When a nation found its voice on screen

Media producer-director-TV personality Lisa Wickham reflects on local television in the 70s and 80s. She says it was national, communal, and open.

I was six years old, TTT was 11—and so was our country—when our lives first converged. I have since come to recognise the ‘coming-of-age’ significance and the symmetry of that moment: child, station, and nation all in their infancy, unscarred, expectant, and full of promise.

We were finding our voices, experimenting, discovering who we might become. Those early, exhilarating days of television in the 70s and 80s, were not just about programmes on a screen; they were about a young Trinidad and Tobago, still tender in its independence, on the eve of republicanism, yearning to shape and express its cultural identity in real time.

On that defining Tuesday afternoon, my mother took me to 11A Maraval Road, where Aunty Germaine went live at five o’clock, every week, to thousands of eager children across the country.

This was The Rikki Tikki Show which remains, to this day, the only live children’s show ever produced in Trinidad and Tobago. I stood proudly in my St Dominic’s RC Primary School uniform—navy blue skirt, white sailor-collar blouse, red ribbons in my hair and belted out my very first poem:

“Pretty birds in the trees, sing for me please… when you sing you bring me joy, like my beautiful toy… Pretty birds in the sky, fly nearby, pretty, pretty birds I have ever seen…”

While the memory of that specific day fades, what remains vivid are the images of that era: a young nation seeking a voice on the global stage, reflected through shows that mirrored our society, while affirming who we were and who we were trying to become.

That single appearance on Rikki Tikki became the start of a 12-year journey on the programme, and, in many ways, the beginning of a career that continues more than 50 years later. Those years etched into me a lifelong affinity for live broadcast. There is something about the adrenaline, the urgency, and the sheer unpredictability of going live that sharpens you in ways nothing else can.

It demands not only quick thinking and adaptability, but also a calm presence under pressure, qualities that, in truth, were cultivated in everyone who worked on live broadcasts in that era.

Live television shaped all of us, instilling habits of professionalism that would last a lifetime.

Television in the 70s and 80s

Television, in those years, carried a sense of innocence and accessibility. To own a set was a luxury, but TTT’s doors were open. I remember people walking straight off the street into the reception area to watch programmes on the big screen in the lobby.

In a country not yet walled off by alarms, swipe cards, or burglar-proofing, television felt communal, like a shared window into ourselves.

Years later, in the late 80s, I would witness groups of people crowding around a show window on Frederick Street to watch our teen show, Party Time. Television was national, communal, and open.

Young people today stare at me in disbelief when I describe those times, no social media, no mobile phones or devices, and only one television station. And yet, those years produced some of the most enduring foundations for today’s media practitioners. Working with limited resources, we were still able to create with pride and satisfy a public hungry to see itself.

News, too, became part of that shared ritual. The very first newscast was delivered by Mervyn Telfer in 1962 on what would become the flagship programme, Panorama.

The iconic opening billboard and theme music acted as a national summons, signalling that it was time for families to gather around the set to ‘listen’ to the news.

It was a ritual of trust and authority, carried by the voices of broadcasters like Bobby Thomas, Ed Fung, Neil Giuseppi, and Dominic Kalipersad. There was no notion of ‘fake’ news.

Weather was delivered with flair and personality by Robin Maharaj, who became a character in his own right, while sport came alive with the unmistakable voice and energy of Raffie Knowles. This was a shared national experience, news as both information and ceremony, binding a young country in the habit of seeing itself reflected.

Diversity in the productions

National pride flowed strongly then, and it was evident in the kinds of shows that filled our screens. Mainly for Women spoke to homemakers and working mothers. Sylvia Hunt introduced a generation to Caribbean cooking. Hazel Ward-Redman charmed and nurtured young performers on Twelve and Under and Teen Talent. Holly Betaudier’s Scouting for Talent and Sham Mohammed’s Mastana Bahar unearthed performers who became household names.

Pat Mathura’s Indian Variety celebrated our East Indian heritage, while the Best Village Competition showcased rural traditions, and folk theatre.

And it wasn’t only talent shows or cultural showcases. As Head of Drama, Horace James’ Play of the Month delivered memorable dramatic moments and characters brought to life by household names like Beulah (Shirley King). Tony Fraser’s Issues Live shaped public debate.

There was Know Your Country, Play Your Cards Right, No Boundaries, Turn of the Tide, Sugar Cane Arrows and Calabash Alley. Even children had their share, from Feedback, Teen Dance Party to Party Time, which I would later co-host with Wendell Constantine.

The roll call of programmes, producers, and presenters from that era is truly prolific, and I could never do justice to them all; there are far too many names, faces, and contributions to capture in a single telling.

What remains undeniable is that each one left an imprint on our national memory, shaping the way we saw ourselves and our culture on screen. And behind every familiar face were the camera operators, sound engineers, floor managers, editors, props, and master and studio control technicians and administrative staff whose skill and dedication made it all possible.

In speaking recently with my former producer Benedict Joseph, he reminisced that when he entered TTT in 1982, there were over 13 producers working simultaneously on multiple local projects. That sheer volume speaks to the energy of the time, a national studio buzzing with activity, talent, and ambition.

In hindsight, that period was also about forming a national cultural identity. Television, with all its reach, was a tool for nation-building. It gave us pride in our music, our stories, our own faces on screen. Yet that sense of identity came under pressure with the arrival of cable in 1990.

Alongside the attempted coup and other upheavals, cable opened the floodgates: MTV, BET, CNN, endless foreign programming. I was fascinated too, seduced by the polish and variety.

Yet I often wonder if our long-standing disdain for ‘local content’ began then. In our eagerness for the foreign, did we begin to undervalue our own creators? Did we allow cultural imperialism to chip away at the fragile identity we had been building?

Shaping of identity

Looking back, I see more than nostalgia. I see the shaping of values, discipline, resilience, creativity, that still guide me today. I see the scaffolding of an industry that has grown, faltered, and grown again. And I see the continuing challenge: to make space for our own reflections in a world still dominated by imported images.

Television content is never neutral. It shapes identity, informs values, sets standards, and offers a moral compass. Those early years mattered because they helped us see ourselves as more than fragments—they helped us to imagine ourselves as part of a whole.

And that is why I believe intentional local content still matters now. In a time when anyone can go ‘live’ from a phone, and algorithms dictate what we see, there is still a need for the collective experience of seeing ourselves represented with quality, pride, and properly planned purpose.

It is not about rejecting the global but about valuing our own stories within it and sharing our stories with the world.

Those flickering images of my childhood—the poem on Rikki Tikki, the wooden cabinet television sets, the crowds in TTT’s lobby, were more than entertainment. They were building blocks of memory, culture, and identity. They shaped not only my life, but the life of a nation still finding its voice.

As we celebrate our 49th year as a Republic, perhaps it is time we look again at that voice and recognise the beauty in our own reflection.