The sheer volume of personal stories that colleagues, members of the media, esteemed persons from the educational, social, cultural and political landscapes, and ordinary Jamaicans have shared since the death of Professor the Honourable Ralston ‘Rex’ Nettleford is testament to the fact that he touched more than a few lives.

Rex Nettleford touched an entire nation, and his contributions to the development of the Jamaican cultural identity and, by extension, to the world, are the work of a man consumed with instilling a sense of pride and self-worth in the minds of people.

Vice-Chancellor Emeritus of The University of The West Indies (UWI) and founder of the National Dance Theatre Company (NDTC), academician, advocate and artiste… The list of titles, honours and awards is long, but he is, in a word, an icon.

To a mountain of memories I add a few pithy thoughts. Envious of very recent personal regale that colleagues and friends had with Rex, I recall earlier exchanges with him. I recall watching him from a polite distance while he visited with the late Dr Basil Keane. I recall eavesdropping on their conversations that brought news and discussions of his travels and meetings abroad and their applications to the local condition.

Black pride was hardly enough, they knew; education and achieving excellence in whatever one pursued were additional, necessary ingredients. It would be education that would finesse the “smaddies” and prevent them from becoming Benz-driving “bhuttus”.

While the conversation at the time floated way above my head, Rex’s physical appearance on the other hand captured much of my girlish attention: the set of his lips against a warm and generously wide smile; the richness of his skin against the whitest of teeth; the imperial tilt of his head, and the swagger of his trim hips in tailored pants. Oh, Rex!

Gently, I was disabused of any notion of a “happily ever after'” with his magnificence. For while he has been hailed as the “quintessential Caribbean man”, he was without the quintessential Caribbean man baggage, and if he knew of my crush he politely ignored it. But he would forever thereafter inspire me to dance, moving as he did with the passionate elegance and grace of a gazelle, whether sitting in a patio chair or performing on stage.

Dance was his language. He said it was a way of communicating without using the language of “the master”. The irony in that being he spoke the Queen’s English, and he spoke it with such a lilting voice and an eloquence so extensive that even the slightest criticism sounded like a sweet nothing.

I am deeply appreciative of those sweet nothings. Those handwritten letters to me while an editor at this paper — noting the successful publications, critiquing articles, keeping me up to date with his sojourns. I will treasure those letters postmarked from far and exotic locales. I’ll treasure too that reprimand he exacted when I dared to thank him for his love and support during the difficult time of Basil’s passing. “You need not thank me for my friendship with Basil,” he said. Yes, he was truly a man who gave of himself and to his friends he gave of his soul. And his was a regal soul. A prince of a man who railed against the “coarsening of the sensibilities” and rallied for the civilised black man.

Timing is everything. That he died in the most powerful city in the world, in the same sphere of the most powerful man in the world, during a month which celebrates the history of black people and what a black man can become is phenomenal. Rex Nettleford did not linger; instead he chose to meet his Maker, sending to us his ashes and leaving us with the memories of a great Jamaican son. Rest in peace, Rex.

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