Be like a tree, and let the dead leaves drop: whatever the challenge, Martin just kept moving forward

Martin Erick Yelverton, co-editor of BardoBurner and my husband and partner for over three decades, died aged 58 in August of this year. It was sudden and unexpected and it happened at what was, without doubt, the happiest time of his life.

Martin and I first crossed paths late in 1987. Having experienced a troubled childhood, which saw him moving from his birthplace in Zambia to Zimbabwe before settling, aged 10, in Durban, Martin was called up to the South African Army as soon as he finished journalism college there. This was during the time of apartheid, a system to which he was vehemently opposed, and so, aged 20, he landed in London where his training as a sub-editor saw him getting shifts on many national newspapers.

As a draft dodger, Martin knew he couldn’t go “home” without facing a prison sentence until the state-led segregation and discrimination had ended, and so he felt trapped in a cold bleak country where the nights were long and dark.

My dad had died two and a half months before Martin and I first chatted in a bar near the Birmingham newspaper for which we both worked. So we were both in need of a good friend, and we remained best mates for the next 36 years.

Martin was authentic, unconventional, a poet, had a dark sense of humour, and voraciously lapped up my knowledge of 1960s music and the then current 80s indie scene; I was a chronically shy trainee reporter with a penchant for black clothes and bunion-inducing pointy shoes. We shared an innate passion for drinking and together we drowned our respective sorrows and leapt into an intense love affair. Two months after meeting, we booked our first wedding date, before sobering up a few weeks later and deciding to maybe wait a while.

A while became 18 months, and we eventually married in Gateshead registry office, by which point Martin was a sub on the Newcastle Evening Chronicle. Shortly afterwards Nelson Mandela was freed from Victor Verster Prison in Cape Town. As well as the massive step towards ending apartheid, Martin saw a light at the end of his personal tunnel. In 1992, he was able to return, and we settled in Johannesburg, where he spent two years working on the Sunday Times.

For as long as I knew him, Martin was excited by news. Over his 40 years in the business, he often kicked and railed quite vocally against the concept of being a work slave, and went on to try and escape from journalism many times. But he kept returning and, professional that he was, was always welcomed back, open-armed.

Johannesburg, pre the first democratic elections, in the early 1990s was abuzz with anticipation. We lived in Yeoville, a central neighbourhood in what is now the province of Gauteng, and Martin worked right in the heart of the city. We spent many happy hours there, wasted and partying on Rockey Street, oblivious to the chaos surrounding us and wrapped up in the vibrancy and fun of it all. Guns were a common sight, tucked under the belt or in the back pocket, or you’d catch a shiny glimpse of some guy showing his mate the latest flick knife he had picked up. But somehow these never really struck us as the portents of violence they clearly were. Until in March 1994 our son, Ben, was born, and our perception altered.

Although I had been the homesick one up to this point, Martin’s world view changed overnight and he wanted to bring his child back to the safety of England. With the first democratic elections due in April, Johannesburg was bristling with the threat of aggression. On occasion this would bubble up and we’d hear gunshots in the distance.

For Martin, England was absolutely to be the place his son would call home and by June of that year we were kipping on a mate’s floor, complete with a three month old, in London. And – having lived in Walthamstow, and latterly Buckhurst Hill – that’s where we spent the next thirty years. Living near Epping Forest gave Martin the chance to spend a lot of his time in nature; he very much felt at peace among the trees.

Martin was a guy who just kept on moving forward. Sober since January 2013, that sobriety was precious to him, and he did everything in his power to maintain it.

Since his early days doing kung fu, and then acupuncture, Martin had been drifting towards meditation and yoga, and in 2017, he qualified as a yoga teacher. He’s easy to find out there in the ether, on YouTube and Insight Timer. Martin was an excellent teacher – unjudgemental, kind and humble – who never stopped being a student himself. Lifelong learning was important to him and he had no intention of ever becoming a polished finished product. Later he added Pilates teaching to his repertoire, and more recently Martin had qualified as a mindfulness meditation teacher. He had a soothing voice, and a gentle way about him, and he learnt how to use these things to help other people. Martin led regular staff and children’s lessons at a local school, which he absolutely loved.

Since his death, many kind words have poured in from colleagues, students, classmates and friends. These have been of great comfort to Ben and me, though Martin himself would be completely baffled and amused to hear the high esteem in which he was held. To quote one colleague, ‘Martin would like to call himself a humble “foot soldier”, but he was very much more than that in the eyes of those fortunate enough to work with him. Sharp-eyed, creative and no stranger to a good laugh.’

His end came with little warning and with speed, but Martin held a true appreciation of the fleetingness of life and the fact that none of us is here for very long. He was brave and he was pragmatic, and he knew that, like all the greatest celebrations, it’s best to leave while you’re still enjoying yourself.