For generations, descendants of enslaved Africans have been told the same story: work harder, save more, invest wisely, and pull yourself up by your bootstraps. But as Antigua News Room columnist Brent Simon pointedly asks, how does one pull on boots they were never given?
Simon's argument centres on a question that cuts to the heart of the reparations debate: if wealth was extracted directly from people, why should compensation not be paid directly to those people and their descendants?
The transatlantic slave trade, he argues, was not merely a human tragedy. It was one of the largest transfers of wealth in human history. Millions of Africans were stripped of their labour, their property, their autonomy, and their futures. The wealth generated by that unpaid labour helped finance industries, ports, banks, universities, and entire national economies that continue to prosper today. The descendants of the enslaved inherited something very different.
Yet whenever reparations are discussed, the conversation quickly shifts away from individuals. Proposals emerge for development programmes, institutional support, technical assistance, infrastructure projects, and government initiatives. What is rarely asked, Simon contends, is the most obvious question of all.
Opponents of direct payments often argue they would be economically irresponsible or wasteful. That position, Simon writes, is at least understandable when it comes from those who oppose reparations altogether. More troubling, he argues, is the growing tendency among reparations advocates themselves to make essentially the same argument — that descendants of enslaved Africans should not receive direct compensation because they may not know what to do with it.
Simon calls that mindset a profound injustice. It implies, he writes, that Caribbean people and the broader diaspora can build nations, operate businesses, earn degrees, raise families, and contribute to modern economies, yet somehow cannot be trusted with their own reparations. "If that is not paternalism, what is?" he asks.
The irony, he notes, is difficult to ignore. Descendants are consistently told that economic success comes from ownership, investment, entrepreneurship, and access to capital. Yet when reparations — the very mechanism through which capital might finally reach those whose labour built empires — enter the conversation, many grow uncomfortable with ordinary people exercising direct control over that capital.
Simon poses the question plainly: why is a government trusted with millions of dollars, but an individual citizen is not? Why is a bureaucracy trusted, but a farmer is not? Why is a consultant trusted, but a fisher is not?
At its core, he argues, this debate is not really about money. It is about trust and control.
Some recipients will save. Some will invest. Some will start businesses. Some will buy land. Some will educate their children. And yes, some will make poor decisions. But Simon is unequivocal: no group should be denied compensation because someone else has decided they might spend it imperfectly. Descendants of slavery, he writes, should not have to pass a financial literacy test before receiving justice.
Reparations, Simon is careful to stress, are not charity, foreign aid, or development assistance. They are compensation — and compensation belongs first and foremost to those who suffered the loss and to their descendants, not to institutions, agencies, or committees who believe they know better than the people they claim to represent.
Economics offers a simple lesson, he concludes: capital creates opportunity, opportunity creates wealth, and wealth compounds across generations. That principle helped build the fortunes of nations enriched by slavery. Perhaps, Simon argues, it is time to test the same principle among those who paid the original cost.
"Give us the boots. Give us the capital. Then stand back and let the results speak for themselves."
