When COVID-19 shut everything down in March, I was watching the news a lot at first, trying to keep up with the new norms we had to follow. Target became my favorite store because it was open, but after about three weeks of going every day and watching movie after movie, I began to get bored, so I decided to do some chores.
As I was going through summer clothes, I found a bin and my eyes began to water, then the tears flowed down my face. It was filled with some of my murdered son’s clothing. As I took out polo shirts, jeans and sneakers, all I could do is cry my heart out as I made a bed on the floor with the articles of clothing. I screamed to the top of my lungs, “Why my child? Why do I have to go through this pain? It’s too much for me to handle. This can’t be real? Why does my family have to suffer like this?”
I laid in the clothes for what seemed for hours, crying and sobbing until the tears wouldn’t flow anymore. My screams began to become faint as I fell fast asleep. You see, I find comfort in sleeping so I can dream. As I slept, I dreamt my Sonnyboy was looking at me, saying, “Mom dukes, I’m alright. Stop crying, get up and get yourself together.”
When I woke up from my dream, I folded his clothes, placed them back in the bin and labeled it “Niam’s clothes.” All I have left of my son is a life time of memories and dreams.
As of today, Philadelphia has 323 murders, which is an increase rate of 32% from last year. This means 323 families are mourning the deaths of a loved ones. Each time I hear of another murder it affects me. To hear that someone else’s child has been murdered brings me to tears because my mind races to the mother, father, sisters, brothers, grandparents, cousins. I know firsthand what the grieving family will endure for the rest of their lives because my family and I live it each day we open our eyes.
One murder might affect up to 50 people within his or her immediate family, and let’s not forget about their community, where it affects another 50 people. If you sum all the murders up to today, you have 30,600 people grieving someone’s death. And that’s just this year, so far.
Please, shooters put the guns down. We have had enough. Let us begin to heal one family at a time and love on the new families being inducted into this never ending rollercoaster.
Kimberly Kamara is the author of “Where’s My Daddy,” a children’s book aimed at kids who’ve lost a parent to murder. The book was inspired by her family’s continuing journey of grief after her son, Niam Johnson-Tate, lost his life to gun violence on July 5, 2017. Kimberly has two daughters and lives in Germantown with her husband.
