A column for Darryn

He worked at TSTT, the dubious Holy Grail of Trinidadian employment, and he was an engineer no less, a member of the higher echelons of desirable careers in the Caribbean.

But Darryn’s worth didn’t lie in the car that he drove or the salary he earned, both of which were far removed from the plans and goals he envisioned for himself.

Darryn’s worth lay in his belief that being a good friend, a true friend, was one of the most important things one could ever accomplish. His worth lay in his meeting his sister after school so he could get her home safely.

His worth lay in his determination to complete his studies no matter what heartaches or setbacks he had to face to do so. I first learnt Darryn’s worth Carnival Tuesday 2004 as I waited for him to pick me up at Mario’s on Cipriani Boulevard. It was late at night and a strange man came up to me asking if I was alright.

It turned out he was Darryn’s friend whom he had called and asked to come stay with me until he arrived so no man would harass me as I stood alone in my bikini and feathers.

On Sunday December 5, someone decided Darryn was worth much, much less than this. Someone decided that Darryn should die.

I knew Darryn for almost exactly one year. One year is nothing, it is no time at all to spend getting to know someone.

And the relationship we had didn’t facilitate spiritual intimacy; Darryn and I, it seemed, spent most our time primarily testing each other’s tolerance for mental aggravation and physical irritation.

I can’t say that I knew him well; many times in this past year I’ve been forced to think I didn’t know him at all. But what I knew about him deserves to live on in eternity.

When he died, the only outlet I had for my grief was to write. I wrote because I wanted people to know who he was, as I knew him, as his friends and family knew him, not the name and the murder number assigned to him by the newspapers. It’s a year later and I write again because I grieve. And will always grieve.

In my world, certain songs, certain phrases and expressions have become his. I remember trips to the cinema, telephone conversations, a drive on a moonlit night. I remember many things but I want more. I’m upset at the things I don’t remember, chastise myself for not having hoarded them jealously when they occurred, so I could now pull them out of storage and comfort myself.

I write now because I want no one to forget. No one should forget that Darryn lived and died. He should never fade into the background, be the guy that was killed outside 51 degrees that people speak about when they are lining up to get inside. No one should get the circumstances of his death wrong, the horrible senselessness of it, the utter waste it made of two young lives, both his and the teenager accused of the crime.

Darryn’s death remains the most solid, the most unalterable fact of my life. It is a door beyond which lie no options, no possibilities, no hope. He is not a long lost friend who may, someday, come back into my life. He is not a friend I’ve angered with whom some day I may be reconciled.

There is no more some day for our friendship. And I can’t ask forgiveness for the insults, for the criticisms, for the unanswered phone calls, for the petty meanness I showed while he was alive.

But I can ensure that whoever reads this column knows that once upon a time there lived a boy named Darryn Baksh. And he was loved.

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