Sheik Sadeek died at the end of January 1986 in the U.S.A. at the age of 66. I am writing this without researching the chronological details of his life and work and without reviewing his considerable body of writing. This needs to be done. He merits remembrance. His life deserves a memoir and his work deserves a place in our literary history.
I got to know him in the late 1950s and over the next 25 years every now and then we would meet and he would show me his work. He was a simple man, in the best sense of the word – straightforward, honest and clear about what he wanted to do. He held no sophisticated critical theories nor did he construct any grand philosophical framework for his writing. But he believed profoundly in what he was doing and he was sure that what he was doing was good. He took a heart-warming pride in his achievements. I remember his shining delight in what he had done when he showed me Bundarie Boy in manuscript, and Fish Koker which went on to win the Jagan Gold Medal and his collection of poems Dreams and Reflections, and his play Pork Knockers. He was sure that he was writing masterpieces. That is the sort of certainty any real writer must possess. His enthusiasm was admirable and catching and I always felt a renewed, invigorated appreciation of the value of writing after I had met and talked with Sheik Sadeek.
I think it hurt him that his work, which he never stopped sending to publishers, was rejected time and time again. But he never despaired. He kept on writing. He kept on submitting, he kept on re-writing and revising, he printed the books himself, he persevered, he persisted. His loyalty to the art he had discovered so late in life never slackened or faltered. The force of his love of writing and his determination overcame any set-back and all frustrations. I saw many defects in his writing but the force of that feeling in him I remembered long, long after I had forgotten exactly what those faults were.
What I liked and respected about Sheik Sadeek was his complete realization that if you considered yourself a writer your business was to write. It is strange how often this seems to be forgotten by so-called writers. They talk about writing. They meet to discuss writing. They explain their plans for writing. They draft synopses and sketch out plots. They outline characters and think up themes. What they do not do enough of is actually write. Sheik Sadeek never made that mistake. When he showed you his work it was a poem, a story, a novel, a play – complete, not his plans for such work. I once read an interview with E.L. Doctorow, author of the excellent book Ragtime. In it he said the following: Writing is an exploration. You start from nothing and learn as you go along. If you do it right, you’re coming up out of yourself in a way that’s not entirely governable by your intellect. That’s why the important lesson I’ve learned is that planning to write is not writing. Outlining a book is not writing. Researching is not writing. Talking to people about what you’re doing, none of that is writing. Writing is writing.
Sheik Sadeek would have approved. “Yes, the man right. Don’t forget that. Writing is writing.” He would have said it seriously and vigorously.
He wrote seriously and forcefully out of his knowledge of people from sugar estates, in town tenements and in the bush. He was not a great writer. Certainly genius never flowed full tilt in him. But when I knew him he was a writer through and through. It had become central to his life. Love of writing was bound into the fabric of his being. In the days when I used to see him and greet him with the customary “How are things, Sheik?” his answer was always, “Still writing, man, still writing,” as others would say, “Surviving” or “Still breathing.”
I lost touch with him completely after he emigrated to the United States. But I do not think he can have changed. Two loves dominated his life – love of family, love of the art and craft of writing. From all I know of him I judge in all he did and planned to do his family came first. And his writing equal first. Right down to the end I don’t think his answer would have been any different, if I had been there to ask: “Still writing, Ian man, still writing.” He was a man worth knowing, and he wrote books worth writing, and he lived a life worth living.
A final thought. I hope steps will be taken to gather and keep Sheik Sadeek’s manuscripts and literary papers. He was a prolific writer. His collection of manuscripts, unpublished writings and literary remnants must be immense. He must have been a great keeper of notebooks and diaries. At death such things are far too easily destroyed and dispersed. It is important that the papers of such men should be preserved for the interest of writers in the future and for study by critics and scholars. Ideally such collections should be preserved in Guyana but the first priority is to make sure that they are kept intact. Action should taken by the University of Guyana to trace and acquire Sheik Sadeek’s papers.
