Sylvia Wynter's Dream

Blog Entry #2 | Antoneisha Dunn | September 30, 2023

The night was young. The year was 2016, the month: February. I had just returned from a shopping trip to continue my father’s care. And that night, I had tended to him meticulously, cleaning his frail form, administering his food through a feeding tube, and draping a new mosquito net over him. “No mosquitoes will bite him tonight,” I thought as I carefully arranged the net. While he was like this, I read him something religious; and once during the reading he gasped for air. This action of his startled me, but I pushed the unease aside, believing it was nothing more than a fleeting discomfort since his eyes remained open.

Nights prior he had snored loudly, but on the night of the 4th there was a silence I couldn’t accept. More than this, he seemed to have stopped breathing and wasn’t responding to my touches. Desperate, I dialled my sister, who happened to be a nurse, and screamed “Daddy isn’t responding!” She implored me to stay calm and recount the events: and I did. After hearing my words, she instructed me to do the following: “Squeeze his nipples as hard as you can ✅, stick him with a needle ✅, call someone to help you; because he’s dead…” I hesitated at her last instruction. This couldn’t be the end! I had just bought everything needed for his recovery earlier that day. How could he die before I had even begun to help him? “Get help, Antonei. He’s dead,” she repeated, her words carrying a finality that was difficult to understand.

Summoning all the strength I could muster, I reached out for assistance: calling the police and eventually the morgue. And all through this process, his eyes remained open. Seeing this, I tried to close them. But, rigor mortis had set in and contorted the skin around his eyes into eerie shapes. This, no doubt startled me, and I recoiled in horror before leaving the room.

On the night of February 4, I lost my father, a man I was undeniably similar to, and it was in his death that I came to truly understand our shared traits. The loss I experienced granted me a glimpse into the life he had led, the pains he had endured, and the stubbornness that had defined his existence. It gave me an alternative memory of the man who did poorly at fathering my sister and me. It gave me explanations for actions I couldn’t understand while a child. More importantly, it explained the parts of my personality that are mild, stubborn, sacrificing, and quiet. In an odd way, my father’s death and all that surrounded it, gave life to the habits I didn’t understand. 

Death, as a loss, steals. It takes the life you knew and the people or person you lived it with. But, it can also add; and for me it added a knowledge that I needed to face the years that have followed his death. And for this, I’m thankful!