The Chocolate Festival the next evening was packed. The National Stadium grounds in St. George’s buzzed with live steelpan, chocolate fountains, vendor stalls from every parish—nutmeg syrup from St. Patrick, cocoa teas from St. John, sea moss blends from Carriacou. Tia’s booth was the centerpiece: sleek banners, gold lettering reading “Eclipse Cocoa – A New Era for Grenada.” Kael stood beside her in a crisp linen shirt, shaking hands with buyers and posing for photos.

I waited until the official launch speech began.
Tia stepped to the microphone, smiling for the cameras. “Tonight we unveil a revolutionary new chapter in Grenadian chocolate. Built on tradition, innovation, and—”

The large screens behind her flickered.
Then went black.

A second later, they lit up again—not with her branding, but with a simple white slide:

NOTICE OF TRADEMARK INFRINGEMENT AND FRAUDULENT MISREPRESENTATION
Eclipse Cocoa is using proprietary fermentation processes trademarked exclusively by Zara Alexander (Registration No. 2020-0451).
Legal proceedings have been initiated.

Booth operations suspended pending court order.
The crowd murmured. Phones came out.

Another slide appeared—scans of the forged incorporation documents, red circles highlighting the doctored signatures.

Then short clips: security footage from our Gouyave warehouse showing Kael directing workers to load equipment marked for “Eclipse” into Tia’s van. Bank transfer screenshots. The email chain where he promised Tia majority control.

Kael’s face went gray. He lunged for the laptop controlling the screens. Too late. The feed had already been mirrored to every major news outlet in the region—thanks to a timed release I’d set up with my UK contact.

Festival security moved in. Organizers pulled the plug on the booth. Buyers who’d been sampling Tia’s bars set them down quietly and walked away.
I stood at the edge of the crowd, watching.
Kael spotted me. He pushed through people, eyes wild.

“You think this ends you on top?” he hissed when he reached me. “I still have—”

“You have nothing,” I said. “The trademark is ironclad. The forgeries are provable. And Tia just handed me the rest on a silver platter.”

He laughed once, bitter. “She betrayed me?”
“She saved herself. You should’ve learned that lesson from me years ago.”

Police arrived within the hour—white-collar fraud unit, tipped off by the public release of documents and my pre-filed complaints. Kael was escorted away in cuffs for questioning. Tia slipped out the side gate before anyone could stop her; I let her go. She’d kept her word. That was enough.

The fallout was swift.

Within days, the shell company collapsed. International buyers canceled contracts with Kael’s rerouted shipments and reached out to me directly. Farmers in St. Andrew and St. John, furious at the betrayal, refused to supply anyone but me. The Carriacou cooperative voted unanimously to renew only with my name on the paperwork.

I didn’t rebuild the old empire.

I built a better one.

Zara Alexander Exports launched officially three months later—headquartered in a restored warehouse in Gouyave, with satellite offices in Sauteurs and Hillsborough on Carriacou. We kept the focus on organic, fair-trade nutmeg, mace, and cocoa, but added value-added lines: single-origin chocolate bars produced in partnership with Belmont Estate (under license), spiced rum infusions, and a line of wellness teas exported to Canada and the UK.

The new company was 100% mine. No partners. No fiancés. Just me, the farmers who’d stood by me, and a small, fierce team of women from every parish who knew what it meant to hustle on this island.

Kael’s case dragged through the courts for over a year. Forgery, fraud, breach of fiduciary duty. He settled quietly—lost the house in Grand Anse, most of his savings, and any credibility in the export game. Last I heard, he was managing a small bar in Prickly Bay, pouring drinks for tourists.
Tia disappeared for a while—rumor said Barbados, then Miami. She never launched another brand. Sometimes I wonder if she regrets it. Most times I don’t care.

I stand on the cliff above Grand Anse some evenings, watching the sun sink into the sea the same way it did the night everything broke.

The nutmeg bracelet Kael once gave me is long gone—traded for a simple silver band engraved with coordinates: the latitude and longitude of Carriacou, where the first cooperative meeting happened under my name.

I don’t wear it for sentiment.

I wear it as proof.

I built something once with someone else’s name on it.

Now everything I touch carries mine.

And no one will ever take it again.

06/02/2026

Part two...Read Part one if you haven't as yet.

The next morning, the air in Gouyave carried the usual mix of salt, sun-baked earth, and the faint sweetness of fermenting cocoa pods from the nearby drying racks. I hadn’t slept. Kael’s voice message looped in my head like a bad soca track stuck on repeat.

I drove the winding coastal road to St. George’s instead of heading straight to the lawyer’s office in True Blue. The harbor below was alive with fishing boats unloading the morning catch, vendors already setting up at the fish market. Normal life moving forward while mine felt suspended.

I parked near the Sendall Tunnel and walked the narrow streets up to Fort George, needing the climb to clear my mind. At the top, overlooking the Carenage and the cruise ships already docking, I pulled out my phone again. The email draft to my lawyer sat there, evidence attached: bank statements showing the diverted funds, timestamped emails where Kael discussed “reallocating assets” with Tia, invoices for equipment purchased under her new brand that matched items we’d ordered for our own expansion.

One attachment I hadn’t sent yet: a folder labeled “Early Days.” Old photos, yes—intimate ones from our first year together, taken on quiet beaches in Carriacou during supply runs, or in the back room of a small processing shed in St. John after a long harvest. Nothing explicit enough to be illegal, but enough to embarrass me in a small-island society where everyone knows everyone’s business. Enough to make future deals harder, to paint me as the reckless partner who mixed pleasure with profit.

He’d kept them. Weaponized them.

I almost deleted the draft. Almost convinced myself the payout was enough—enough to start small again, maybe open a boutique spice shop in Sauteurs or consult for farmers in St. Patrick. But then I thought of the women in Carriacou who’d trusted me with their cooperatives, the families in St. Andrew who’d switched to organic methods because I promised steady contracts. They weren’t just suppliers; they were people who believed in the vision we sold together.

I couldn’t let Kael and Tia rewrite the story—that I was the obstacle, the ex who couldn’t let go.

The Chocolate Festival was tomorrow evening at the National Stadium grounds. Tia’s launch was the centerpiece: a glossy booth, live tastings, celebrity endorsements flown in from Trinidad, media interviews lined up. Kael would be there as “strategic partner,” smiling for the cameras while announcing the “new chapter” for Grenadian cocoa.

I had one card left that Kael didn’t know about.

During our second year, when cash flow was tight and we were waiting on a big European payment, I’d quietly registered a separate trademark for our flagship fermentation process—the slow, hand-turned method that gave our cocoa its signature nutty depth. I’d filed it personally, in my name, as a protective measure “just in case.” Kael had laughed when I mentioned it, said it was overkill. He never asked to see the paperwork. It was still active. Still mine.

If I moved fast, I could file an injunction to block Tia’s launch—claim trademark infringement on the proprietary technique they were openly advertising as their “unique house method.” The festival organizers wouldn’t risk bad press; they’d pull the booth pending review. It wouldn’t kill their brand forever, but it would humiliate them publicly, right when buyers and media were watching.

I opened my laptop in a quiet café near the Market Square, connected to the free Wi-Fi, and logged into the Intellectual Property Office portal. Fingers trembling, I drafted the notice of claim.

Before I could hit submit, my phone rang. Unknown number.

I answered.

“Zara.” Kael’s voice, low and careful. “I saw you driving toward town this morning. You’re not being smart.”

My stomach twisted. “You’re having me followed?”

“Protecting my interests. Same as you.” A pause. “I don’t want to release those photos. But if you file anything—legal, public, whatever—I will. And I’ve got more than pictures. Bank transfers you authorized back when we were desperate. Signatures that could look… questionable… if someone wanted to spin it that way.”

I gripped the table. “You’re threatening to frame me for fraud?”

“I’m saying life is complicated. Walk away. Take the EC$800,000 I offered. Start fresh somewhere—maybe even leave the island for a while. Toronto, Miami, wherever. You’re smart. You’ll land on your feet.”

The number on the screen shifted—caller ID spoofed. He could be anywhere. Watching.

I ended the call without answering.

The café noise faded around me. Tourists laughing, vendors calling out, the distant horn of a departing ferry to Carriacou. Everything ordinary. Everything except me.

I looked at the screen again. The injunction form waited, cursor blinking.

One click to fight.

One click to risk everything—reputation, future deals, the quiet life I might still salvage.

Or close the laptop. Take the money. Disappear.

My thumb hovered.

Then my phone buzzed again. A text this time, from an unsaved number.

A single photo attached.

It was me—years ago, standing outside a bank in St. George’s, holding an envelope thick with cash. The timestamp matched a day I remembered clearly: the day I’d withdrawn every bit of savings we had to pay suppliers in St. Andrew after a delayed wire transfer. A legitimate emergency transaction.

But cropped and edited just right, it could look like a payoff. Like hush money. Like something dirty.

The message below it read:

Last chance, Zara. Festival starts at 6 p.m. tomorrow. Be smart.

I stared at the photo until it blurred.

The cursor still blinked.

The café door opened, letting in a gust of sea air.

I took a slow breath.

Then I clicked.

Submit.

The confirmation page loaded: Claim filed. Injunction request pending review.

No turning back.

I closed the laptop, heart hammering.

Tomorrow night, the Chocolate Festival would begin as planned—until it didn’t.

And whatever Kael released in retaliation, whatever fallout came next…

I would face it standing.

But as I stepped out into the bright Grenadian sun, my phone vibrated once more.

This time, a voicemail notification.

From Tia.

Her voice was calm, almost gentle.

“Zara… there’s something you need to know before tomorrow. Something Kael doesn’t even know I kept. Meet me tonight. Alone. Belmont Estate, 9 p.m. Come, or regret it forever.”

The message ended.

I stood frozen on the sidewalk, the sounds of the market swirling around me.

Belmont Estate—where we’d first experimented with our signature cocoa process. Where everything began.

What did she have?

And why was she willing to risk meeting me now?

The sun beat down, relentless.

I had less than twenty-four hours to decide whether to walk into what might be a trap… or stay away and let whatever bomb she was holding detonate on its own.

My pulse thundered in my ears.

The choice wasn’t just about revenge anymore.

It was about survival.

Part three will be released tomorrow...stay tuned.

06/02/2026

My fiancé betrayed me and stole the business we built together.

When I discovered the truth, I was standing in our main warehouse in Gouyave, the sharp scent of drying nutmeg filling the air, crates of premium mace stacked high for the next shipment to Europe. The ledgers I'd spent nights balancing showed discrepancies—millions in export revenue siphoned off quietly over the past year. Orders I'd negotiated with buyers in London and New York had been rerouted through a shell company I didn't recognize. And the signature approving it all? Kael's.

I confronted him that evening at our home overlooking Grand Anse Beach, the sunset turning the water gold. He didn't deny it. Instead, he leaned back on the veranda, rum in hand, and smiled like I'd just handed him a gift.

"You built something beautiful, Zara. But let's be honest—without my connections, those international contracts never would have happened. I just... restructured things. For efficiency."

Efficiency. That's what he called diverting funds to finance a new venture with my stepsister, Tia—a boutique chocolate brand using our cocoa supply from St. Andrew farms, branded as her solo project. She'd already launched a flashy website, secured shelf space in high-end stores in St. George's, and was planning a big reveal at the upcoming Grenada Chocolate Festival.

I had poured everything into this empire for six years. Starting from nothing after university, I sourced the best nutmeg from family plots in St. John, coordinated organic certification for cocoa groves in St. Andrew, even expanded operations to Carriacou where we partnered with small cooperatives for rare sea-island spices. I handled logistics through hurricanes, negotiated with farmers during low seasons, stayed up late sealing deals while Kael charmed investors at yacht parties in True Blue. We were supposed to be partners—in business and in life. Our engagement ring, a simple band with a nutmeg seed embedded in silver, was meant to symbolize that unbreakable bond.

But Kael had been cheating long before the money. Late nights "networking" turned out to be dinners with Tia in hidden spots in Morne Rouge. Whispers from mutual friends confirmed it: she'd returned from studying abroad in Barbados, rekindled old flames, and convinced him I was holding the company back—too cautious, too focused on sustainability over quick profits.
My family sided with appearances. My mother, embarrassed by the gossip spreading through the parishes, pushed me toward a "respectable" match—an older businessman from St. David's with land holdings and a quiet life away from the hustle. "Put this mess behind you," she said. "Kael's offering to buy you out fairly. Take the money and start over quietly."

Kael's offer? A payout that looked generous on paper but was a fraction of what the business was worth now—my sweat equity erased in one clean cut. He framed it as mercy: "You can walk away with enough to rebuild. Or fight me and drag us all through the courts. You know how slow things move here."

Tia came by the next day, collecting sample boxes of our premium cocoa nibs from the office in St. George's like they were already hers. She smiled sweetly. "Zara, this doesn't have to be ugly. We're family. Kael and I... we just want what's best for the brand."

I watched her load the crates into her car, the same vehicle we'd used for deliveries across the island. My throat burned with unsaid words.
That night, alone in the Gouyave house we'd shared, I pulled out the old backups—every contract, every email, every financial trail I'd meticulously documented "just in case." Kael had always teased me for being paranoid about records. Now those files were my only leverage.
I started digging deeper. Offshore accounts in his name. Fake invoices from suppliers in St. John that never existed. Evidence that Tia’s new chocolate line was using our proprietary fermentation techniques—methods I'd developed during long experiments in Belmont Estate-style setups.

Revenge wasn't going to be loud. Not yet. It would be precise, like grading nutmeg: separate the good from the worthless, one kernel at a time.
I reached out quietly to contacts I'd built over the years—farmers in Carriacou who'd trusted me personally, exporters in Europe who'd dealt directly with me, even a few regulators who'd appreciated our organic certifications. They were angry on my behalf. They wanted to help.
But as I prepared to file the first legal claim and expose the fraud at the Chocolate Festival launch—where Tia and Kael planned their big announcement—my phone buzzed with an unknown number.

A voice message. Kael's tone calm, almost amused.

"Zara, I know what you're planning. Before you make a move... you should see what I have on you. Photos. Recordings. Things from our early days that wouldn't look good if they surfaced. Walk away quietly, take the payout, and we all move on. Or we can play dirty. Your choice."

The message ended. My hand shook as I replayed it.

He had dirt. Enough to ruin my reputation across the islands, to scare off future partners, to make every parish whisper my name for the wrong reasons.

The festival was in two days. The launch would be packed—media, buyers, tourists. If I struck first, I could destroy their new brand before it launched.
But if he released whatever he had...

I stared out at the dark sea, waves crashing below Grand Anse cliffs.

My finger hovered over the send button on an email to my lawyer, attachments ready: full evidence packet.

One click, and everything changes.
One hesitation, and I lose it all.
What happens next?

Nb- This story is fictional. Stay tuned for part two tomorrow to know what happened next....

14/01/2026

The Great Pot Strike of St. George's

The calendar said it was Tuesday, but the air in St. George’s said it was Mango Season.

In Grenada, these are two different time zones. In "Tuesday," people go to work, pay bills, and cook dinner. In "Mango Season," people show up to work sticky, pay bills with promises, and the concept of "dinner" becomes a philosophical debate.

It was 5:00 PM when Fitzroy walked into his kitchen in Tempe, expecting the aroma of stew chicken, oil down, or at least a humble saltfish. Instead, he smelled fermentation and high-fructose heaven.

His wife, Merle, was sitting at the kitchen table. The stove was cold. The pots were turned face down on the drying rack, looking like steel drums that had gone on strike. Merle was currently performing open-heart surgery on a 'Julie' mango with her teeth.

"Merle?" Fitzroy asked, putting down his briefcase. "Wah going on? The gas finish?"

Merle didn't look up. She just sucked the seed with a noise that sounded like a vacuum cleaner trying to inhale a curtains. "Gas good, Fitzroy. Stove working fine."

"So... where the food?"

Merle finally looked up. Her chin was glazed in yellow gold. She looked like she had been kissed by the sun, or perhaps assaulted by a highlighter pen.

"Fitzroy," she said, gesturing to a 5-gallon bucket on the floor. "Look the food there."

Fitzroy looked. The bucket was overflowing with green, red, and yellow mangoes. "Merle. That is fruit. That is snack. I work hard at the Credit Union all day. I need food. I need starch. I need protein."

"It have 'Starch Mango' in the bottom," Merle said, reaching for a second Julie. "And if you eat three 'Long Mango' fast enough, you go find a worm. That is protein."

Fitzroy sucked his teeth (a sound so loud it startled the neighbor’s dog). "You telling me you turn down the pot? Again? This happen last year!"

"Man, look at the heat!" Merle fanned herself with a mango skin. "You want me to stand up over hot stove when the Lord provide freeness in the yard? The tree heavy, Fitzroy. If we don’t eat them, the rats will. And I not cooking for rats."

Fitzroy sighed and walked to the fridge. Empty. No leftover rice. No macaroni pie. Just three bottles of chilled water and a plate of peeled 'Ceylon' mangoes.

"This is anarchy," Fitzroy muttered. "A man cannot live on mango alone."

"Watch me," Merle challenged. "I haven't cooked since Thursday. I feel light. My skin glowing. My sugar level probably higher than the mt saint catherine, but I happy."

Fitzroy looked out the window. It wasn't just them. The entire neighborhood was in a collective, sticky trance. Old Mr. Peters next door wasn't watering his garden; he was throwing stones at a branch, trying to knock down a 'Graham' mango. The children weren't playing cricket; they were sitting in a circle, stained yellow from ear to ear, looking like a cult of minions.

The problem with Grenadian mango season is the specific lethargy it induces. It’s the "Mango Itis." It’s a heaviness that settles in the belly, making the idea of peeling a green banana or kneading dumpling flour seem like hard labor in a Siberian prison camp.

Fitzroy grabbed a knife. He grabbed a 'Julie'. He sliced the cheek.

"Be careful," Merle warned. "Don't waste the flesh. That is a Grenville julie. That is royalty."

Fitzroy took a bite.

The anger melted. The desire for stew chicken faded. The flavor hit his tongue—creamy, floral, devoid of strings, sweet enough to make a diabetic weep. It was nature’s custard. It was God’s apology for mosquitoes.

He sat down opposite Merle. He unbuttoned his shirt to let his belly breathe.

"Alright," Fitzroy admitted, juice running down his wrist. "Maybe we could skip cooking tonight."

"And tomorrow," Merle added, kicking the bucket toward him. "We have to finish this bucket before they get soft. The tree dropping more in the morning."

"You know," Fitzroy said, picking up a 'Long Mango' next (a risky choice, requiring dental floss immediately after). "I feel like I losing weight."

Merle laughed. "Fitzroy, you eating 4,000 calories of fruit. You not losing weight. You just turning into a preserve. By August, we going to be 80% jam."

"Worth it," Fitzroy mumbled, turning down his own internal pot. The stove remained cold. The sun went down. And in the silence of the kitchen, the only sound was the rhythmic slurping of a couple happily surrendering to the season.

Grenadian Mango Season Survival Guide:

The Julie: The Queen. Eat with respect. Do not share unless you are in love or owe money.

The Ceylon: Sweet but messy. Only eat this if you are within 10 feet of a shower.

The Long Mango: Also known as "The Floss Manufacturer." You will be picking strings out of your teeth until Christmas.

The Turndown: If you see a pot turned upside down on a counter between May and August, do not ask questions. Just grab a bucket and find a tree.