The Resilient Mind

Gun violence is a plague on our communities, affecting everyone, no matter where you live or how old you are. In my work with The Road Called Strate, I’ve witnessed firsthand the devastating impact it has on our neighborhoods. We often focus on the young lives lost in the streets, yet we overlook the deep pain and trauma experienced by those left behind—the mothers, fathers, siblings, and friends who must cope with the void left by their loved ones.

We talk about gun violence as if it’s something that only touches the youth, as if adults are somehow immune because they’ve “been there and done that.” But that’s a dangerous assumption. The loss of a loved one can push anyone into a dark place, a place where grief morphs into anger, and anger into vengeance. And vengeance is like a drug—it hooks you and won’t let go.

One day, my father told me, “The brain is powerful, never say what you won’t do…” Those words resonate with me now more than ever.

This past weekend, my colleagues and I attended a back-to-school drive hosted by The Struggle of Love Foundation. The event, called “Brains over Bullets,” was a success—hundreds turned out to get school supplies, backpacks, enjoy local food vendors, and take in the entertainment. It was a gathering filled with familiar faces—community activists who’ve been fighting the good fight for years. But one face stood out the most: Lumumba Sayers, founder of Heavy Hearts Heavy Hands.

I hadn’t seen Lumumba in a while, not since the tragic loss of his own son to gun violence about a year ago. Seeing him there, out in the community, still giving and receiving support, was heartening. We exchanged a few words, dapped up, and shared a brief moment of connection. His energy was positive, a testament to the resilience he’s shown through unimaginable pain. As we left, I overheard James, The Road Called Strate’s founder, reminding Lumumba to reach out if he ever needed anything. It was a simple exchange, but it spoke volumes about the strength of our community and the bonds we share.

I first met Lumumba in 2015 at a community event. We both ran moving companies back then, and he generously offered me resources to help grow my business. He was a man of calm reassurance, a businessman and community advocate with a reputation free of drama. That’s why, when I heard about the incident this past Saturday night, my heart sank. I felt it deeply because I knew the darkness that had overtaken him, a darkness born from the loss of his son, Lumumba Sayers Jr. Vengeance became the cancer he couldn’t beat.

When my dad warned me about the power of the brain, I was in my early twenties, dealing with a tumultuous marriage. He told me, “Kenny, that girl is going to make you kill somebody.” I rejected that notion outright, believing there was no way I could ever take someone’s life. But my dad cautioned, “Don’t underestimate the power of the brain…” Now I understand what he meant. The Lumumba Sayers I knew was a good man—a man who provided opportunities for others, a boots-on-the-ground philanthropist with a tough-love approach to youth outreach, and a passionate advocate against gun violence. But the grief of losing his son dragged him into a place he couldn’t escape.

No matter where you stand on this issue—whether you think Lumumba was justified in avenging his son’s death or believe he should have exhibited forgiveness and restraint—the fact remains that lives were lost. Young men with potential futures are gone, and a man who once served his community now faces an uncertain fate. Because of gun violence, mothers are grieving, families are broken, children are growing up without fathers, and our community is left to pick up the pieces.

If we don’t find a way to come together and heal, we will continue to hurt each other. As the saying goes, hurt people hurt people. And right now, we are a deeply wounded people.