At the 46th Caricom Heads of Government Meeting in Guyana in February 2024, Caribbean leaders spoke about gang violence and the negative influence of antisocial messages now permeating our music.
Perhaps they can draw lessons from what emerged in the South Bronx, New York City, in the 1970s—from a former gang member, Kevin Donovan, born to a Barbadian father and a Jamaican mother, who dreamed of mitigating gang violence.
Donovan grew up in one of the most economically neglected corners of the city. Landlords were torching their own buildings for insurance money. Entire blocks were reduced to rubble. Young people—Black, Puerto Rican and Caribbean—were left navigating gang territories and drug markets.
The city government neglected these communities; their lives were not seen as worth saving. Everything that was supposed to hold a community together had been stripped away—the jobs, buildings, basic infrastructure of a functioning city, the family unit.
Everything was set up for a young person to despair, to lose hope in the system and to join gangs, which provided structure, identity and a sense of protection through affiliation. As a teenager, Donovan joined the Black Spades, one of the most notorious street gangs.
In high school, he won a UNICEF trip to Africa (Ivory Coast, Nigeria and Guinea-Bissau) after winning an essay contest. This transformative experience exposed him to both the greatness and the struggles of African leaders against colonial powers.
He returned with a new belief—that his people could move away from gang culture.
His mother’s influence also shaped him. She was a civil rights activist and a lover of music. Donovan’s life became a blend of both. Her vinyl records—soul, funk, rock and electronic—taught him that genre was a cage, and he refused to remain in one.
He returned to the Bronx with a new name: Afrika Bambaataa, adopting the name of a Zulu chief who had led resistance against British forces.
He wanted gangs to redirect their destructive energy into something creative and lasting—like music. The idea was that instead of being defined by violence or cycles of incarceration, they could express themselves through art, build identity and create something meaningful.
In 1973, he founded the Universal Zulu Nation, promoting the principles of peace, love, unity and having fun—a radical concept for young men and women in one of the most dangerous urban environments, where peace was not guaranteed from one block to the next.
He began hosting block parties, spreading his message in community centres and parks. He experimented with music—isolating drum breaks from records and looping them to create extended rhythmic foundations for dancers and, eventually, rappers.
He incorporated melodic lines and electronic textures from the German duo Kraftwerk, layering them over drum machine beats. This fusion helped define a new genre—hip hop.
His 1982 track Planet Rock became a defining moment in the genre’s evolution.
This godfather of hip hop later collaborated with James Brown, the godfather of soul, on the song Unity, at a time when the Bronx desperately needed that message.
He became a global ambassador, travelling to Europe, Japan and Australia, carrying hip hop culture with him.
In 2016, he resigned as head of the Universal Zulu Nation after accusations of molesting boys were made public.
Bambaataa died two weeks ago of prostate cancer at the age of 68.
Perhaps we can celebrate his dream and his music, while condemning his moral failings.
We should take a page from his philosophy: transforming gang culture into an art form that can change the world. He turned a gang into an organisation. He turned a neighbourhood’s pain into a global cultural movement.
When she was Opposition leader, Kamla Persad-Bissessar stated that Trinibad music reflects the “hurt, pain and struggle” of today’s youth, viewing it as social commentary rather than mere glorification of violence. She asked, “How can you help the youths if you don’t speak and understand their language?”
After charges were laid against artistes Medz Boss and Kman 6ixx for alleged gang involvement, music producer Richard “DJ Punz” Romano said, “This Trinibad movement has the potential to be just as big as Jamaican dancehall, hip hop and reggae. The artistes just have to focus and do the right thing.”
Hip hop emerged from poverty, neglect and violence, yet became one of the most influential cultural movements in the world.
By channelling the energy of our youth into creative industries locally, it may be possible to reshape narratives, redirect lives and build something enduring.
