Friends,
Good evening.
Thank you for allowing me to be here with you tonight, for something I consider quite serious and quite personal.
When people speak of legacy, I find we often get it wrong. We imagine statues. Ceremonies. Speeches.
The kind of thing we’re doing right now.
But legacy — true legacy — is quieter than that. It’s not always visible. Often, the person who shaped your path is long gone by the time you realise they’ve done it.
It’s a strange thing, leadership. We spend years trying to prove we’re ready for it, only to discover—once we have it—that the real task is learning to make space for others.
I learned that in Toastmasters.
Not from a podium, but in the quiet back-and-forth of practice.
In the hard, sometimes awkward, work of learning how to express a thought clearly. How to accept criticism without retreat. How to listen — not to win an argument, but to understand someone else.
I joined Toastmasters as a young man because I thought I needed to become a better speaker.
And I did. But that was not the most important thing I learned. I learned how to think. I learned how to wait. I learned how to make room for someone else’s words. And I began to understand what it meant to serve — without applause, and without the need to be recognised.
That, to me, is where legacy begins.
Now, when I served as President of Club 1600, we weren’t particularly celebrated at that time. The club wasn’t fully integrated into the wider structures of Toastmasters International. We were what was called “unrestricted.”
In truth, it meant fewer opportunities and very little recognition. But we had good people. People who believed in the value of the work, not the spotlight.
So we worked.
Quietly, steadily. We built a structure. We made progress. And eventually, we became a Distinguished Club.
Not for ego. Not to raise our flag higher than others. But because it gave more people access. It gave new members a path that had not been open to us.
And that is something I have never forgotten. Because a proper legacy is not something you leave behind for yourself. It’s something you leave behind for someone else.
Tonight, we are recognising sixty past Presidents of this club. Each of them, I’m sure, came here with their own hopes, their own faults, their own reasons. And yet, what we see across all of their stories is something consistent:
Service.
Not showmanship. Not performance. But service.
Many of them didn’t know they were building a legacy. They simply turned up, again and again, and tried to make things a little better than they found them. That, too, is something I try to carry in public life.
I’ve found that the longer I serve, the more I return to the lessons I learned here. The discipline. The listening. The restraint. The humility of it all.
And I also find myself thinking more about the young men who are not in this room.
The ones who never joined. The ones no one invited. The ones who, right now, are wondering if they matter at all.
We cannot build a society that functions, let alone flourishes, if we leave half of our young men behind.
And I believe Toastmasters can play a role. Not by expanding its marketing or creating new committees — but by quietly, intentionally, going to where the need is greatest.
A young man on the edge of giving up does not need a speech. He needs a place to speak.
We can offer that.
This club, and clubs like it, can become part of the answer. Not all of it. But a real part.
So my ask tonight is not that you give more speeches.
My ask is simpler and harder than that:
Find a young man. And listen to him. Bring him with you to a meeting. Give him time, not just advice. Teach him how to prepare a thought — and how to deliver it with care. Help him grow.
Not because it makes you look good. But because it’s the right thing to do.
That may not be glamorous. It may not be celebrated. But it is, I think, what legacy should look like.
We are all, each of us, shaped by someone who took the time. Someone who didn’t have to—but did.
Let us be that for someone else.
Before I take my seat, I want to say something plainly.
There were people who never thought someone like me would end up where I am tonight.
I didn’t look the part. I was too short. Too dark. From too far out on the margins—an island boy from Cat Island. Not polished enough. Not proper enough. Certainly not someone they imagined leading a nation.
And I’d be lying if I said those words didn’t sting. Or that the doubt never crept in. Because it did.
But I kept showing up. I kept speaking. I kept learning. And I kept believing — bit by bit — that I didn’t need to fit anyone’s mould to lead, to serve, to matter.
And the reason I made it here isn’t because I forced my way through the door.
It’s because someone opened it. Someone saw something in me when others didn’t. Someone gave me the space to grow.
That’s why this work matters.
The Bible says:
“The stone the builders rejected has become the cornerstone.”
And I believe that. Because I lived it.
So now, it’s our turn.
Let’s go find the Davids. Let’s go find the ones tending sheep out in the fields. The boys being overlooked. The ones who don’t wear suits, who don’t know the right people, who’ve been told they’ll never make it.
Let’s speak life into them.
Let’s give them structure, encouragement, accountability.
Let’s let them know: you are seen, you are worthy, and your voice matters.
Because if we’re serious about legacy, then it can’t just be about who we were—it has to be about who we lift.
That’s the call.
Thank you, God bless you, and may we leave here tonight not just moved — but mobilised — to go and find our next generation of Davids.