If I had to write an obituary for anyone, I certainly never imagined it would have been for Yuseeme. Nor, did I ever think there would be a ‘bandits page without him. But here, in the quiet hours, I open my laptop to find that he is gone.

Page Not Found.

And just like that, in the same manner he appeared, the great Yuseeme T Rollin slipped back into cognition, into a subconscious, a memory.

I first had the privilege of encountering Yuseeme back in the early months of 2010. Since October of the previous year, the ‘bandits had exploded from the relative underground on to the mainstream. I can hipsterally admit that this sudden saturation of all things chalked down was a bit frustrating, albeit there was a consolation in knowing that a broader success inevitably meant more creation. It accelerated with awe. The catchphrases permeated through the corridors of pubs, vibrated across dance-floors, and echoed down the empty streets at night. It looked like RTE had finally gotten something right as it was beautifully played to a moderation that, like the best story-tellers, leaves you eye-balling for more.

Regular visitors to ‘the lads’’ FB page were in for a hop, though. Before anyone knew what exactly was happening, the wall was dripping with moronity. While that’s an awfully pedantic thing to say, it was unfortunately quite true. Some posts were unintelligible, some were presumptuous, and others were down-right individualistically self-promotional.

It was a difficult time. Old-Skoolers were torn between delight for the ‘bandits’ success and concern for their image. In a society where consumerist fads and pop-culture adorations proliferated, our dear satirists quickly became susceptible to gross misinterpretation. Before the dust settled on the race for the Christmas Number One, ‘Horse Outside’ had become an Irish colloquialism for sudden media and cultural saturation. As we entered the interminable January blues, the flame was, however, cruelly burning out. The ‘bandits tested their new allegiances in February with a catchy funk-pop number engendering a critical subtext and were met with an arguably abrupt confusion. Yet still, the unshaking populist bandwagon persisted, and it was here, in this critical fusion of art, identity, and culture that I first saw the name ‘Yuseeme’.

He excelled at what he did. There is no other way of wording it. Purporting as a Ugandan native who had been reared in Ireland and was perpetually shadowed by the inexorable skills of Al Pacino, and with an ominously contemplative profile picture deriding the credulous, Yuseeme called out his opponents, and one-by-indignant-one, they answered and were intellectually torn apart.

There was a courtesy to his trolls, though. I had never seen him use his wit to humiliate children, or those expressing genuine sentiments of appreciation. Instead, he focused on self-promoters who saw the ‘bandits’ page as free advertising space, or those who illustrated an egregious misinterpretation or arrogant attack on their work. Ever the gentlemen, the ‘bandits sat out; criticism being a constant in all forms of public life. I could only imagine their appreciation for his efforts in defending them, that was before his name appeared on the cover of Serious About Men. That was the influence the man had.

His work was brilliant. Abstract, surreal, and provocative, it alluded to a humour of reason. His inherent use of irony humbly omitted an arrogance that has blackened the name of trolls in pop-culture. It could be interpreted on many levels with an accommodation for all. If you saw it: good for you. If you didn’t: here’s a picture of a cat in a jar. But absolutely ubiquitous to his work was a near maniacal purpose of contesting ignorance. He did this in an incredibly clever and modest way that was enjoyed by fans, trolls, and the ‘bandits’ themselves.

I can’t help but feel these words fail the contribution Yuseeme made. I can only encourage that those who remain adhere to his legacy. To this day I cannot drive past Arthur’s Quay Shopping Centre without scanning the pavement for a daredevil, I find myself throwing a suspicious and expectant glance to the wandering hands of Evelyn Cusack, and on constant vigilance for shit actors.

I guess Al finally caught up with him.