A tribute to 50 years of friendship
Raschid Osman
Raschid Osman

By Godfrey Wray
WILLIAM Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar, Act 3, Scene II: ‘I come to bury Caesar, not praise him.’With a bit of modification, I say: ‘We have come to bury Raschid after we praise him, deservedly so.’
The person who, in a fit of pique (And who shall remain nameless), once suggested to me (Of all people!) that Raschid Osman was an enigma wrapped in a mystery didn’t know him at all; and up to this day, I forgive his ignorance.

A GENTLE GIANT
Raschid was (Hard to use that word) a gentle giant, just over five feet tall, but who easily managed to transcend life’s idiosyncrasies. He lived for his family, and thus he was amply rewarded.
The day before he died, I noticed that his pace had slackened, but he was still gung-ho. He had gotten back his cherished radio programme; Yvonne (his wife) was recovering from a slight cold… And guess what? Ruth (daughter) was coming from Trinidad. He was beaming, agog with anticipation.
Ruth (I know it is not possible, but as the old people, like me, would say), I know you “before you born”. It was always Ruth this and Ruth that. Then Yvonne; then the school.
One day I came into the office and Raschid signalled that he wanted to speak with me. Before he could say anything, I asked: “You think I could have a Ruth-less day today?” A creased forehead and raised eyebrows told me clearly that he hadn’t taken too kindly to my sardonic humour.
Raschid never suffered fools gladly. And I often wondered why he wasted time, given my abysmal ignorance of things classical, cultural or even culinary.
He often prevailed upon me to raise my levels, but I was a lost cause from the beginning. We would be rapping about mundane things; then Raschid would casually interpose with something about C Sharp Minor and D Flat Major. I honestly thought those were ‘call-names’ for some nebulous groups. Most times, all I could do was offer an apologetic ‘shake-head’.

FLOORED
Recently I did a Sunday piece on Albouystown. Raschid said it was well done, but I had thrown some heavyweight punches at his place of birth. I stopped in my  tracks, and looked at him askance. “Say that again!” I managed. Calmly, he replied, “You think you’re the only one from Albouystown? I was born there too.”
I confess, I was floored! Raschid Osman! Queen’s College! Albouystown, and the fact that I had never heard him use a dirty word! It was incongruous; almost unbelievable!
I would tease him by enquiring about “the composer with the long name”.
“You couldn’t be speaking of Tchaikovsky, would you?”
I would plough on, “And what about Placido Domingo and Fr?d?ric Chopin?” A lecture would follow, and, suitably chastened, I would spend my night devouring the likes of ‘Swan Lake’ and ‘The Nutcracker’. Next day, I was ready to regurgitate my new-found knowledge. And I would surrender once again to musicologists whose names I could never pronounce properly.

REFERENCE BOOK
Mr. Osman was a veritable reference book on every subject under the sun; except sports. The Times Crossword was the closest he got to those “barbaric forms” of games. But with his wry sense of humour, he could easily have been a sword fencer: Thrust, Parry, Riposte… And the conclusive Touch?.
I must have lost all our Queen’s College–St. Stanislaus College exchanges. But coming second to a legendary opponent is no dishonour.
He was always incisive; never caustic. Cryptic; never verbose. His writings were gems; his reviews legendary. One man said his column should have been named, ‘The Cutting Edge’. Guess he hadn’t done a good job with whatever production he’d put on.
Raschid’s imprimatur will forever remain stamped on our hearts. Indeed, he was a little giant, and Bent Street will miss his measured strides.
My friend leaves a rich journalistic legacy and much more. I hope the powers that be act swiftly to preserve the gems of literature that lay dormant in many a dust-coated library. It would be a sacrilege if we allow Raschid’s God-given talents to disappear into the dustbin of neglected history, like the writings of my mentor, Carl Blackman, another stalwart of yester-year.
I’ve said more than enough. I can visualize Raschid pointing an admonishing finger, warning me of the ills of platitudinous ponderosity. So, I go reluctantly, knowing that with him gone, I’ll be left with a superfluity of unoccupied time.
The friendship that ends never really began. Thus, not even death will erase our 50 years of bonding.
Goodbye my friend. I know I will see you again, but, hopefully, in the very distant future.
Rest in Peace, Brother Raschid.

NOTA BENE: The Celebration of Life for Raschid at the First Assembly of God church on Wednesday, November 25, 2015 was not just a concert. It was THE concert. And one could be forgiven for thinking he or she was at the National Cultural Centre.
Glowing tributes. Interpretive dancing by Raschid’s sister. Songs of Inspiration by talented groups, and the superlative Eulogy by daughter, Ruth, who expertly used her flute and voice in a rare combination.
The sermon by my favourite pastor, Rev. Murtland Raphael Massiah, was indeed a gem. And, guess what? I’m sure I heard a whisper of approval coming from the direction of Raschid’s casket. It seemed to be saying: “A+; A+; A+.

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