Welcome to Jamaica Homes — a space where we speak truth without trimming the edges.
We write with honesty because sugarcoating helps no one.
This piece — part of the From London to Jamaica series — is a love letter and a warning wrapped in the same envelope.
It comes from a returnee’s heart: one that has felt the joy of coming home and the sting of realising that home is not what it used to be.
Because returning to Jamaica — to buy, to build, to live — is not just a journey across miles. It’s a crossing between myths and realities, between nostalgia and truth.
The Dream That Never Died
Every islander who left has carried a piece of Jamaica within them.
The Windrush generation, brave and bright-eyed, boarded ships like the Empire Windrush believing that hard work abroad would one day bring comfort back home.
They left behind sun-drenched hills for a grey sky that never seemed to clear.
They worked double shifts, sent money in brown envelopes, and spoke of home like it was heaven itself. “One day,” they said, “mi going back.”
They endured everything — racism, loneliness, and the quiet humiliation of being seen as second-class citizens in the country they were invited to rebuild. Yet through all that, the dream of return never faded.
But here’s the truth: the Jamaica they dreamed of doesn’t exist anymore.
Time has changed her — softened some places, hardened others.
And for those who come back expecting the postcard, the shock can be seismic.
The Postcard and the Pavement
Step off the plane at Sangster or Norman Manley and the air hits you like music.
Warm, heavy, alive. The scent of jerk smoke in the distance. The call of “Taxi boss?” before your bags even touch the ground.
You smile. You think, Yes. This is it. Home.
But Jamaica is a land of light and shadow.
What you see on arrival is the light. The warmth, the rhythm, the charisma — it’s intoxicating.
But the shadow creeps in quietly.
It’s in the small interactions, the quick calculations behind friendly smiles, the quiet assumption that you, the returnee, are different — not because of your skin, but because of what they believe is in your pocket.
That’s where the reality begins.
The Streets Were Never Paved with Gold
Let’s rewind for a moment.
The Windrush generation, our parents and grandparents, never meant to deceive us — but they did. Not maliciously, but protectively.
They suffered in silence abroad, so when they returned home, they performed success. They arrived at the airport in fine clothes, bearing perfume, chocolates, and confidence. They came back as heroes — or at least wanted to look like them.
They told stories about opportunity and comfort. They skipped the nights they cried in tiny rooms, the slurs they endured on factory floors, the paychecks that disappeared before the month’s end.
So the myth took root:
Foreign life easy.
Once you go abroad, you rich.
Anyone with a British passport has it made.
And that myth still walks among us.
So when their children and grandchildren — you, me — return, the myth precedes us.
We’re seen not as Jamaicans, but as foreigners with means.
The accent, the shoes, the car you rent — it all says “money.” Even when you’re counting pennies.
“You Have It Already” — The Assumption That Changes Everything
It’s not always malice. It’s mindset.
Many people here believe that if you come from “foreign,” you already have. You’re not just comfortable — you’re privileged.
So if you say, “I only have a little,” they’ll take the little. Because they believe it’s only little for now.
They assume you can go back, work a few months, and come again.
You have access — they don’t.
You can recover — they can’t.
So when you build a house and your cement goes missing, when the contractor asks for an extra $20,000, when a “friend” cuts you out of a deal — they don’t always see it as stealing.
They see it as balancing the scales.
They believe that God himself understands the logic: “Him have it already.”
That’s the danger — not open hostility, but quiet justification.
When Love and Jealousy Sleep in the Same Bed
Jamaica is a country of deep contradictions.
We are joyful people who carry pain under the surface. We love loud, pray hard, and hustle harder. But envy — that quiet, creeping spirit — finds a way into the cracks.
You’ll see it when you start to build.
When the foundation is poured, everyone congratulates you.
When the walls go up, people smile and say, “Nice.”
But when the roof finishes, something shifts.
Admiration becomes envy.
Curiosity becomes comparison.
“Why him and not me?”
This isn’t unique to Jamaica, but it’s amplified here. It’s historical.
Centuries of inequality have etched a kind of suspicion into our social DNA.
So when someone succeeds, especially someone who’s “been away,” the community’s pride is often mixed with resentment.
You came from the land of opportunity — how dare opportunity follow you home?
Real Estate: Where Trust Goes to Die
Nowhere do these tensions cut deeper than in real estate.
The property market is booming — cranes dot skylines from Kingston to Montego Bay. Diaspora money flows in like a new kind of remittance. But where there’s money, there’s mischief.
People lose millions here — not because they were careless, but because they believed in friendship, family, or paperwork that looked legitimate.
A man who helps you find land might also help himself to the profits.
A developer with charm might vanish after the first cheque clears.
Even lawyers, architects, and agents have learned to blend professionalism with quiet predation.
“Mi soon sort yuh out,” they’ll say.
But soon never comes.
I’ve seen returnees watch their life savings dissolve — not in one disaster, but in a series of small betrayals.
Cement that never arrives. Prices that “raise up.” Contracts that shift.
And through it all, everyone keeps smiling.
“It’s Not Personal, It’s Business”
That’s the line you’ll hear most often — “A just business.”
It’s the local way of turning theft into transaction.
Someone will take what’s yours and still greet you warmly in church.
They’ll tell you God understands. They’ll believe it, too.
Because in a country where survival is a full-time job, morality becomes negotiable.
So when you build, when you invest, when you buy — remember: Jamaica is not malicious, but it is opportunistic.
It tests you.
And unless you come prepared, it will humble you.
The Gentleman on the Road
A man once stopped me on the road.
“How yuh doing?” he asked.
I said, “Trying, man. Business slow.”
He looked at me, smiled a half-smile, and said,
“Be careful, you know. When people look at you, dem not thinking good for you.
Dem see you, dem say, ‘him alright, him nuh need it. We can share it up and leave him out.’”
That stayed with me — because that’s the quiet truth of this island.
People assume you’re fine.
They assume you can take loss.
They assume your blessings are inexhaustible.
So when they take from you — time, trust, or money — they don’t always see it as harm.
They see it as redistribution.
Faith, Contradiction, and Conscience
We’re a nation that prays before meetings and quotes Psalms in taxis.
But faith here often coexists with contradiction.
We serve a loving God — but too often justify unloving actions.
We talk of community — but practise competition.
We preach forgiveness — but rarely accountability.
So when betrayal happens, people console themselves with Scripture.
They’ll say, “God will bless me same way.”
And maybe He will. But it’s not righteousness — it’s rationalisation.
That’s what makes Jamaica both beautiful and bewildering.
It’s a country where spirit and struggle sit at the same table, passing each other salt.
The System’s Hands Are Tied
Jamaica’s bureaucratic systems are slow, inconsistent, and — in too many cases — broken.
Files disappear. Titles get lost. Officials shrug.
If you come from a place where systems work — the UK, Canada, the US — you’ll find this maddening.
You’ll learn that “soon come” is not a phrase. It’s a philosophy.
Justice here moves at the pace of sunlight through molasses.
And yet, in spite of all that, we love the place.
Because beneath the corruption, the inefficiency, the chaos — there’s soul.
But love doesn’t mean blindness.
And if you don’t protect yourself, no one else will.
The Emotional Cost of Coming Home
No one prepares you for the emotional shift of returning.
You imagine feeling grounded. Instead, you sometimes feel exposed.
You expect to be welcomed. Instead, you might be measured — by your accent, your choices, your bank balance.
You think you’re coming home to belonging.
But home, too, has changed.
People have aged. Systems have decayed. Morals have bent.
And the Jamaica in your memory — the one built from childhood visits and family stories — doesn’t always match the one that meets you at the gate.
That realisation breaks something inside you.
But if you can hold through that break, something else grows — wisdom.
If You’re Planning to Build, Build Smart
Here’s what experience teaches:
- Verify everything. Go to the National Land Agency yourself.
- Don’t pay on trust. Pay in stages, and document every cent.
- Hire your own lawyer. Never use the one “recommended by a friend.”
- Keep your emotions out of it. Business and belonging are not the same.
- Stay humble — but firm. Jamaica respects confidence, not passivity.
And above all, remember this:
You’re not here to save anyone. You’re here to build something that lasts.
The Windrush Legacy: A Mirror and a Mandate
We celebrate the Windrush generation for their resilience — and rightly so.
They were warriors in plain clothes, ambassadors of hope.
But perhaps the greatest way to honour them is to be as honest as they weren’t allowed to be.
They endured silently. We must not.
They smiled through struggle. We must speak through it.
Because silence protects systems that exploit. Truth dismantles them.
If Jamaica is truly to welcome her children home, she must learn to love without taking, to trust without testing, to serve without suspicion.
The Price — and the Reward — of Home
Coming home is not a fairy tale. It’s a reckoning.
Jamaica will test your patience, your pride, your peace. It will make you cry, laugh, curse, and give thanks — sometimes all before breakfast.
But if you stay grounded, eyes open, and heart honest, it will also reward you.
Because beyond the bureaucracy, beyond the envy and the hustle, lies something unbreakable: authenticity.
When the dust settles, and you stand on your own piece of earth, watching the light fall across the hills — you’ll feel it.
That deep knowing that despite it all, this land is still yours.
Not because it’s easy. Because it’s real.
Final Words: Come Home, But Come Wise
This isn’t a warning to stay away.
It’s a call to come prepared.
Bring your love — but pack your logic.
Bring your faith — but guard your finances.
Bring your dreams — but keep your documents.
Because Jamaica isn’t an easy love, but it’s an honest one.
And those who endure her, truly live her.
Welcome home.
But tread carefully.