A cloak of black oil was my passage to deliverance. When I covered myself in oil to participate in Grenada’s J’ouvert, a central aspect of the country’s Spicemas celebration, it was nothing short of a revolutionary experience. For years, I’d looked forward to playing Jab in Grenada, an endeavor that deeply transformed my relationship with my West Indian heritage and the processions our ancestors expressed themselves through.

When I played for the first time, the feeling was transcendent. For a brief moment, the oil masquerade granted anonymity to engage in bacchanal and revelry, a direct chat back to the expectation of respectability and decorum demanded specifically from women. J’ouvert strips back the fanfare and glamor of feathered costumes, compelling participants to surrender themselves to the collective prerogative of the mas.

J’ouvert restored me. When I finished playing, I hopped into a motorboat water taxi and headed to Grenada’s Grand Anse beach. The sands were lined with people washing off themselves with water after an energizing morning of marching on the road. It was a shedding—and I reemerged feeling revived.

Connecting to the Past

Though J’ouvert is commemorated across the Caribbean—particularly in countries subjected to French colonial rule—the celebration is unique in Grenada because its participants transform into the Jab or Jab Jab character. The procession is creolized with elements inspired by African spirituality and satirical performance of pre-Lenten celebration, but playing Jab during J’ouvert also has roots in enslavement.

According to the Grenada Cultural Foundation, “[t]he Jab Jab portrays the spirit of a slave who met his [death] when he accidentally fell (or may even have been pushed by his white master) into a copper vat of boiling molasses. His ghost comes back every year during Carnival to torment his former master.”

Prior to Grenada’s emancipation from slavery in 1838, enslaved Afro-Grenadian people were referred to as devils. As an act of satire, the enslaved rubbed any substance that would blacken their skin—molasses, tar, mud, or soot—over their bodies, made helmets emulating the devil with cattle or goat horns fastened onto a construction helmet (early iterations of the helmet were made from found materials such as the large posey bowls found on plantations), and walked around with chains. The Jab turned any descriptor deemed to be transgressive—being Black, being in chains, being the devil—into a symbol of rebellion, resilience, liberation, and freedom.

Now, on J’ouvert morning, Grenadians of all ages gather right before day break—“J’ouvert” is a combination of the French words jour, which means “day,” and ouvert, which means “open”—to march through town to a percussive beat (in St. Georges, Grenada, it is often paired with sound systems) and remind themselves of who they are and what their people have overcome.

For Kered Clement, a United Kingdom–born journalist currently residing in Grenada, Jab is a structured ancestral practice. When she moved to Grenada 10 years ago, she attended J’ouvert with her cousin. But it wasn’t until she played Jab with a family friend that she realized the ritualistic nature of the procession. “There were rules I didn’t even know [when I played] with my cousin,” she says. “As Jab Jabs, we don’t laugh, we don’t smile. We’re having fun, but this is serious business.”

Outside of its ancestral heritage, J’ouvert is also accessible: Costumes aren’t required, so participants are encouraged to wear old clothing. However, as Carnival in Grenada has become more popular and attended by celebrities and influencers, the once-insular celebration is now a shared experience with those who aren’t native to the island.

Given this expansion, Clement sees the importance of reminding people that their engagement with J’ouvert derives from a structured cultural practice. She describes her process of getting ready saying, “Everyone’s in the same place. Together, we put lard on, but we don’t apply the oil yet. We take our bucket of oil down Tanteen Road where the real Jab Jab band leaves off, and that’s where we put on our oil. We march through the streets with a band. When the sun gets intense, we depart. We walk through the streets back to the same location where there’s bakes and saltfish waiting for us.”

Clement’s reverence for J’ouvert extends to what she wears on the road. This year, the reigning Queen of the Jab, Temptress, released the song “Crocus Bag,” whose title references a burlap sack historically used throughout the Caribbean. Clement also decided to pay homage to the textile this year. “I’m gonna get a Grenadian designer [named] Ali Creations to design me a crocus bag dress,” she says. “Initially, [wearing the dress] was about the song and doing something different, but a lot of people messaged me and said, ‘Wow, I feel like you brought back the culture and the uniqueness.’”

For this year’s Spicemas, Grenadian band ORO Luxury also created a costume, Mecca, inspired by Grenada’s connection to Africa, Jab, and the Black women who play it. Nevlyn John, a representative with ORO, says Mecca is indicative of “the strength of women, and the appreciation of our African heritage and [its] influence in our Carnival and our society. So, when we speak about [Mecca] being the ‘queen of queens,’ it is about celebrating our womanhood where the Blackness and authenticity stems from.”

In the Land of 100,000 Jabs

Though J’ouvert’s visual economy of imagery is dominated by men, women also take part in the celebration. For Black women who play Jab, there are a variety of benefits that contribute to their overall cultural, mental, physical, emotional, and spiritual wellness. “When I talk to folks about Jab Jab, they felt that spiritual connection even more deeply,” says Sherine Andreine Powerful, DrPH. “It recruits so many different emotions for people that you can’t help but feel very present and even more connected in that moment.”

For her doctoral thesis, Dr. Powerful explored how the quarantine impacted the ability to play mas and what this meant for Caribbean people in the region and the broader diaspora. Ninety percent of her research participants were Black women who described their involvement as a “collective social self-care ritual,” she shares. “[Playing Jab mas] provides a space for catharsis, a space for joy, a space for release and space for healing.”

After Saharrah Green, who was born in Grenada, moved to Toronto at the onset of COVID-19 to pursue a degree, she felt disconnected from J’ouvert. But playing J’ouvert in 2024 helped her re-ground herself in her heritage. “You really get a chance to just be free,” she says. “I don’t have to think. I just get to be myself. I get to just be home, allow myself to fully be in that moment around people that truly get me.”

Tamika Nelson, who is based in the United Kingdom, agrees. She began playing J’ouvert when she was around 13. Now, she describes her participation in J’ouvert as a way to improve her mental health. “Playing mas, no one cares really what you look like,” she says. “You just go out there to have a great time. … You always find like-minded people on the road and without even thinking, you’re in a better mental state.” 

For Black women, Jab is something to look forward to that embraces body positivity. It is also an opportunity to reconnect with heritage or continue Caribbean cultural practices that celebrate individual expression. 

When Black women play Jab, it offers both great comfort and great power—an opportunity to free themselves. “Our ancestors have these healing practices that combine body, mind, and spirit,” Dr. Powerful concludes. “That connection has never been severed. From what I’ve experienced … Carnival brings us back to that ancestral body, mind, and spirit are all connected. People feel all of that on the road.”

CORRECTION: This article was updated at 12:23 p.m. PT on December 9, 2024, to update the honorific for Sherine Andreine Powerful, DrPH and correct the spelling of Kered Clement’s name. Read our corrections policy here.