politics | Opal Palmer Adisa

The play, The Great Delusion, is a dramatic autopsy of white supremacy. I’m tired of the “trauma porn,” the stories of poverty, and the “White Savior” tropes that Hollywood loves to force on Black characters. I created a theory called Inversionism to flip that script. In The Great Delusion, Black intellectual life is returned to being the center of the universe, while the arrogance of white supremacy is reduced to an object of criticism and, frankly, ridicule. It’s a chronicle of Blacks moving from just surviving history to consciously reasserting their foundational roles in global civilization.

It came from the realization that white supremacy isn’t some grand, immutable truth, but a fragile, global hallucination. The “Great Delusion” is the lie that African history is a void or that our identity only exists as a reaction to racist aggression. I wanted a title that signaled a total psychological exit from that lie.

I worked on the play over several years. There were moments when it felt exciting and alive, and other moments when it completely exhausted me. One of the hardest parts was trying to hold together history, spirituality, politics, and human emotion without allowing the play to become preachy. Upon completion, it felt like finally laying down something heavy I had carried for a long time.

I believe this story is important because our storytelling needs a radical paradigm shift. I didn’t want to write another story about suffering. So I wrote this for the Black reader who is done being a victim and is ready to reclaim a heritage of ancestral glory. I wrote this for the African diaspora and anyone who is sick of exhausted narratives and wants to see Black dignity as the default setting. I wrote this for Black children who have for so long been denied examples of inventors, pioneers (true heroes) that look like them.

The last few years have been a pressure cooker. Living through the pandemic and the BLM movement laid bare how fragile Western systems really are. However it was the return of Donald Trump to the presidency that solidified the urgency of The Great Delusion. In the play, the character Deep, the white supremacist patriarch, is a metaphor of the arrogant, historical erasure that defines the current U.S. administration.

Trump’s presidency has been a masterclass in disinformation and the defacing of history. Seeing that play out on the world stage pushed me to focus on memory—specifically, who gets to control it and how we use it to render this entire supremacist paradigm culturally obsolete.

I am currently immersed in rigorous research of pre-colonial Africa. I want to write about our Golden Era, when we ruled and when Greek scholars traveled to our continent to learn at our feet. My goal is to remind the Black world of exactly who we were so that knowledge can inspire us to build a better tomorrow.

I’ve heard many writers say they start by plotting their story. I start with an argument. I spend weeks researching and walking, literally arguing aloud with my characters to stress-test their ideas. If a piece of dialogue can’t survive a real-world verbal confrontation, it doesn’t make it onto the page.

I want to contribute my part to the restoration of African intellectual and artistic confidence. I’m not interested in chasing trends. I want to build works that outlive me and uphold a permanent reclamation of Black moral dignity.

My creative process is deeply intertwined with my relationship with Ifá. I view my desk as an extension of the shrine and my writing as a form of divination. Before a character speaks or a plot unfolds, I am in constant consultation with the wisdom of the Odù, ensuring that every word I commit to the page aligns with ancestral truth. If you see me pacing or whispering to the air, I am not just “brainstorming”. I am listening to the guidance of the Orishas to ensure my work serves a purpose higher than mere entertainment.

Majekodunmi Oseriemen Ebhohon

Author, The Great Delusion

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There is hardly a country in the Caribbean, including Jamaica, that has not benefited from the generosity of the Cuban people.

More than 500 Cuban doctors currently serve in Jamaican hospitals and clinics, many in rural communities where access to medical care would otherwise be limited or non-existent. Across the region, Cuban medical professionals quietly and consistently save lives. Through programs such as those of the Henry Reeve International Medical Brigade, Cuba has also sent doctors to assist nations in times of crisis, from the COVID-19 emergency in Italy to outbreaks and disasters in Africa and Latin America.

Cuba has trained Caribbean students in medicine for decades. Jamaican doctors have studied at the Latin American School of Medicine in Havana and returned home to serve their communities. In Africa, Cuban doctors and teachers have worked in countries such as Angola, Mozambique, and South Africa during some of their most difficult periods.

This is not a political argument about communism versus democracy. It is a humanitarian appeal.

Today, ordinary Cubans, elders, children, families, face severe shortages of fuel, food, and medical supplies. The long-standing embargo imposed by the United States continues to affect daily life in profound ways. Regardless of one’s political position, the human cost is undeniable.

The question before us is simple: when a neighbour who has repeatedly come to our aid is in distress, do we turn away? Do we pretend as if we have not benefitted from their generosity?

Humanitarian assistance is not an endorsement of any government. Providing fuel so hospitals can operate, medicine so children can receive treatment, and food so elders do not go hungry is not ideology ; it is reciprocity. It is solidarity. It is humanity.

Jamaica sits less than 100 miles from Cuba. Our histories, cultures, and futures are intertwined. Across the Caribbean and Africa, thousands are alive today because Cuban doctors showed up when others did not.

If we believe in justice, in fairness, in shared humanity, then this is a moment to act with moral clarity. Governments can debate policy. But people of conscience must insist that humanitarian corridors remain open and that aid reach those in need.

We must not allow ordinary Cubans to suffer in darkness when they have brought healing and light to so many of us.