“I’m beginning to think Bach was not European. He does not compose like one, but like an African.”

Time was running out, he would soon be dead, it was now or never. MIKE FORCE

Four days after I learned my father had a few months to live, I visited him in his room at a nursing home on Martin Luther King Jr. Way. I will never forget it. He was in bed, I was in a chair next to his bed, and we were watching the second game in the 2009 World Series, the New York Yankees versus the Philadelphia Phillies. As usual, we had nothing of any substance to say to each other.

After a few words about his health, the rain outside, and some unpaid bills I’d found at his West Seattle house, we fell silent. One would think that emotions and words would pour out of our souls at a moment like this. Time was running out, he would soon be dead, it was now or never.

Instead of talking, we just watched the game in silence…

Charles Mudede—who writes about film, books, music, and his life in Rhodesia, Zimbabwe, the USA, and the UK for The Stranger—was born near a steel plant in Kwe Kwe, Zimbabwe. He has no memory...