Really? Prof. couldn’t wait till the music subsided and the emotions ebbed at the estuary of a season that took so long to arrive? Instead, midstream Caroni (whew, not Essequibo!) - between the contestations of pan, and the loud, often cacophonous proclamations of force-ripe griots, and the sharpening of the mas’ makers’ tools – was where he left us clinging to flimsy rafts bearing precious assets.
Those who suggest the books and
speeches and memorabilia left behind are sufficient to the cause of celebration
wholly miss the distinction between a man and his divisible work. Consequently,
most of us Caribbean folk are more likely than not to underestimate the value
of what we have lost, even in recognising a bountiful legacy.
With public intellectuals, openness
accounts as much for a willingness to share as it has to do with ease of access
to the essence of their work. Read anything Gordon Rohlehr has written or
listen to what he has said, and you will readily recognise an intention to
reach all hearts and minds.
It was around an All Fours table at
the Best household in Tunapuna in the early 1980s, we first traded grins, with
Jack in hand and few trumps left to deliver. “Your turn, Dr Rohlehr,” when he
stopped paying attention and pretended to peek at Robert’s amateurishly
positioned hand.
All man jack, to the extent it was
biologically possible, was trying with beards. The facial hair on the oldest
guy at the table was not yet fully grey but hung impressively from a strong
chin, converging nervously with a moustache with which we were certain its host
was born.
And when he laughed, from the top
of his silver coated head to the lowest points of his goatee motioned for
everyone else to join in till we belly buss.
Then when the fun ended, we would
ask questions we did not fully understand, and he would respond in a way that
made us both understand what we really meant and what we needed to know to help
us find the answers.
There were questions about history
– the discipline my late mother-in-law, Marianne Ramesar, and Prof. Bridget
Brereton insisted remained Prof. Rohlehr’s true calling. But also, about music,
art, cricket, football, and the right time to pick a julie mango for ripening,
the Best trees as bountiful as they were.
And politics? Oh yes, there were
numerous polite and impolite perspectives. He could steups with the best of
them and lower his head while peering above Coke bottle glasses as if to charge
like a raging bull. Then, in an instant, a broad toothy grin to soothe any
lingering pain. He was the man with a heart of gold.
One time, I was on my fourth
collection of poems and needed honest feedback. The other giant, Ken Ramchand
(who has said he shared the same metaphorical cricket pitch with Gordon Rohlehr
and would now miss the batsman on the other end), had looked at previous sets. I
wanted to try the other batsman.
I chose ‘Lost in the City’ as the
title. Dr Rohlehr described the collection as having marked a transition from
“the playfulness and elation of … earlier work” to “a concern for the city, a
sense of change and a nostalgia for dying lifestyles.”
“Dying lifestyles.” I subsequently
noted similar observations about changing calypso messages, and the texture of
the music. I had not heard him post-2019 on the subject, especially as performance
spaces both contracted and expanded all at once. His vast personal collection
would have taken him through unscathed.
He met Celia at the supermarket and
broke COVID distancing rules. For sure, he would have also extended his long
fingers toward me had I been there.
Not long before, Krisson Joseph had
met us all on Zoom in 2020 from a backyard set with ‘Survival: Remembering
Resilience’ and, as recently as last Saturday at Little Carib with ‘Revel in
the Ritual’ – he reprised songs Prof. Rohlehr most likely knew by heart.
Then, on Sunday at NAPA, David Bereaux
was delivering memories of the kind Prof. would have stretched back on his
seat, extended his long legs and sandalled feet, and mouthed the lyrics as if
he had very recently come across them in a pleasant dream.
The NAPA show had dragged on too
long, as is our irritating wont at this time of year. We were all tired. But Carol
Addison charmed, and Bereaux brought us back. We reminisced and laughed on our
way back home.
Then, just as we arrived came the
news that a light shining from the east had been extinguished.
