What was the secret dread of this bright black girl?

She was just 34 years old, lithe and handsome. I had met her some years ago in Manchester, at Granada studios, feeling her way to a career in television. She wasn't born to it. I guess no one is. She would have had to work harder than most in order to be successful. In the six-month contract world of television, the competition is fierce, and the ambitious young black woman would find life trebly difficult.

Yet she had all to play for. She had links in London with an Oxbridge set of young African men, compatriots and friends. She sought pastures new in London because, she told me, there was not much happening in Manchester. I would see her from time to time in Brixton. She lived only a stone's throw away from my home, on the white side of the tracks. She found digs in a flat owned by a fairly well-known black journalist who had made the identical journey from Manchester.

The Oxbridge elite gathered there and she soon became the belle of the ball. She was finding it difficult, I could tell. She approached everything with caution, kept serious discourse at bay and had slowly developed a deep resentment, nay suspicion, of anything intellectual. She did not seem happy. Whenever we met, she confirmed to me that the old spark had gone, so, too, the quiet curiosity. But it happens to all new migrants to London, and I assumed that there was always a retreat back to Manchester.

I met her for the last time a few weeks ago at Brixton station. I pecked her cheek as normal and she said something rather odd. "I didn't think you would recognise me." Had she changed, had one of those makeovers we have had stuffed down our throats on Ricki, Kilroy and the rest of them? She looked like the Dappo I knew over the years. I was genuinely puzzled by the remark, until she released me with an easy quip.

I handed over my mobile number, but she never called. The meeting lingered in my mind. When I was sitting one day in the Souls of Black Folk, a coffee bar on Coldharbour Lane in Brixton, her landlord approached. We talked of this and that.

After a while, I asked about Dappo. He paused a bit and threw a glance at me. "Yes, yes, she is fine," he replied. I probed. She had a job in a computer magazine. She was travelling abroad regularly, she was making some money. I quietly logged the information as I would anything that was at odds with what I had experienced.

I waltzed into the Souls of Black Folk on Saturday evening. Biyi, an African novelist, joined me. "Dappo is dead," he said.

He repeated it. She had left her home on Dulwich Road, drifted along towards Herne Hill. She had negotiated her way into a block of flats under the pretext, so it is said, that she wanted to see a particular view of London. She took the elevator to the 18th floor and jumped. She chose a brutal end to a short life. She had been buried by the time I was told about it. She was a Muslim and had to depart this world before sunrise.

The Book of Common Prayer says it harshly. She brought nothing into this world and took nothing out, or words to that effect.

Her landlord offered no clarity. He rented her a room in his flat: she came in, she left, she had her own circle of friends. There was nothing untoward. He had no clues. It sounded like a statement to a coroner. As I write, they are sorting out her personal belongings. Maybe there is something there that will throw light on this moment of dread.

There is nothing left now. Whatever tormented her soul, she did not deserve such a cruel end. She tried to make her way in the difficult world of freelance television, of flippant men, of fiercely competitive women, and crashed on her face. Alone, drifting along Dulwich Road, blind, deaf and numb to sights, sounds and smells. There was only one thing on her mind that fateful day. I could only invoke a religious chant so often repeated by my late father from the altar: "O Lamb of God that takest away the sins of the world, have mercy upon her."