DISCLAIMER: some, including Akinwale Arobieke himself, have noted the name “Purple Aki” to have racist connotations. The author’s use of this name has been included as this is the name Arobieke was most commonly known by.
Across the breadth of the North West, sputtering ripples of rumination have flapped the lips of many a Scouser, somewhere between a jeer and fear. Scores of families across Liverpool and the surrounding areas have gabbed of a certain figure that pricked many a goosebump over generations. A boogeyman figure with a certain penchant for wrapping firm digits across confused biceps all across the stretch of the Mersey and beyond. The name Akinwale “Purple Aki” Arobieke is one that elicits a variety of reactions. The public identity that was spun for Arobieke was one of a lurking spectre of harassment that at its essence was so ridiculous that the threat that he brought could not be considered seriously. It is not a stretch to say that the idea of Purple Aki is one that most still regard as little more than the punchline to a joke. Whilst there certainly is a comedic aspect to the idea of squatting a man in public because he admires your muscles, after the laughter wears off, one is left with a great deal of questions. Arobieke was a man of Herculean build whose obsession with squeezing the muscles of buff lads had made him an urban legend and I had been mulling those questions over for a while.
After many years of hoaxes, Arobieke was confirmed dead on the 26th of August 2025. Having been certified by the Liverpool Echo, a publication that has a great deal of integrity and an indisputable reputation, the myth of Purple Aki was finally put to rest. Upon reading the news, a vague emptiness enveloped me. A sense of loss I couldn’t place. In my time of living in the city I had found myself in Toxteth – his final resting place. Often seen with his Tesco bag that would become a staple of his look, it never occurred to me that I would frequent the same supermarket on Park Road that he did. With his passing, it dawned on me that there we were inextricably linked, and for the life of me I couldn’t figure out the reason.
A poster had circulated around various social medias in the wake of Arobieke’s death, telling of a “Meet and Jeet” happening on the 13th of September at the Beatles statue at Pier Head in Liverpool. For those who aren’t aware, a “Meet and Jeet” was an event that was popularized by internet figure Ali Kingston University, who had also recently passed. Ali Kingston University was a man who had gotten a 2.2 degree in English Literature at Kingston University and was famous for having sex with prostitutes (“jeeting”) and vlogging about his experiences with such. His fan meetups were named “Meet and Jeets.” Having heard that there was one to be taking place for the memory of Akinwale Arobieke, the curiosity was piqued once more.
Catching the 26 from Princes Avenue in the heart of L8, a juvenile excitement had seized me as I headed towards the Meet and Jeet. The idea alone, even if nothing was to come of the jaunt, was enough for me to pounce. I hadn’t considered why I took the assignment in the first place, though I knew nothing could stop me. A strange feeling arose – one that went against all principles of a sober society. The closer I got, the more I found myself on the back of the bus fantasising about what types of figures I’d be greeted with. A glut of sensuousness seized any rational thought. Bodies carved of the finest marble begging to be bound with digits surfeit with foreign prurience. Containing myself was a struggle. As the bus crawled to the destination, my mind caroused through crevices left unchecked, and those images spun me into nausea. Soaring through the Baltic the excitement began to fester into an uncertainty. Approaching the station, I knew whatever I was to find at this event was something that in my heart of hearts, I couldn’t, or didn’t want to contend with.
By the time that I had arrived the winds of the Mersey were whipping my back. Swarms of tourists took photos of one of the most recognisable cultural outputs of the city. There was little awareness amongst them of the weight of the ghost I was chasing, one that had pervaded the personal lives of thousands. Gazing over the water I found myself biding my time, wondering what would happen if nobody turned up. An hour had passed and I had become increasingly disheartened. My honest and selfless journalistic pursuits had resulted in nought. I considered leaving. I had reckoned with myself. Was the pursuit of the Purple Aki Meet and Jeet a means to tease out the kindred feeling I had with the man? To understand my obsession with the man who felt muscles? Scarfing the tourist slop in The Beatles Cafe, my chewing slowed to a halt. I had to figure it out. I had to trace the genealogy of my obsession.
Like Proust’s madeline, a flurry of memories assaulted my senses. It had dawned on me as I ate my toastie that I had been repressing a fundamental part of the turning point from adolescence into adulthood. My father was an emotionally distant man who cared for little more than bodybuilding. A sickly child, I was struck by tuberculosis from the age of 11 and was bedbound for a great period of my developmental years resulting in muscular atrophy. This drove a further wedge between myself and my father, creating a wound which I never came to terms with. As I grew older and matured, my father and I drifted further apart. Unconsciously, I suppose I had tried to fill that void within my familial life with an equivalent in my sexual life, to little avail. On the cusp of my twenties I was soaked in shame and yearning, sodden drunk stumbling from pub to pub in Concert Square asking, no, pleading to feel the muscles of any man that would let me. Many a rejection and many a black eye followed. It wasn’t until I had approached this one fellow and asked that question that needed to be requited – with a furrowed brow and a cringe he spat back something about Purple Aki. I asked who he was. The fellow told me the tales. I found a great deal of solace in his exploits. An elation, almost. There was safety in knowing that I wasn’t the only one. I then proceeded to ask the fellow again whether I could squeeze his muscles. The last memory I had of that night was waking up in the Royal with a concussion. As the mystery unfurled, a single tear trickled.
Though no recollection of the night remained until now, seeing the poster plastered over my Instagram awakened the feelings that were buried. I had to have that chance again. What I so fervently ached for. The act that pales divinity. To squeeze muscles and bask in my own private Eden. I knew that if I could be feeling muscles as much as he did, I would be satisfied. I looked again to the crowds. A couple more hours had passed. Still there was no one but I. As I got up to leave a busker had set up and began to play “Blackbird” by the statues. My wings broken, I fell into mournful reverie. The weight of Arobieke’s passing left desolation in me. I felt a part of myself wither – there wasn’t a place on this earth for men who felt muscles anymore. The melancholy that had found me was terminal.
I had turned up to this Meet and Jeet with the idea that if I could get my muscles felt and in turn feel the muscles of buff lads, a part of me would be able to put this to rest, to finally be at peace with what I had vainly tried to suppress for so long. By the time I left, only one thought remained:
“I need to see a fucking psychiatrist.”
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