Shaheed, Not Silent

I’ve always believed you don’t owe explanations to anyone.

The people who walk with you don’t need them.

And the people who don’t were never going to believe you anyway.

That belief has guided me for most of my life—especially in moments when silence would’ve been more convenient, but truth was more necessary.

Survival Is Not a Secret

In 2020, I was shot multiple times with .40 caliber bullets by my ex-wife’s boyfriend, at her direction. I’ve never hidden that fact. Not because I enjoy reliving it, and not because I’m trying to shock anyone—but because survival is part of my story, and witnesses don’t erase chapters to make other people comfortable.

I didn’t treat that moment as the end of my life. I treated it as another chapter in a long story of resilience, refusal, and survival. That honesty made some people uncomfortable. I didn’t—and don’t—care.

Silence has never been my role. Witnessing is.

When Chaos Escalates

After the shooting, the harassment continued the way it always had: fake profiles, taunts, threats, digital noise meant to provoke fear or reaction. I usually laughed it off. Chaos has always been her language. Peace has been mine.

But eventually, it escalated.

People acting on their behalf confronted my fiancée outside her home, threatening her. That moment—rooted in fear and instability—fractured our relationship. Shortly after, her car was vandalized, following a pattern Dominique has used against others in the past. My fiancée, shaken and unfamiliar with that level of dysfunction, briefly believed I might have been responsible.

Then came direct threats in my DMs. Threats to have me shot again. Threats that mentioned my son.

That’s where things changed.

A Symbol, Not a Threat

I responded with a post on Twitter: me standing with a .40 caliber casing in my teeth, their building behind me. It wasn’t a threat. It was symbolism. A clapback. A head nod to The Last Dragon. A way of saying: I caught the bullets. I’m still here. You didn’t erase me.

Interpretation is subjective. Ironically, the same people who had lived comfortably with violence ran to the police claiming fear for their lives.

I was charged with a municipal ordinance violation for a “Twitter threat.”

How the System Usually Works

The trial followed a familiar script. A jury of my “peers,” which somehow meant all white—Black jurors dismissed. A guilty verdict. A sentencing judge who imposed the maximum: one year in jail, heavily influenced by my prior history, much of it connected to the same person who caused this chaos.

It wasn’t justice. It was routine.

But I don’t sit still. I don’t fold. And I don’t accept illegal outcomes quietly.

Turning Confinement Into Precedent

I appealed.

Then, when the Colorado Supreme Court struck down Aurora’s Project 2025 sentencing framework, I filed a motion arguing my sentence was illegal. My case became the first of its kind—raising questions about retroactivity and unlawful over-sentencing.

And I won.

The same judge who sentenced me was forced to acknowledge that the sentence was illegal—longer than what I could have received for an actual misdemeanor. The sentence was vacated. I was released.

But more importantly, the case opened a door.

Potentially tens of thousands of people who were illegally sentenced or over-fined now have a path to challenge their cases—and possibly reclaim their freedom and their money.

That’s what witnesses do.

That’s what protectors do.

That’s what survival looks like when it matures into purpose.

Six Months Gone, Still Standing

So yes—that’s why I’ve been ghost for the past six months.

People will have opinions about what I allegedly did or didn’t do. Those opinions aren’t more relevant than my own. My actions were mine. The consequences were mine. I own every part of it—good, bad, wise, foolish.

I hated jail. I hated the modern version of the Middle Passage that still exists in our system. But I used the time. I detached. I healed. I learned.

Spiritually, as a Muslim, there were lessons in that confinement I couldn’t have learned anywhere else.

The hardest part was being away from my son. Always is. But I placed his life and well-being in the hands of the Most High—and that’s never a losing strategy.

Still Here

I’m still here.

Still standing.

Still speaking.

Still witnessing.

Still protecting.

And I’m not going silent for anyone.

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This story carries weight. We just decide how far it travels.