14/11/2025
In this world, there are people who live only for themselves—counting their successes like coins and measuring their worth by what they own. And then there are people like Darryl David—those rare souls who live to lift others, who see potential where others see nothing, who open doors quietly and let others walk through first.
When I first met Darryl, I didn’t know what to expect. He was known in the literary circles—an academic, a festival organiser, a man who had built spaces for writers long before the rest of us had found our voices. Yet when I met him, he wasn’t interested in titles or achievements. He wanted to know my story. Not the polished version, but the real one—the journey from being a street child to becoming a writer. He listened with the patience of someone who had already decided that my story mattered.
Thanks to Darryl, I found myself invited to book festivals I had only heard about in passing. Those invitations changed the course of my life. At those festivals, I met other writers—people like Hugh Bland, who carried with them not just books, but worlds. We spoke about writing, history, and the strange power of stories to heal. I realised then that writing wasn’t just about talent—it was about connection, about people who believe in each other’s voices.
Darryl didn’t just introduce me to opportunities. He introduced me to a community. For someone like me—who had known what it meant to sleep in the streets, to be invisible—being seen by someone like him was no small thing. It was a kind of resurrection.
Some people help others because it makes them feel good. But people like Darryl help because they genuinely see the light in others. They do it quietly, without expecting applause. They believe that if you give one person a chance, you’re investing in the collective soul of humanity.
Every writer needs someone who says, “You belong here.” For me, that voice came from Darryl David. And every time I stand in front of an audience, sharing my story, I remember that I am not just speaking for myself—I am speaking for every dreamer who was given a chance by someone who believed.
There are many kinds of wealth in this world. The richest are those who give others the courage to rise.
And Darryl, without saying it out loud, taught me that helping others is not an act of charity—it’s an act of faith.
Thanks to Darryl David, doors began to open that I never imagined even existed for someone like me — a former street child who once believed stories were things other people lived, not things you could write down and share with the world.
Darryl had this way of seeing people for who they could become, not just who they were. When he invited me to speak at my first book festival, I didn’t quite believe it. I thought maybe there had been a mistake. Me? At a book festival? The word festival itself felt like something grand and distant — a world of polished authors, soft carpets, and people who had studied literature, not survival.
But there I was, standing among people who lived and breathed books. The smell of coffee mixed with the hum of conversation about characters, plots, and poetry. It was overwhelming — and beautiful. I didn’t have fancy shoes or a practiced writer’s accent, but I had something else: a story that refused to die.
That’s where I met Hugh Bland — calm, observant, and deeply rooted in history. We talked about landscapes and forgotten places, about how writing can preserve what time tries to erase. He listened, not as a man meeting a stranger, but as a fellow traveler on the road of storytelling. His kindness reminded me that writing is not about competition; it’s about connection.
At that first festival, and the many that followed, I met writers who had walked different paths — poets, novelists, historians, dreamers. Each carried a voice shaped by their own storms and sunshine. Some spoke about the craft, others about the courage it takes to keep writing when no one seems to be listening.
Every event, every handshake, every shared cup of tea added another layer to my journey. I learned that the literary world was not a place of unreachable giants; it was a gathering of souls who believed that words could heal, challenge, and change the world — and maybe even save a life.
