Beloved, Brother Bob

The space between life and death is tem­pered with Bob Marley’s music.

I have no earthly idea if this comes part and par­cel with being dubbed a Leg­end, but I believe it is a fact, and was much more so con­vinced of this after a recent trip to St. Croix this past Jan­u­ary.  I sat in a yard, sun­light long gone, col­lec­tive minds gath­ered, wrestling with the mid­night hour.  It was in this space that a tent had been erected, to serve and offer a bit of shel­ter, if needed. It was here, where a still-hot grill sim­mered long after bel­lies had swelled, and where a coil burned slowly–necessary pro­tec­tion from rav­en­ous mosquitoes.

It was in a space between the out­sider and the bystander, that I observed broth­ers in mourn­ing, their hearts torn by the loss of another brother.  There were no words for the grief.  They stood stoic, com­fort­ing them­selves with hands bur­rowed deeply into pock­ets and heads bowed.  If there were prayers or med­i­ta­tion rights, it was not their words.  One brother manned the sound sys­tem and blar­ing from the sys­tem was Bob.  Brother Bob, as seems most apt here presided, doing what only he could do, talk­ing a talk and chant­ing a chant about love, hope, strife, rebellion…LIFE and brotherhood.

This gath­er­ing over grief occurred nightly for the week I was there. Same brotherhood…Same tent…Same grill…A new coil…and Same Bob giv­ing vent. Not so iso­lated if you con­sider the baby show­ers, chris­ten­ings, birth­days, fetes, fairs, anniver­saries where Bob has been invited and given carte blanche:  ‘Do you thing Bob. Make it right. Yes-i!’

Did Bob wish this? Did he envi­sion it in some mys­tic high? Did he know that through high-grade chant and wail and love vir­tu­os­ity that we would call him brother, father, prophet and have it not be vanity?

Say what you will, as each man is enti­tled to his own opin­ion.  I main­tain that there is so much virtue wrapped up in Bob that you don’t have to turn your­self inside out to find it, or main­tain it. For sure it wasn’t just about the chan­nel of the man, as what passed through that chan­nel of a man and his intended.

Last year I shared my absolute favorite Bob Mar­ley tune:  “No Woman Nuh Cry” in the post “Love in the Key of Bob Mar­ley.”  I loved it as a woman, like devo­tion and it is still in heavy rota­tion. This year, there was some­thing about Punky Reg­gae Party.

It was released the year I was born (1977). It was the title that made me skip it one time too many on my re-released Leg­end album (circa 2002). I wasn’t ready to plunge the depths.  Another year, another earth­day for a Lion of a man makes all the dif­fer­ence in appreciation.

A loss in the death of a brother and friend is no dif­fer­ent.  The dead remain in mem­ory, strength­ened by the refrain of a song and the lick of a lyric surely.

We can’t rewind the clock, and so we must stop and take stock.  I bless God for the day that a Nesta Robert Mar­ley was born, the day that he bore sons that carry on, and the day he bore songs that have stood the test of time and minds; and at the best and worst of times, pro­vides an irrefutable sound­track to life.

ABOUT THE WRITER

Hi there, I’m Tynisha C. Leon, writer, West Indian, mango-lover, founder and editor-in-chief of DASHEEN mag­a­zine — the online des­ti­na­tion where cul­ture feeds imag­i­na­tion. Join the cul­ture con­ver­sa­tions on Face­book, Twit­ter and Tum­blr!