Tribute to My 21-year-old “Twin”, who passed away.
And the 5 Lessons he left burned into my soul.
“Hey, Twin,
How are you? I recently learnt a little more about what it means to have Him as my Rock. Wanna hear?”
“Sorry mate, I’m at a camp at the moment, perhaps next time?”
And I never got that next time. I vividly remember going to bed early on one warm night, excited to start my new job with a well-rested mind. I woke up, only to face my fresh new day with a stab of pain from a text telling me that WS died last night.
I went ballistic.
We weren’t blood twins, but we were blood brothers. Or siblings? We had different genders. But a senior made an offhand comment about how alike we were in our passion for theology and wild hand gestures. Apparently, we acted alike down to our matching college tees. And so we were twins.
He was bold
Enough to stand up for what he believed in, in a classroom of somewhat unfriendly new faces, openly sharing his values and religious beliefs with the world. I was proud of him. We’d met in college, at a religious club, with me silently judging him for being “loud and opinionated”. Yet we became fast friends. I’ve come to count his ringing voice as comforting.
We’d pace the college verandahs together, trading stories of high school struggles as prefects and our journey into our shared passion for religion. We were so open with each other regarding conventionally avoided conversation topics from day one. I told him of my crush, and he started sharing with about a lady he was attempting to court whom he’d met at his tuition centre. Innocent, gentle details usually shared only in embarrassed hushes with blushing faces. We were children back then. Shy about feelings for the special ones in our lives. You’ve grown, WS. You could’ve grown so much more.
He was very willing to be made the fool.
Our college had an Orientation Week where the whole school would join in a photo-taking contest with quirky themes. This particular one where he dragged a very unwilling me into had the theme “Education”. This guy had travelled to school in a green traditional silk costume with a flappy anti-cheating hat—the type you’d typically see on ancient Chinese scholars.
It was too late for me to escape becoming his photographer. He’d spotted me. He dragged his new girlfriend (congratulations on succeeding, WS) and me around the fairly sized college. It’s wasn’t a short walk. She was carrying his bag as well as a stack of books and papers to be used as props, and I was steadfastly pretending not to notice the hundreds of passers-by sniggering at us and his antics. He waved a huge Chinese writing brush around with a book, with his glasses perched on the tip of his nose. Making “Oooh!” exclamations to signify “eureka moments”. Very ancient Chinese, WS.
That was only the beginning of my torture. So this was 30 minutes before his first class of the day, and despite the time stress, this guy decides to drag his quarry into a quiet library with his bag. There are rules against this, WS! I’m apparently either docile or idiotic when shocked because I continued to trail after him, phone at the ready for pictures. He made so much noise. And proceeded to rifle through books right in front of the librarian, searching for the perfect book as his prop. He made a mess. I winced; I’ve never prayed this hard in my life for my college reputation. It didn’t help that he had a Steven He Asian Dad face pose whenever I was to take a picture.
Even so, you could find not one alive in our college who would say an unkind word about this precious yet quirky soul.
He was kind
And loving. We both enjoyed music, so much time spent with me plucking away on my 6 string guitar and him attempting to sing. He definitely failed my extremely high standards for vocals. He could hold a tune, though. Let’s give him that. Yet, he never once commented on my strumming. I’m awful at tempo, usually slapping out an arbitrary rhythm according to my feels.
He showed me how kinder he could be by regularly setting aside his study sessions to listen to any ailing friend vent about their problems. What a strength and weakness, that care of his. His willingness to help would often cause him to be tardy for appointments. Seeing him whirling through the school from one end to the other was pretty much my way of keeping the time at that point. WS is running towards Block A? Ah, I believe it’s around 10:50 am. I better get moving, there’s my English Literature class soon.
He was open.
I was fairly loud in college. I’m an introvert, but I had the courage to yell “Hi, Mak Cik Nor!” at the passing janitor and would befriend our college gardener. Or College Director. It made little difference to me, the title. I wonder how their lives are right now? What with Covid glaring down not unlike an unyielding master. I hope to find that janitor in Indonesia someday.
He? Oh, he was much, so much louder. His energy and presence dwarfed mine greatly through his insistence on attending a billion clubs, attend every speech given while making new friends daily (ew, extrovert), and still find the time to read. What a maniac. You still owe me my book, WS.
Many people knew him as the “Preacher” from day one, especially after his stunt of giving his testimony during him introducing himself in a new class. He kept meeting and getting to know people, caring for literally anyone he met, helping whenever he could because he was that good of a person. Everyone knew his name by the end of Semester 1. The nickname “Preacher” was used affectionately by all secular and religious friends alike. We can live in harmony, regardless of religion. At least in my small slice of the world. We all loved him greatly.
He was loved.
People love you whether you know it or not. You should have seen us at his funeral—numb souls and red-rimmed eyes, either finding comfort in or cursing our Maker. He had changed our lives with his precious few years with us. He’s encouraged me to “Press on, my friend!” and challenged my beliefs that much more, to throw myself wholeheartedly at life. The lessons he taught me couldn’t fit in this piece. Perhaps next year I’ll write a second part.
“Press on, my friend!” — WS
Rest in peace, dear WS. Thanks for being my close friend.
The above was a tribute to a dear friend who left this green Earth in 2019, killed by heart failure. He was 21. Marathons are deadly, especially the one he ran in.
I still miss you, WS. I still mourn. That D-Day anniversary where you passed away is coming up soon. I found a great home for your story. It really fits your personality. Anyone, Everyone. And all of us listening closely. I still wear that matching horrendously bright purple college T-shirt. I hope you’re having a super time watching us fumble down here. I still don’t understand why you left first. Peace, brother. We love you.
