In college his older sibling Gregory and I were best friends, with a shared passion for bodybuilding and watersports. During the recalled period I lived with the Boxill family on Micoud Street, Castries, a five-minute walk from my friend’s family home on Chisel Street. My own folks lived in Laborie . . . but that bittersweet chapter of my life must wait for a later telling!
I cannot recall a relationship with Gregory’s brother before the late 60s, when I returned to Saint Lucia on a two-week vacation, after several years resident in England. By the time of my visit I’d already achieved some measure of celebrity, thanks to having won several European events and the resultant publicity in some of bodybuilding’s more popular journals. I’d also cut two or three fairly successful rock ‘n’ roll records for the Pye and CBS labels.
Details of the actual hook-up evaporated a long time ago but I retain a vague memory of one of the Hackshaws (Paul?) taking me to meet someone he said was an avid collector of my published photographs, a fan who would be so pleased to meet me. Even in regular street attire he was pretty impressive. His upper body especially. We chatted for several hours about every lightweight topic you might imagine: girls, parties, bodybuilding stars he admired from afar, as well as the local herd that he considered way below his own self-bestowed grade, the show I planned to put on at Clarke’s Theatre, which was like no theater I’d ever known and might easily have been mistaken for a furniture warehouse. It was actually the island’s only movie house, thankfully with a stage —and footlights!
Not until late in our exchanges did it dawn on me that several years earlier, when I was fourteen or fifteen, I’d had similar conversations, mainly fantastical, with Gregory at the same Chisel Street address. Suffice it to say Desmond Brathwaite, and some of his friends at his behest, had contributed much sweat toward ensuring my show was a success—including multiple servings of Desmond’s abrasive humor that was certainly no respecter of persons, not even of the day’s star!
We remained friends even after I’d moved from the UK to California. Whenever I visited Saint Lucia, I took my workouts with “Braff” (Gregory was also “Braff” to almost everyone) at his well-furnished home gym. Once in a while he’d call me at Weider headquarters in Los Angeles, perchance I might be able to secure discounts on gym equipment he intended to purchase. We grew still closer after I gave up the editor’s chair at the Voice to become Premier John Compton’s first personal assistant. The dizzying details of that period await you, dear reader, within the pages of my book “It’ll Be Alright in the Morning.” Hint: it is not particularly generous to Desmond Brathwaite.
We mended fences in later years, dumped some bad memories under that famous bridge that was never built, rekindled our old relationship, only to find ourselves again and again at wars brought about by Saint Lucia’s Great Divider, also known as Local Politics. Our well chronicled fight in 1992 was especially gory. It was the year of The Big Kick, referred to in a divorce court as “a push down the staircase . . . with my foot!”
Oh, but even that brouhaha we managed to put behind us. We called each other on the phone every now and then, to laugh, to relive some of his obviously embellished long ago affairs of the heart, to review political broadcasts and rallies, to try out on me his latest quip. Often, we exchanged salty tales featuring his close family friend and party leader, the late John Compton. (Let’s for the moment resist recalling the two were often partners in slime—and I do not refer to the erroneously attributed “clear the road by any means necessary” line from the Julius and Randy tragedy!)
Desmond Brathwaite passed away at age 76 on Sunday, reportedly while saying the rosary. Like his close friend and parliamentary representative for Micoud North, the late Louis George, he had for several years battled diabetes. Nevertheless, he seldom missed a scheduled workout at his home gym. The disease eventually claimed one of his legs but could not take away the athlete in his soul. Neither his ability to make the saddest face smile!
Our families, Fosters and Brathwaite’s were also “joined at the hip”. I grieve for Desmond and wish him eternal rest.