Caribbean Beat — January/February 2019 (#155)

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Dear Winston, the Immortal,
Now that you are gone but not really, I can say some of the things
I always wanted to say to you, but could never find the words or
the right moment.
On our encounters, I always felt like I was in the presence of
a being who was too great to be real. The fact that you seemed
so unaware of your greatness made you even more amazing. You
were magical, a walking example of obeah, in the highest sense
of that which cannot be explained merely with words.
A shadow is a thing that appears when the light is obscured.
It is the darkness that we are, it is our truth. Dear Shadow, you
were and are our truest self, grappling with the reality of darkness
while holding desperately to the certainty that we are also
made of light.
Look, I’m a writer who is terrified of writing, and on the days
when I feel there are things I want to say, I find myself referring
to you first. You have a song for every state of mind, you are the
soundtrack of the stranger trying to find her way back to herself.
You were fearless about being unsure of yourself, about being
afraid, about doubting your talent.
This always appealed to me, the way you banished your
fear to the bars of music that wrapped around us all, the most
beautiful cloak of darkness, the most naked disguise. I tried to
follow your example, to be honest about the fear, but still trying
to make work that mattered. You hit sometimes and you missed
sometimes, but you kept going.
You were what a philosopher should be: happy to not be
labelled, comfortable in your strangeness, playful, and sharing
wisdom with such refreshing simplicity. You were the future
before Afro-Futurism. You taught me nihilism better than any
textbook. I heard “Cook Curry Ochro” and laughed at how easily
you made a case for vegetarianism. I listened over and over to
“Soucouyant”, marvelling at how you took a modern crisis called
AIDS and made us understand the seriousness of it from the
point of view of the nightmarish blood-sucker who now needs a
blood test from potential victims.
I think they should declare “My Belief” our National
Hymn. You taught me the correct sound that accompanies a
woman’s rolling bumbulum, so much so that I always aim for a
whups whaps when I wine. You taught me the beauty of language
and storytelling in song, because you played with words and
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