29/07/2025
DETROIT.
I have no words.
And that, perhaps, is the most terrifying part of all.
Because usually, I do. Usually, when a child is gunned down in some senseless eruption of nihilism disguised as a neighborhood beef, I rise to say something. I write. I gather. I organize what I call a Day of Compassion: a public act of remembrance, protest, and mourning for a child whose only crime was being born in the crossfire.
But today, my mind is a blank page.
And my heart feels hollow.
First it was a four-year-old.
Then a two-year-old.
Now, six-year-old Rylee Love (Below), shot and killed by a stray bullet while doing nothing more threatening than existing. A baby. Gone.
This isn't just violence, people.
This is terrorism, homegrown and internal, with young Black men holding the guns, and other young Black children in the crosshairs.
WE ARE AT WAR.
We can’t keep pretending this is normal. That this is acceptable. That this is anything less than a full-scale war.
And here’s the tragic irony: the enemy in this war looks like us. Sounds like us. Bleeds like us. Prays like us. But they are not fighting for us. They are fighting against the very future of our people.
What we’re witnessing isn’t simply criminal behavior, it’s a cultural collapse. We’ve raised a generation of young Black men emotionally stunted, spiritually malnourished, and seduced by a manufactured culture that glorifies destruction. The music, the media, the so-called influencers pushing a narrative that says violence is manhood, that dignity is weakness, that the gun is gospel.
And for too long, our response has been polite. Respectable. Tepid.
We march.
We pray.
We post hashtags.
We host balloon releases that float toward heaven while our babies fall into the ground.
But where is our strategy?
Where is our counter-offensive?
Since this is war, where are our battle plans?
It starts with truth: These young men are broken. Not evil. Not disposable. But broken. And if we don’t intervene, if we don’t interrupt, if we don’t pour resources into redirecting their lives with urgency, we will continue burying our children and calling it community.
We need job training, not two years of paperwork, but immediate, paid programs with livable wage salaries. Not ridiculous stipends and drops in the bucket. It must be attractive enough for them to consider.
We need conflict resolution as standard as math class, starting in elementary schools. This should also be woven into job training courses and community programming.
We need to dismantle the propaganda machine that celebrates death and markets it as culture.
We need to treat these young men like war survivors, because that’s what they are.
And we need every damn Black pastor, whether AME or Baptist, Kojic or non-denominational, to come out of their silos and form a Black Clergy Council that doesn’t just sing and preach but fights—for policy, for funding, for peace.
Enough with the feel-good gestures.
We don’t need symbolism.
We need strategy. We need demands. We need results.
Because this is war.
And in war, inaction is betrayal.
And while we’re here talking about resources—ask yourself this: how much are we spending on the Super Bowl coming to Detroit? How much money, media, marketing, manpower, and PR coordination are we pumping into that one event?
Tens of millions.
Where are the parades, the city-wide campaigns, the corporate dollars, the wall-to-wall news coverage for our babies?
Where is the same civic urgency for the six-year-old shot on his porch?
Where is the fireworks-level fanfare for stopping the next shooting before it happens?
The truth is: we know how to move mountains when we want to.
We know how to flood the zone.
We know how to make something feel important.
We do it every time a football team rolls into town.
Somebody tell me what’s the point of economic development, downtown beautification, and polished PR campaigns if they are funded by ignoring the trauma and the blood of children?
What kind of city do we think we’re building when we pave the roads, but let our babies die on the sidewalk?
Ask yourself: how many more babies must be sacrificed before we stop sending love and start sending reinforcements?
I haven’t forgotten Baby Wynter Nicole.
I haven’t forgotten Lamara Glenn.
And I won’t forget Rylee Love.
Their names stay with me like prayers. Like marching orders.
They died on our side of this war, and we failed to protect them.
But maybe, just maybe, we can protect the next one.
So I’m asking: who will help me organize a Day of Compassion for Rylee Love?
With his mother’s blessing, let’s give him a warrior’s send-off.
Tag yourself. Inbox me. Get in the fight.
Because the other side is organized.
The other side is relentless.
The other side is willing to die.
The question is:
Are we willing to live for our children?
Are we finally ready to fight for them?
Because if not, then let’s stop pretending we’re innocent.
We’re not.
