Let me tell you a story.
It begins in Black Village, a tight-knit community filled with people who knew struggle, who knew resilience, and who knew each other.
In that place, a young boy named Rodney Moncur was born to Euzera Cox and George Gilbert Moncur. Rodney was not like other children.
From the start, he had questions.
And not the easy kind.
He wanted to know why some had and some had not.
Why justice was uneven.
Why silence was so often the response to pain.
He carried those questions with him from Oakes Field Primary through to C.C. Sweeting High School.
And by the time he was a teenager, he was already asking those questions out loud. In 1974, he joined the Hon. Edmund Moxey in a march to Parliament, speaking out against the exploitation of everyday Bahamians.
That moment lit a fire in him that never went out.
Rodney did not choose the quiet path.
He chose to make noise.
And he made it for decades.
He marched in 1976 against judicial corruption. In 1978, for the vendors pushed off Woodes Rodgers Wharf.
In 1980, for Family Islanders fighting a broken local government system.
In 1981, to stop a bus fare hike.
In 1982, to block a proposal to tax water wells.
In 1983, against poor conditions in public schools.
He even took a petition of thousands directly to Queen Elizabeth II in 1985, calling out what he saw as political involvement in the drug trade.
This was not for show.
It was not performance.
It was Rodney doing what he always did: calling it as he saw it.
But what made Rodney different was not just what he fought against.
It was who he fought for.
He fought for the vendors.
For the taxi drivers.
For the mothers of murdered sons.
For the straw vendors.
For the students. For the brokenhearted. For the ones who felt left behind.
Rodney didn’t wait for a title to serve. His service began on the streets, in the union halls, and in the neighbourhoods. And the people listened. Because they knew he meant it.
In 1984, he was elected President of the Mabel Walker Primary PTA. In 1991, President of the Bahamas Construction Union. In 2004, he became Public Relations Officer of the Bahamas Taxi-Cab Union. He ran for office in 2002 in Grants Town.
He didn’t win the seat, but he never needed a seat to speak for the people. He kept doing the work.
In 2010, he became a Justice of the Peace.
And in 2016, on the recommendation of Loretta Butler-Turner, he was appointed to the Senate.
Even there, in one of the highest chambers of public life, Rodney did not put on airs. He remained who he was. Loud. Honest.
Committed.
But let me take you to a softer side of this man. The one who made you laugh. The one who would start a conversation with a joke before diving into a hard truth. The one who always had a story. Rodney used humour as his shield, and sometimes as his sword. He brought levity to heavy places. And he made politics human again.
He liked to say he was the leader of “the women dem.” And you know what? He was. He championed Bahamian women in his own way. He saw their strength. He listened to their pain. He stood with them when no one else would.
Rodney was no saint. And he never claimed to be. He was flawed, complicated, and at times controversial. But he was real. In an age of political polish and rehearsed lines, Rodney gave us something rare. He gave us himself.
I want to tell you about one of the last conversations I had with him. It was just a few days before he passed. We spoke as we often did — with honesty. He was tired. He was hurting. But he was still talking about the country. Still worried about the people. Still hopeful that things could get better. That’s the kind of heart he had.
And we must take that lesson seriously. Because how we treat each other when the cameras are off, when the microphones are down, when no one is watching — that is what defines us.
To his wife Gina, his children, and grandchildren, I say thank you. Thank you for sharing this man with the nation. For standing with him through battles and backlash. For allowing him to serve with such freedom.
Rodney Moncur was many things. A protester. A protector. A voice. A warrior. A husband. A father. A friend.
And more than anything, he was Bahamian. Through and through.
So what do we take from his life? We take the courage to speak up. The humility to listen. The strength to stand alone when it matters. The commitment to serve even without recognition. And the reminder that love for country must always come before party or position.
Rodney’s journey tells us that one man with conviction can challenge an entire system. That one voice can break the silence. That humour and truth, when combined, can move a nation.
He ran his race. He told his story. And now it is up to us to carry the message forward.
Rest well, Rodney. You were one of one.
May your voice echo in the conscience of this nation for generations to come.
May God bless his memory.
May God comfort his family.
And may God bless the Commonwealth of The Bahamas.