By Algernon Watts
I wasn’t planning to write this—but you know by now, that silence in this country doesn’t stay silent for long—especially when money vanishes, answers disappear, and those in power pretend everything’s fine.
So let’s talk about Jack Stroll. You remember him—the Canadian investor who came to Antigua believing the pitch we’ve told the world for years: We’re open for business.
Now he’s standing in the centre of a storm no one in government wants to acknowledge. He’s asking the question that won’t go away: Where has the money gone? And let’s be clear: it’s not just any money. It’s his money—US$10 million.
There’s something almost eerie about that number. Ten million. It keeps surfacing in our headlines like a ghost we can’t shake. Always involved in some scandal. Always wrapped in silence.
And again, we’re on the international stage—not for our beauty or brilliance, but because transparency seems allergic to our institutions. It’s as if we’ve developed a national talent for turning financial transactions into drama.
We hide the truth in the shadows, then act outraged when people shine a light.
This time, the person holding the flashlight is Jack.
He deposited US$10 million into Global Bank of Commerce—a licensed financial institution. Years later, he’s still waiting. Still asking.
When the bank couldn’t repay him, they handed over two government Treasury bills as collateral. That, we were told, was supposed to solve the problem.
It didn’t. Now, those Treasury bills are caught in a legal snarl. And Jack is caught in a silence that raises more questions than answers. This week, he’s back in court.
On Thursday, April 10, the Attorney General will face serious questions about the government’s role.
And on Friday, April 11, Global Bank of Commerce—and its CEO, Brian Stuart-Young—will face their own reckoning.
These are not ceremonial hearings. They are about enforcement, accountability, and whether our systems uphold the law when powerful interests are involved.
Before I go any further, let me say this—Jack Stroll’s “Where has the money gone?” hits different. And when he echoes our own local cry—“Me want me money!”—you feel it.
Because in this little 108-square-mile country, money isn’t just currency—it’s dignity.
We work hard for it. Some of us stretch it until it squeals.
Most of us grew up watching our parents count it by candlelight or walking to the credit union just to put a little something aside. Our bank accounts might never see the kind of zeroes Jack’s has—but that’s not the point.
This story cuts deep because it’s not just about the amount. It’s about the betrayal. The delay. The insult of silence when you’re owed. And in Antigua, that kind of disrespect doesn’t sit well with anyone.
Not uptown. Not downtown. Not on a back road. We feel it in our chest—even if it’s not our money. Look—this whole thing just boggles the mind. But anyway… let me keep writing.
Because if you sit with this story too long, your head starts to hurt.
We may not all have US$10 million in a bank. But we know what it feels like to be owed. To be ignored. To be disrespected. That’s why this cuts so deep.
Because it’s not just about the amount—it’s about the silence. The shrug. The stonewalling.
And while Jack fights to be heard, the question nobody seems willing to answer is: Where is the FSRC? The Financial Services Regulatory Commission is supposed to protect depositors. Their mandate is to monitor, to act, to safeguard the system.
But if Global Bank can delay, and deflect—and the watchdog does nothing—what’s the point of having a watchdog at all?
And let’s not ignore the man with the most responsibility in this mess: Prime Minister Gaston Browne.
He’s not just the head of government. He’s also the Minister of Finance—the person responsible for overseeing Treasury bills, defending investor confidence, and guiding economic policy. Yet, instead of bringing clarity, he has chosen a side—and not the side of the investor.
Not the side of the public. He has publicly defended the bank and accused Jack of trying to bankrupt it. How does that look—to local citizens, international observers, and potential investors?
When the person in charge of economic stability is defending a bank that can’t repay its debts, we all need to ask: Who, then, is holding the system accountable? The world is watching.
Not just hedge fund managers and diplomats—but our diaspora, entrepreneurs, and youth.
They are all asking the same question: If this can happen to Jack Stroll, what chance do I have?
This story isn’t about wealth. It’s about trust. And whether we’re still a country where financial promises mean something.
You know Jack didn’t just go to court.
He took to the airwaves. He released a track—complete with a music video—featuring a man on the beach singing about millions gone and nobody talking.
It’s absurd. It’s surreal. And yet—it fits.
Because when your court case drags out, the press gets tired, and backchannels run dry—what else do you do? You sing. You meme. You find a way to be heard. When the billboards came down—the giant ones asking, “Where the money gone?”—Jack responded not with silence, but with satire.
Old people would shake their heads and say, “Wah this place come to?”
But really—Jack just did what we in the islands do sometimes.
When we’re pushed, silenced, or dismissed, we don’t fold. We get creative.
We write a song, we drop a line that cuts deep, we find a way to laugh with our teeth clenched. Because if you can’t get justice, at least you can get people to listen.
And that’s exactly what Jack did. In our case, it would’ve been a calypso. One of those sharp, wicked ones that hit a nerve so hard they try to ban it.
And if the lyrics are honest—they live for decades. Jack’s version might be different, but the spirit is the same: Tell the truth loud enough so even the ones hiding have to hear it.
And whether it’s a calypso or a music video, the message is the same: Tell the truth. Loud enough that even the ones hiding have to listen.
This is no longer about one investor.
It’s about what kind of country we are—when the system is tested and leadership picks sides. And when silence becomes strategy.
We can’t call ourselves a nation of laws if we allow powerful institutions to operate without consequence.
We can’t sell ourselves as a stable jurisdiction if we punish the whistleblower instead of fixing what’s broken.
If you love a place, you don’t protect the lie.
You name the truth.
You bring it into the light.
You demand better.
I love Antigua. I love Barbuda. And that’s why I won’t stop asking the question—no matter how inconvenient it becomes.
Because this little 108-square-mile paradise deserves more than silence and spin.
It deserves answers.
And until we get them—I’ll keep asking: Where the money gone?
