When my maternal Grandmother passed away, I didn’t really remember it. I remember being shuffled to and fro in the weeks beforehand and my dad telling me one night, “you have to be strong for your mother, she’s going to need you.”
Some years later, he had to tell me the same thing again. My grandad had been ill for some time and in December 2020 his children made the decision to bring him home from the hospital so that when he passed he could be surrounded by the people and the things he loved and who loved him in return.
My Grandfather is Jamaican, in fact both my sets of Grandparents are. Growing up with this background, funerals were sad and heartbreaking, but they were also a cultural celebration of life. They were a chance to see cousins who maybe didn’t live in the same city as you, the chance to eat food that, if you lived in my household, was rarely cooked at home. And the chance to say goodbye, in ways that mattered.
The Nine Night is a massive part of Caribbean funerals, which goes back generations. It involves traditions which span over nine nights, and on the tenth day, the person is supposed to be buried. This tenth day may have shifted due to the change in burial habits but the ninth day has always been religiously upheld. The Nine Night offers chances for those who know the person who has passed, to share stories. Stories about growing up, about moving to the UK for the infamous ‘better life’ and most importantly the stories that shaped them into the people we knew them as.
We didn’t have a Nine Night for my Grandad, so all the stories I heard about his life came from his funeral. He was a stoic man and I really only came to know him in his last few years. My Grandad had a strong thick Jamaican accent and a stammer on top of it, so for a very long time I struggled to understand him and in turn connect with him. But the older I became, the more time we spent together and even though we never spoke for most of it, we connected over my studies, news and his jumpers and large chains.
Two months before my Grandad passed away, I was assigned a project to interview someone in preparation for a longer assignment. I chose my Grandad. My mum warned me that he might not want to talk, but we could try anyway. He spoke. He spoke for longer than I’ve ever heard him talk, even my Mum was stunned. Later on she told me that “I’ve never heard him speak about coming to the UK before and his job on the railroads.” I had always known my Grandad worked at Ford Motors, I never knew about the railroads.
The audio was later used to curate the eulogy that was read at his funeral. There, I learned even more about his early life. Living in Nottingham when they first came to the UK and then eventually moving to London at the request of my late Grandmother. When they came to London they landed in Forest Gate and it’s the house they remained in until their deaths.
And in the early days, they facilitated many other Jamaican families who were also trying to start a life in the UK. Offering board and food, friendship and family.
It’s stories like these that are relayed at the traditional Nine Night, accompanied by drink and food. In more traditional households the furniture is moved around and the mattress of the person who has passed is turned upside-down so duppy (the spirit) doesn’t want to stay and can go to heaven.
Part of me feels like COVID-19 has robbed me of hearing these stories in an authentic manner – from the voices who knew him best. My Grandad’s funeral was only 30 persons max as per government guidelines, his grandchildren in Jamaica weren’t able to fly over to attend his funeral, I read on behalf of them.
We’ll have a memorial in a year’s time like most families who have lost someone in the past year, but nothing will replace the feel and joy that a Nine Night brings.