Editor’s Note: The following column is intended as satire, beneath which is a deeper call for accountability and vision.
When PRAPA — the People’s Reliable Alternative Power Authority — began its limited test launch last year, nobody really knew what it was. No press release. No ribbon-cutting. Just quiet installs in a few neighborhoods. Somehow, I ended up in one of them.
When I initially read the prospectus, I thought it was a scam. An actual utility company that kept the lights on? Here in the Virgin Islands? That sent bills — on time, with numbers that made sense? That didn’t sound like a power company. That sounded like fiction.
But then I got invited to one of their closed-door presentations. NDAs. Waivers. Security. The room was cold, the lights were bright — and standing at the podium, perfectly composed, was a man in a navy suit with a gold lapel pin and the kind of name you only hear during election season: Delroy Eugene-Francis-George IV.
“Welcome,” he said, his voice calm and crisp. “What you’re about to see is not a concept. It’s a correction.”
And then they played the first commercial.
It starts just like something you’d see any Sunday in the Virgin Islands: a folding table under a flamboyant tree, four old heads locked in a serious domino game. Vests. Slippers. Hand towels over the shoulder. A pot of goat water bubbling on a coal pot nearby. Heineken bottles sweating in a corner. Soca playing low from a speaker wedged in somebody’s window.
One of the men — dark-skinned, bald, belly hanging over his belt — slaps a double six down so hard the dominoes jump.
“BLAAAM!” he yells. “Tawk to me nice!”
Another one, skinny with a straw hat and sunglasses, sucks his teeth and reaches for his last tile. A third man leans back in his chair, arms crossed, smirking like he’s just waiting to catch somebody slipping.
But then the fan inside the house stutters. The speaker skips. The light in the window flickers once … twice…
Everything pauses.
The skinny one leans forward. “Watch ya now… ya feel dat? Das de WAPA cough.”
The big belly man doesn’t say anything — just shakes his head and stares up at the pole like he’s expecting it to fall. The fourth man, wearing a green wife-beater and church socks pulled high, sighs and mumbles, “Lawd Jesus, not mid-game again. Every time I ‘bout to win…”
One of them pulls out his phone to send a voice note. “WAPA gone AGAIN. I vex. Whole goat water goin’ spoil.”
Then —
Boom.
The lights stabilize.
Fan kicks back up full speed.
The music picks right back up: “You dun know is da V.I. massive inside!”
And just like that, a clean blue and yellow PRAPA truck cruises by in the background — real smooth. The man driving gives a lil’ nod like he’s done this a million times before.
The bald man leans back and laughs. “Aye… PRAPA mehson? I feel like I just see Jesus pass in a uniform.”
“Da fan ain’t even hiccup,” the one in the green shirt says. “We still on? No generator? No blackout?”
Skinny one slaps a domino down. “Play de game, brudda! PRAPA handle bizness da propa way! Now it’s my turn!”
They all laugh loud. Somebody shouts off camera, “Bring out de domino liquor!” and the scene cuts to black.
Then the voice comes in calm:
“PRAPA. The light at the end of the blackout.”
“People’s Reliable Alternative Power Authority. Power to the people — not just the politicians.”
Before the audience could even finish reacting, the screen faded to another scene. This time, a recorded phone call.
Ring.
Click.
A calm, friendly voice answers: “PRAPA, good morning. How can I assist you without ruining your day?”
A skeptical woman replies: “Yes, I just callin’ to see if deh current supposed to go out today.”
The rep chuckles gently.
“Not today, ma’am. We five-by-five and fully loaded.”
“No ferry wake disruptin’ de underwater cable?”
“We armored it with conch shells.”
“No man up de hill runnin’ illegal AC from da clothesline?”
“He got cut off yesterday.”
“No wild donkey bun up the substation?”
“The donkey is accounted for.”
“No rooster fightin’ wid the voltage meter?”
“We gave him a warning.”
The woman pauses. “So the current staying?”
“Yes, ma’am. PRAPA power don’t blink. Not for mongoose, man, nor mischief.”
She mutters, half in awe: “Well fadda God.”
Voiceover: “PRAPA. Power so reliable, not even Carnival can mash it up.”
The audience laughed. Even the security guard by the exit cracked a grin.
Then Delroy returned to the podium.
“I hope you’re enjoying our little demonstration,” he said, adjusting his lapel. “But PRAPA is more than good customer service and stable current. It’s also convenience.”
He held up a sleek white box with gold trim
“This,” he said, “is the PRAPA Power Pack.”
A spotlight hit the box like it was the holy grail.
“Our welcome package includes: bills printed in English and common sense. 24/7 customer support that doesn’t forward you to voicemail in Spanish. App notifications before outages— not after. Monthly ‘Current & Chill’ playlists curated by local DJs. And of course, a PRAPA-branded flashlight — strictly for nostalgia.”
He smiled. “And yes… our power is clean, stable, and carries a crisp 120 volts you can practically taste. It’s citrus-forward. With a hint of accountability.”
The room erupted into applause. But Delroy wasn’t finished.
“One final demonstration,” he said, holding up what looked like a gold-plated USB stick. “Then, if you’re ready, we’ll move forward with enrollment.”
He smiled. The lights dimmed. The screen went black. Then, the presentation ended.
And we remembered:
PRAPA doesn’t exist.
There is no People’s Reliable Alternative Power Authority. No blue and yellow tech trucks. No hotline. No power packs. No functioning microphones. No “Current & Chill.”
There’s just us.
Still lighting candles.
Still whispering to the generator.
Still checking the fan to see if it ketchin’ current.
Still paying for power like it’s a subscription to stress.
So why isn’t it real?
Why is it easier to imagine a fake company that works than to fix the one we already have? Why do we keep buying fuel for dysfunction and paying interest on incompetence?
We’ve watched WAPA burn through millions, black out entire islands, and still ask for more— managed by the same people, with the same excuses, and the same smile.
But here’s the thing about satire:
It only works because the truth is already ridiculous.
They say you have to laugh to keep from crying. But maybe it’s time we stop laughing —and start demanding.
Maybe we stop waiting on PRAPA… and become it. Not in name, but in power.
Maybe PRAPA really is too good to be true.
Maybe we’ll never get a clean truck, a friendly voice, or a fan that stays spinning through the night. Maybe all we’ll ever have is generator fumes, burnt-out bulbs, and a playlist of apologies on loop.
But for one shining moment, it was good to believe.
And sometimes belief—no matter how brief—is enough to remind you that better is possible.
Even if it’s not today.
Even if it’s not real.
Even if it is just… a punchline that performs better than our provider.
One can dream.
PRAPA. Proper power. Period.
— Oliver Wilson Ottley III, St. Thomas
Editor’s Note: Opinion articles do not represent the views of the Virgin Islands Source newsroom and are the sole expressed opinion of the writer. Submissions can be made to visource@gmail.com.
