In a development that has sent shivers down the collective spine of Britain’s chattering classes and caused a run on tonic water across the shires, a coalition of African and Caribbean nations has formally demanded a full, unequivocal apology for the transatlantic slave trade. The demand, presented to a visibly uncomfortable Foreign Office mandarin who looked like he’d rather be discussing the finer points of cricket tea intervals, represents the geopolitical equivalent of a headmaster calling out a recalcitrant schoolboy for nicking the jam tarts. But instead of jam tarts, we’re talking about centuries of industrialised human misery, stolen lives, and a legacy of systemic racism that still echoes through every cobbled street of this green and pleasant land.
The demand is simple: say sorry. Not the half-arsed, ‘we regret the pain caused’ sort of apology that sounds like a teenager apologising for stepping on your foot. No, they want the full monty: a formal, official apology, delivered with the gravitas of a state funeral and the sincerity of a man who has just realised he’s been wearing his trousers backwards for the last forty years. And they want reparations too, though that particular word is being treated by Downing Street like a vampire confronted with a crucifix made of legal documents.
Let us cast our minds back, dear reader, to the halcyon days of the British Empire. Those heady years when Britannia ruled the waves, and also the slave ships, and the plantations, and the entire economic infrastructure of the New World. We sent ships to Africa, filled them with human cargo, and sailed them to the Caribbean in conditions that would make a modern-day battery hen farmer blush. Then we made the survivors work in fields of sugar and cotton, producing the wealth that built our grand houses, our museums, our entire bloody civilisation. And when we finally abolished the trade, we didn’t apologise. No, we compensated the slave owners. The slave owners, for goodness sake. It is an act of moral turpitude so staggering that even the most cynical of satire writers (and I include myself in that bracket) struggles to find the words.
Now, the descendants of those who suffered want their day in the sun. And the British government, led by a Prime Minister whose defining characteristic appears to be a desperate desire to be liked by everyone, is doing what it does best: forming a committee. A committee to ‘consider’ the matter. A committee that will meet, drink tea, issue an interim report, then disband when the next scandal breaks. It is the political equivalent of a man standing in a burning building and declaring that he will set up a task force to investigate the properties of fire.
The opposition, naturally, has seized on this with the glee of a hungry spaniel spotting a dropped sausage. They are demanding the apology, accusing the government of being out of touch with modern Britain. Meanwhile, the government’s backbenchers are muttering darkly about ‘virtue signalling’ and ‘apologising for things that happened hundreds of years ago’. As if time passing absolves us of moral responsibility. One might as well say that since the Romans left Britain centuries ago, we no longer need to worry about their lack of plumbing.
Meanwhile, in the pubs of Westminster, the gin and tonics are flowing like the Thames after a particularly wet Tuesday. The journalists, myself included, are sharpening their quills and preparing their most withering similes. For this is a story that has everything: historical injustice, political cowardice, and the delicious prospect of a nation being forced to confront its own past with the sort of honesty usually reserved for bankruptcy proceedings.
Will the UK apologise? Almost certainly not. Not in any meaningful way. At best, we’ll get a carefully worded statement expressing ‘deep regret’ and announcing a ‘commemorative stamp series’. At worst, we’ll get more committees, more delays, and a hearty dose of that peculiarly British talent for obfuscation. But the demand has been made. The genie is out of the bottle. And the ghosts of history are rattling their chains in the corridors of power, demanding that we finally, after all these years, say the words: We are sorry.
My advice? Pour yourself a stiff one. Preferably a gin, and preferably one that hasn’t been paid for by the blood of slaves. Though that’s harder to find than you might think. Cheers.
