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Morning,

On Friday, I was in an Uber on my way to a 40th birthday party when my phone started going off.

The WhatsApp groups. One message after another. All saying the same thing.

Professor Jason Arday had been found dead.

He was 41.

I sat in the back of that car reading the same line over and over.

I turned 40 two weeks ago. I was on my way to celebrate a friend hitting the same milestone. And a man one year older than me was gone.

I had a different newsletter planned for this week. It was about the importance of switching off and being present with family while on holiday.

I didn't know Jason personally. But like so many of us, I knew of him. A man who had come through so much to get to where he got.

He became the youngest Black professor Cambridge has ever appointed.

Then, over these last months, his name was everywhere. Accusations. Investigations. Headlines. Commentary from people who had never met him.

I'm not going to repeat any of the claims here, because right now they are irrelevant!

But somewhere in the middle of it all, something got lost.

We were dealing with a human being!

A husband. A dad. A son. An uncle.

And here's what I can't get past. Why do we keep kicking people when they're already down?

Even after he resigned, the articles kept coming. In the nine days between his resignation and his death, at least 188 articles were written about him.

188 articles. In nine days.

Old classmates popping up for their five minutes of fame, adding their bit about a man who was already on the floor.

Was that still news? Was that really in the public interest?

And I've watched the British media do this before. When we do well, we're British. When we fall, we're suddenly something else.

The British media love an underdog story. But dare to be successful and not act in the way that serves the narrative, and it becomes a problem. We saw it in the lead-up to the World Cup with Jude Bellingham. We've seen it with Raheem Sterling and Marcus Rashford. And before my time, John Barnes, Linford Christie, Ian Wright. Because how dare they buy their parents a house and spend their well-deserved money how they want.

Now, I'm going to be completely honest.

If he wasn't Black, would he have faced the same level of scrutiny?

I can't prove the answer. But I know what my gut tells me.

It reminds me of something my mum used to say to me growing up.

"You have to be ten times better than your white counterpart."

That sentence lives in the back of your mind. It's there when you do anything. It never fully leaves.

Even now, I'm constantly told I'm "well spoken." My counterparts don't get told that. They get "what a great speaker."

It isn't about the speaking. It's about class. It's about what people expect from a Black boy from Bermondsey before he opens his mouth.

Most Black men I know move through their working lives carrying something extra. The quiet maths you do before you speak in certain rooms. Making sure your work is beyond question, because you know it will be questioned.

A few weeks ago I wrote to you about someone trying to discredit my name. I'm going to be plain about it now. It was a middle-class white man. And it came just as I started expanding my business into Africa. Where my parents are from. Where my roots and connections run deep.

But apparently I had no right to be in Africa!

That was one person, working quietly in the background.

Now imagine that, but it's the national press. Every day. In public. With your family watching.

I won't lie, my heart is heavy writing this. To watch someone who achieved so much be torn down like that.

Yesterday I read a piece by David McQueen, a man I have a lot of respect for.

He laid out the burdens so many Black professional men carry. Things most of our colleagues never have to think about. He wrote them plainly, so I will too:

• Adjusting your speech and body language in professional spaces, without even noticing you're doing it.
• Being asked where you're really from.
• Having your qualifications questioned, over and over.
• Choosing not to drive an expensive car, for fear of being pulled over.

And he wrote about our duty to handle each other with care.

Reading it, something clicked for me.

The reason you feel relaxed around your own people is that the mask can come off.

People say bring your whole self to work. Be yourself. And I believe they mean it. But there's a safety mechanism that kicks in, and it doesn't let you.

With your own community, that mechanism switches off by default.

Handle each other with care.

I haven't been able to put that phrase down.

I wrote an edition a while back about giving people their flowers while they're still here. I've thought about it a lot these last two days.

We're quick with opinions. Slow with care.

So here's what I'm doing, small as it is. This week I'm checking in on the men in my life. Especially the strong ones. Especially the ones who always say they're fine.

A simple message, asking how they really are.

Before I close, one more honest thing. I know a piece like this might cost me a few subscribers. Some people would rather not sit with the reality that it isn't easy for all of us. That's OK. It's called Life Unfiltered for a reason.

My prayers are with his family.

He was a husband. A dad. A son. An uncle.

He was 41.

Rest well, Jason Arday.

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