Trinidad Killa and the Sound of Sacrifice: Who Benefits?

Edit: Now that I’m aware of the painful history behind the term used as the song title, I want to acknowledge that language carries weight, and this one in particular, rooted in harm. I want to thank the Commotion with Elamin Abdelmahmoud podcast for shedding light on this and Jamesie Fournier for the labour put into educating us on its origins and impact.

While the conversation around the track has largely focused on ownership and influence, it’s important not to overlook the harm that can come from normalizing slurs—intended or not. With the remix on the way since having surpassed 1 million views, I hope that a name change accompanies its release. This is an opportunity to course-correct and show that growth is possible, even in the midst of controversy.

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Who really owns culture?

In the Caribbean, music has always been more than entertainment—it’s a vessel for storytelling and rebellion. From calypso’s sharp political commentary to soca’s infectious energy, our sound has been shaped by struggle and reinvention. But what happens when the same creative freedom that built our music industry clashes with the rules of intellectual property?

Trinidad Killa, a well-known name in the Zess scene, is at the centre of controversy again, after initially recording his song on a riddim without the producers’ permission. Ironically, this is the same artist who previously wanted to sue the People’s National Movement (PNM) for using his music on their campaign trail without his consent. The double standard is hard to ignore—when is borrowing acceptable, and when does it cross the line? Beyond the legalities, what does this debate reveal about our cultural inheritance, migration struggles, and the way music shapes our connection to home?

This conversation isn’t just about TK. It’s about how the Caribbean diaspora frames its sacrifices, the tension between cultural gatekeeping and artistic freedom, and how music, born from struggle, often becomes a battleground for class and ownership.

The Diaspora’s Sacrifice: A Better Life or a Broken Bond?

For many Caribbean families, migration is painted as the ultimate sacrifice. Parents leave their children and traditions behind in search of a better life. What is better, truly? Is it the financial security gained abroad, or the warmth of a childhood where your parents were present? The children left behind often grow up with a mix of love and resentment, balancing pride in their parents’ sacrifice with the pain of abandonment.

Zess: A Rebellion Against the System

Zess music didn’t start in a studio with polished production. It was the voice of the streets, a response to classism and gatekeeping in Trinidad’s music industry. It came from people who weren’t invited to elite spaces, who didn’t have access to major labels or radio play. So, they made their own rules.

The genre gave a voice to those who felt ignored and created its own ecosystem outside the mainstream. As with all cultural revolutions, Zess grew beyond the underground scene, catching the attention of those who once dismissed it. The same system that rejected Zess is beginning to monetize it.

In his January 16th episode of Talks with KG, KG highlighted how it was never meant to be polished or industry-approved. It was a way for marginalized voices to claim space. Hearing his insight also made me question whether mainstream figures embracing Zess is a sign of progress or just another form of exploitation.

Here’s where the hypocrisy sets in: when people from more palatable backgrounds capitalize on Zess, it’s called expanding the market. But when artists from the original scene, like Trinidad Killa, push boundaries, they’re labelled as reckless or disrespectful.

This controversy isn’t just about one riddim—it’s about who gets to profit from rebellion, and who gets punished for it.

Do-Overs: The Caribbean’s Musical DNA

Borrowing in music isn’t new. It’s been the foundation of Caribbean creativity for generations. Calypso, reggae, and dancehall all evolved through reinterpretation. Calypsonians reshaped folk tunes into political commentary, reggae artists adapted riddims across decades, and dancehall thrives on multiple artists recording over the same instrumental. Even soca, as structured as it is now, was born out of constant reinvention.

Our music was built on “do-overs”—reimagining, remixing, and repurposing. This wasn’t theft, it was creativity and survival. Limited resources forced artists to innovate, turning old sounds into something fresh.

So, while respect for intellectual property matters, we have to ask: Are we being selective about when borrowing is acceptable? Why was it embraced in past generations but now condemned? The outrage feels inconsistent with how Caribbean music has always functioned.

Controversy Sells, and the Numbers Don’t Lie

At the end of the day, whether people love Trinidad Killa or not, they’re still talking about him. His name is trending, his streams are climbing, and the people who want to see him cancelled are fuelling the algorithm that keeps his music in circulation.

The music industry has always thrived on controversy. Scandals create engagement, and engagement equals market value. Whether it was Superblue being banned from competitions for “disrupting” calypso traditions, or dancehall’s constant clashes over lyrical ownership, the cycle remains the same: the debate fuels interest, and interest drives success.

Trinidad Killa’s numbers speak for themselves. You don’t have to like him, but you can’t deny his impact.

How Music Keeps Us Connected

Music is our bridge. It carries the voices of those who feel unheard. It preserves the traditions we fear losing. It allows us to stay tethered to home, even when we’re physically far away.

The question is, how do we balance the freedom to create with the need to respect ownership? How do we ensure the same creative liberties that shaped our music history aren’t criminalized when the next generation embraces them?

This is what I mean by living in harmony, honouring our musical traditions and ensuring that our heritage remains a shared, evolving force that belongs to all of us.