Freelance Contributor
On July 27, 1990, I was 23 years old, a young journalist working at NBS Radio 610, unaware that I was about to witness one of the most defining moments in the history of Trinidad and Tobago.
I was young, but journalism was already in my blood.
My father was a reporter, so the world of deadlines, notebooks and chasing stories was familiar territory. My own journey in media had begun several years earlier. In 1986, I worked temporarily with the Trinidad Publishing Company, the predecessor of Guardian Media Limited. I later trained as a camera operator at AVM Television before becoming a freelance reporter-photographer with the Trinidad Express in 1988.
By 1990, I had already developed the instinct that drives many journalists—the need to find out what was happening, especially when others were trying to get away from it. That instinct took me directly into the heart of a national crisis.
It was a Friday evening, and I was travelling by taxi into Port-of-Spain. The mood inside the vehicle suddenly changed when the driver announced that there was chaos in the capital.
“Abu Bakr take over Port-of-Spain,” he said.
At first, nobody knew what to believe.
Those were different times. There was no WhatsApp, no TikTok, no Facebook, and no army of social media commentators shaping public opinion. Information moved slower. Rumours travelled by word of mouth, radio and television, and people were generally more cautious before accepting something as fact.
You had to think for yourself. I was heading into town to lime, as many young Trinidadians did on a Friday evening, but curiosity quickly replaced my original plans. Like many journalists, I had developed a habit of moving towards the story rather than away from it. When I reached Port-of-Spain, the atmosphere was unusual. The city was busy, but something felt wrong. People were rushing to catch buses and taxis, trying to leave before the situation worsened.
It was not the chaos of a battlefield that we saw on international television. There was no mass panic, but there was uncertainty. Fear was visible in people’s faces. I made my way to the NBS Radio 610 building on Abercromby Street. The normally open entrance was locked.
A security guard looked through the door, recognised me and allowed me inside. He explained that members of the Jamaat al Muslimeen had cut a power cable leading to the accounts department on the second floor. Because an old sign still identified the area as “Engineering”, they believed they had taken the station off the air. They were wrong. Inside the building were only a handful of people: announcer Dennis McComie, technical operator Kelly Buckradee, fellow reporter Gerard Lampow, security personnel and a few other staff members.
Radio 610 remained on air. At the time, the main targets of the attempted takeover were the Red House, where members of Parliament were meeting, and the studios of the national broadcaster, Trinidad and Tobago Television (TTT). Prime Minister ANR Robinson and several government officials were taken hostage. The attempted coup was led by Imam Yasin Abu Bakr, head of the Jamaat al Muslimeen, whose members demanded the resignation of the government. As night fell, the uncertainty deepened.
From the rooftop of the NBS building, we could hear gunfire across the city. The sound of bullets echoed through Port-of-Spain as security forces responded and the country waited anxiously for news. Yet one thing continued to work—the telephone system. In those days, there were no mobile phones. The old TSTT landlines remained reliable, allowing families across the country to check on each other. Nobody was “thieving” copper.
My own relatives called. Their first concern was not the gunfire. They asked me if I had eaten. I had not. The doubles vendor in Independence Square had disappeared, probably deciding that a national crisis was not the ideal time for business.
Inside Radio 610, Dennis McComie became one of the calm voices guiding the nation through the uncertainty. His reassuring broadcasts provided stability during one of the most frightening periods in the country’s history. His contribution was later recognised with a national award.
There was another unexpected challenge. The station’s music library was locked. The only album available was Kenny G. And Kenny G played. Again. And again.
For hours, the smooth saxophone became the unlikely soundtrack of a country under siege.
Eventually, Programme Director Hamilton Clement arrived a few days later with the keys, the music library was opened, and the nation was spared from a lifetime supply of smooth jazz.
But outside, the reality was far from smooth.
The following day, I returned to the streets of Port-of-Spain. The city had changed.
The attempted coup had created an environment where fear, confusion and lawlessness existed side by side. Some criminals used the situation to loot businesses. Storefronts were smashed, appliances were stolen, bullet casings scattered the roads, and blood remained as evidence of the violence that had taken place.
I remember seeing the aftermath and feeling a mixture of curiosity and disbelief.
At 23, part of me viewed it like a historical event unfolding before my eyes—a real-life version of conflicts I had watched on television.
Then the reality sank in. War and political violence are not television programmes. Behind every bullet is a human being. Behind every casualty is a family.
The attempted coup lasted six days. It ended on August 1, 1990, when Abu Bakr and his followers surrendered after negotiations with the authorities.
The country was left counting the cost. At least 24 people were killed during the six-day crisis, including Member of Parliament Leo Des Vignes and members of the security forces. Hundreds were injured, businesses were damaged, and a nation that had considered itself politically stable was forced to confront its vulnerability.
The aftermath created years of legal battles surrounding the amnesty agreement that helped secure the surrender of the insurgents, with questions over its interpretation and enforcement eventually reaching the courts.
Turning point for me and T&T
The 1990 attempted coup became a turning point for Trinidad and Tobago. It exposed social divisions, tested democratic institutions and left memories that remain vivid for those who lived through it.
For me, it became a turning point in my journalism.
Rather than chasing conflict and controversy, I found myself drawn towards stories that explain who we are as a people.
Culture became my focus.
Because culture connects us.
Music connects us.
Food connects us.
Celebrations connect us.
Our diversity has always been our greatest strength, but only if we understand and respect each other.
More than three decades later, the challenges facing society have changed. Information now travels across the world in seconds, but the speed of communication has created new challenges where opinions can sometimes spread faster than verified facts.
The lesson of 1990 remains powerful.
A society cannot survive without citizens who question, think critically and seek truth.
Now, as I approach 60 and prepare to step away from the daily demands of journalism, I often reflect on that young reporter who walked into Port-of-Spain on the night of July 27, 1990, driven by curiosity and the instinct to chase a story.
He did not fully understand then that he was witnessing a moment that would become part of the nation’s history.
He saw the gunfire, the fear and the uncertainty, but he also saw something else—the resilience of ordinary people, the importance of a calm voice on the radio, and the ability of communities to endure even the darkest moments.
After all these years, I believe journalism is not only about exposing problems or finding conflict. It is about understanding people. It is about documenting our culture, our struggles, our triumphs and the things that bind us together.
The young reporter who ran towards danger eventually learned that the greatest stories are not always found in moments of chaos.
Sometimes they are found in the music, food, traditions and shared experiences that remind us that, despite our differences, we remain one people.
