"Will you bring a bottle of rum over?" I couldn’t believe my ears. My half-Jamaican friend, Jerome, had just asked me to bring rum to a funeral. “I’m sorry?” I asked, trying to confirm whether I’d heard him correctly. “Bring any rum, Bacardi is fine,” he replied casually. I was studying in London at the time and had just met Jerome through a shared interest in UFC.
He called to tell me his uncle had passed away and invited me to the funeral. But bringing rum? It felt strange. Despite my hesitation, I dressed in my best suit and headed over. When I arrived, I was greeted by lively music and people in polo shirts. And to my shock, they were dancing. They dance at his funeral!
Confused, I looked at Jerome and asked, “Are you guys celebrating your uncle’s death?” He laughed and shook his head. “No, we’re celebrating his life.” It was then I learned the event was called Nine-Nights—a unique Jamaican tradition. Nine-Nights is a wake held on the ninth night after a person’s death, before the funeral and burial. According to Jamaican belief, a spirit's journey isn't complete until nine nights after death. On the ninth night, a duppy (spirit) is thought to leave for good, and it’s tradition to give the deceased a party as a send-off.
The celebration involves singing, dancing, and drinking, even in the poorest neighborhoods. In places like West Kingston, Jamaica, streets are blocked off and lined with candles. The event is a communal gathering, regardless of financial hardship. At the time, I didn’t fully grasp it, but two years later, I would come to understand the deeper meaning behind it.
During the pandemic, I received a phone call at 4 a.m. My mother, struggling to speak through tears, told me, "Your... your father has gone to heaven." I was shocked, though it had been expected. My father had been battling Stage 4 liver cancer, which spread to his lungs and kidneys. His condition had worsened while I was still in college, but hearing the news still hit hard. I immediately woke my brothers, and we rushed to the hospital.
When I saw his lifeless body lying in that sterile hospital room, a sense of finality washed over me. My brothers couldn't bear the sight and rushed out, overwhelmed with grief. I was the only one left, and I leaned in close to whisper in his ear, telling him that he was an amazing father. I knew hearing is the last sense to fade. But even in those final moments, my father was the same—silent and steadfast.
My father wasn't a man of many words. We lived next door to his brother-in-law for twenty years, and I could count on one hand the number of times they had a real conversation. He didn’t often say “I love you,” but over time, I realized that his love was shown through his actions. He didn’t need words to prove how much he cared for us.
Looking back, I realize how much he invested in us, even when he didn’t believe in me. He always called me an "idiot" while I was growing up, but he never hesitated to buy me books or the stationery I asked for. If he truly thought I was an idiot, would he have supported my education like that? And when I first started working out at 14, he scoffed, saying I should be studying instead. Yet, the first set of dumbbells I ever owned were bought by him. His actions never matched his words because, in truth, he was always there for me.
On the day of his funeral, I still couldn’t believe it. His body, laid out in the living room, felt surreal. It didn’t feel like my father was really gone—it felt like he was still out there, somewhere, and that this body was just an empty shell. It felt unfair. He had worked so hard all his life, without a real break. We were poor growing up, but he always made sure we had food on the table, even if it meant going into debt. After decades of hard work, when we finally reached a stable financial situation, he never got to enjoy any of it. He didn’t get to savor the fruits of his labor—the good food, the vacations, or even the new house we bought. The house he never even got to fully settle into. And worst of all, he passed before seeing any grandchildren.
I couldn’t understand how he could be taken away from us, especially when he had worked so tirelessly for our well-being. For weeks after his death, I kept hoping it was all just a bad dream. He used to rock himself on the sofa to ease the pain from cancer, and every morning I’d walk down the stairs, seeing him slowly spin around in the chair. After he passed, I’d hope that the chair would turn and my father would be there—but he never was.
As the years went on, I began to reflect on my father's life and his legacy. I realized that his relentless work wasn’t for his own benefit, but for us—his family. He didn’t need the rewards for himself. He was content as long as we could enjoy the fruits of his labor. He sacrificed everything for us, burned like a candle to light our path. He never asked for anything in return. In his eyes, the value was in ensuring we had opportunities he never had.
Now, I no longer mourn his death, but instead, I celebrate his life. Just like the Nine-Nights tradition I once didn’t understand, I’ve come to see his passing not as a loss, but as a celebration. His love was in every sacrifice, every quiet gesture. It wasn’t about what he had or didn’t have, but about what he gave to us. And for that, I will forever be grateful.
R.I.P dad. Always loved, never forgotten, forever missed!
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