Five Bullets: (A True Story of Survival and Strength) Chapter 1: The Night Everything Changed

It was May 29, 2020. A Friday—Jumu'ah, the sacred day of the week in Islam. For me, it was a day of celebration, reflection, and, ultimately, survival, because by the end of it I would be fighting for my life. 

Earlier in the week, I had built a crib for my son. Vernon hadn’t arrived yet, but I was getting ready. His mother was nesting—physically and emotionally—and I was doing my part to make sure she had everything she needed. That Saturday, the plan was to help her move furniture and put stuff into storage, helping clear space in her place and in our lives for this new beginning. I was exhausted, sure—but excited. I wasn’t just preparing for a baby. I was preparing to be a father, fully and with intention.

During the day, I was working as a care manager for Second Chance Center in Aurora. Our office had gone virtual because of COVID, but the work didn’t stop. We kept the services alive through rotating the office cell phone among care managers, being on-call to help clients with reentry needs. That weekend it was my turn.

Second Chance Center wasn’t just a job—it was family. For me and for so many others. We helped people coming out of prison or halfway houses, usually on parole, needing support with employment, housing, legal aid, therapy, even just a damn ride to an appointment. We saw the human being behind the record.

And there was one client in particular who touched me deeply—the mother of Paul Childs, the 15-year-old boy with developmental disabilities who was shot and killed by Denver police in 2003. She was still struggling—still trying to survive the weight of that trauma while dealing with legal and recovery issues of her own. I worked closely with her, not just as a caseworker, but as someone who felt her pain and respected her resilience. Her strength reminded me of why this work mattered.

Second Chance Center mattered. Our founders, many of our staff—we were people who’d lived through incarceration and come out on the other side. We knew the systems. We knew the traps. We had been the statistic, and now we were breaking them. That program was a lighthouse in a storm for so many, and I was proud—proud to be part of something that didn’t just talk change, but lived it.

That morning, I had gone to Friday prayer. Afterward, my family gathered to celebrate my brother Mustafa’s wedding. It was more than just a wedding—it was a resurrection. Mustafa had only recently come home after serving 30 years for a murder he didn’t commit. He was an Air Force veteran, a genius erudite who had taught himself Arabic and Spanish in prison and even secured a U.S. government patent for a flood mitigation system while inside.

His release came by rare gubernatorial clemency, not just because of good behavior, but because of the overwhelming evidence of his innocence. In just a few years, he would reclaim his life piece by piece, recertifying as an aircraft mechanic and earning a spot working for a major airline in the Midwest. But he wasn’t invincible. Mustafa had deadly food allergies—to corn, tomatoes, ingredients found in nearly everything in the prison system and the free world. One incident nearly killed him, yet while being rushed to the hospital, he calmly instructed EMTs in technical medical terms that left the professionals in awe.

That fateful Friday, he married his high school sweetheart. It was a moment long overdue, surrounded by love. I pulled up late but still feasted. I made sure to grab a plate of Chinese food and a big slice of the special gluten-free, corn-free cake a family friend had made just for him. I placed both beside me in the car before driving off. I looked forward to devouring that food later that night.

But fate had other plans.

I left Mustafa and party and went downtown to the Capitol building. My longtime friend Quincy, a deeply rooted social justice activist in Colorado, had invited me to be there for the George Floyd protest. I wasn’t there to lead, just to observe and support. I had organized protests in the past, and Quincy trusted me to be a grounding presence.

The energy at the Capitol was intense but focused. People were angry, yes—but there was solidarity. I walked around filming and posting on Facebook live, seeing families, friends, strangers all coming together in a unified voice. As I stood on the grounds, I looked across Colfax Avenue and saw Denver police gathering in riot gear—an ominous sight that changed the air immediately. They began shouting through bullhorns, calling for the crowd to disperse, but their voices barely carried across the distance. Most of the crowd couldn’t even hear the warning.

And then, without real provocation, the tear gas came.

Canisters flew across the street like grenades—the first salvo in what became chaos. That shattered whatever peace had held the crowd together. People began shouting, scattering. Some threw rocks back at the police. Panic set in.

I was moving with Quincy and his young daughter when she suddenly stumbled and hit the pavement. The crowd was moving fast—feet, debris, confusion flying everywhere. Without hesitation, Quincy and I threw ourselves over her to shield her from getting trampled or struck. Quincy scooped her up and we ran, sprinting toward his car that—thank God—was parked nearby.

He dropped me off at Vernon's mother’s apartment, where I’d left my car before Lyfting downtown. I could still taste the tear gas in my mouth, my eyes burning, heart racing. The peaceful protest had turned into something else entirely. And still, I had more to do.

From there, I drove to pick up the Second Chance Center office cell phone. Our office had shut down for in-person services due to COVID, but our work hadn't stopped. We rotated the phone between staff so clients could still reach us on weekends. That weekend was my turn.

It was nearly midnight by the time I pulled into the parking lot of my apartment. I sat in the car scrolling social media, the untouched cake and food still in the passenger seat beside me. I was tired. My body hurt. My spirit felt worn, but so alive

Then I stepped out of the car.

The parking lot was dark—too dark. Silent in a way that made my skin crawl. A shadow approached me. I couldn’t see a face, but I knew danger when I felt it. I moved fas and instinctively, I threw an elbow. I felt it connect and then heard a girlish scream. I moved to strike again.

But he was faster. And he had a gun.

I heard eight shots ring out, one after another. Each one snapped through the night like lightning. 

Five of them Hit me. I felt the first one tear through my face...

Miraculously, I didn't drop - I stood there with the acrid taste of  gunpowder swirling in my mouth and nose. 

My mind raced.

Then, everything went black...