In memory of a poet of fabric and form, a father, a fighter, a flame.
He stitched beauty into breath,
wove heritage into hem,
cut fabric like a sculptor shapes grief—
gentle, exact, necessary.
His name meant light
and so he became it:
a beacon in the dark rooms of fashion,
a hymn in the hallways of diaspora.
And still,
you murdered him.
In a crowd crying No Kings,
a man with a gun pulled the trigger.
Not a king,
just a coward.
Afa did not bring a weapon.
He brought color.
He brought softness.
He brought presence.
He brought his body.
Now it’s gone.
How many times must we ask
Why him?
Why the man who mentored sons, but not his own?
Why the man who taught pride in skin, in thread, in name?
Why the man who never stopped showing up
even when the world showed him its fists?
This wasn’t war.
It was a protest.
It was a plea.
It was a people saying we are still here—
and he was.
Until he wasn’t.
Call it what it is:
Murder.
Call the suspect what he is:
Killer.
Do not let uniforms or excuses soften your tongue.
Charge him.
Try him.
Say his name in court:
Afa Ah Loo.
He should be with his children.
Designing. Laughing. Living.
He should be pinning fabric to mannequins,
not being lowered into earth.
So we write this
for every needle left unthreaded,
for every song he will not sing,
for every stage that will miss his brilliance.
We write this
because silence is not reverence.
We write this
because his life deserves volume.
Let the grief wail.
Let the rage rise.
Let the memory remain.
Rest easy, Afa.
You deserved so much more.
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