Shaun Akanbi

A little over six years ago, on Boxing Day 2012, I read in the news about a young black man who had been found murdered in his flat. He wasn't some anonymous stranger. I knew him. Several years earlier, Shaun and I had been, briefly, together.

In the weeks and months that followed, I would learn he had been stabbed to death, and his belongings stolen, by 20-year-old Moroccan Achraf Jandara, who he had met online and invited into his home.

It’s now six years since Shaun was murdered on 22 December 2012. The pain hasn’t eased. If anything, it’s worse.

I can't pretend we were close when he passed. We no longer spoke. In May 2009 he contacted me, out of the blue, to ask if I'd write something for him. I was annoyed that he had only reached out when, it seemed at the time, he wanted something. Annoyed, I ghosted him.

We didn't speak again.

It can feel like there is no one to talk to about the gnawing grief, the sense of loss, the futility of his death. The guilt at snubbing him. No one likes to talk about grief, least of all someone else's. So you dwell on it, alone, and the grief metastasises.

In my darkest moments, I find myself fighting back thoughts of what his last minutes must have been like; what it must have been like with this stranger he invited into his home. Was it quick? Did he suffer? Sometimes my mind lurches, involuntarily, to the worst possible scenarios. I find myself almost gasping for breath, my heart racing. I stifle a sob. He was just a little guy, five foot nothing, looking for some fun with another cute boy, not... whatever happened. Not that. I don't want to know exactly what happened, how it happened. I couldn't stand that.

In the days after reading of his death, I wrote, clumsily, about the afternoon we spent in Shepherd's Bush market. The incident with the kid's tracksuit still makes me smile, but something that happened afterwards has slowly taken hold in my memory of him. We were walking along Goldhawk Road, past a sportswear store. Across the road, two black youths, walking in the other direction, were staring menacingly. I asked Shaun if he knew them. He replied no. They know I'm not from this area, he said, darkly. Looking back, it was almost like a premonition.

I once Googled his name, and stumbled on various articles about his death. Some on Nigerian "news" outlets, and on forums and message boards. Don't do it. The comments are beyond vile, the worst homophobic bile you can imagine.

His Twitter page is still there. So is his Instagram. His last Tweet, two days before he died, is about Kat Slater, a character in EastEnders. That will always be his last Tweet, a young boy's musings on a soap queen. Kat Slater's story ended for him that Friday night. He didn't live to see Monday's episode. But Kat Slater is still on our screens, and every time I see her, I'm reminded of Shaun.

I keep getting drawn back to his Twitter page. It's still there, exactly the way he left it. His voice echoing across the years. One of these days it might disappear, and then it really will be like he's gone. I don't know what I'll do then.