I am so tired.

I’m not just physically tired – although I can count the hours of sleep I’ve had the last two nights on one hand. I’m spiritually tired. My body and bones ache, my heart aches, my eyes blur, my brain is struggling to process the everyday while it processes the unavoidable.

I, with so many of my black brothers and sisters, am on the long watch.

This time it began with the shooting of Alton Sterling. A man shot multiple times by police outside a store while selling CDs with permission of the store owner. Like many other black people, I try to avoid the videos showing the violent deaths of my brothers and sisters at the hands of the state, but it is so hard. There are so many videos, so much death.

The images show up on your screen without warning and suddenly, you are watching your own death, your brother’s death, your son’s death. It’s a punch to the gut, swift and deep. And you feel sick and sad and so very afraid. But the long watch begins like it began with Trayvon, with Mike Brown, with Eric Garner, with Tamir Rice. Once again, I began scouring news outlets to see what I could learn, looking for statements from the police departments, mayors, governors – any sign of possible justice. We haven’t seen justice yet for any of the black men and women taken from us by the police, but we still look, hope and try.

Then, while I was still reeling, still hurting, I stumbled across a Facebook live video of Diamond Reynolds recording the last minutes of her boyfriend Philando Castile’s life while the cop who had just shot him multiple times in front of her and her four-year-old daughter pointed a gun at them and screamed.

Diamond Reynolds’ voice was calm as she pointed the phone’s camera at her boyfriend, who was slumped over, covered in blood, struggling to breathe.

“You shot four bullets into him, sir. He was just getting his license and registration, sir,” she says to the police officer while keeping her hands and body painfully still. It may seem strange to some – this woman so calmly documenting her boyfriend’s violent death, her respectful tone to the officer who just shot him. But Diamond Reynolds was doing what so many black people must do: calculate the risk, protect those we love, try to ensure our slim chances at safety and justice – all while screaming inside.

The last time I was pulled over by police, my two brothers were in the car with me. The brother on the passenger side, Ahamefule, is a gentle man, but to the cops he’s a black man who is 6ft 6in. I worry about him every time he steps behind the wheel. In the backseat was my youngest brother Basil, smaller, less intimidating to most – but he had just arrived from Nigeria and had had no contact with American police. We worried about him the most – he didn’t know the drill. In the seconds between the lights first flashing and the officer walking up to my window we had to quickly and calmly instruct our youngest brother on what to do.

“Stay calm,” my brother said with authority, “Do not say a word. Keep your hands still. Do. Not. Move.”

When asked for license and registration I couldn’t access it because my brother’s long legs blocked the glove compartment.

“Aham, I need you to get my registration,” I said as his face filled with dread.

“I am reaching for the registration in the glove compartment,” my brother said slowly and clearly. He waited for the officer to nod his head before his shaking hands moved for the documents.

Three passengers sat silently, calmly, in terror. We take these steps because it’s all that we can do, but we know that nothing can guarantee our safety.

“You told him to get his ID, sir – his driver’s license,” Reynolds said as her boyfriend sat next to her covered in blood. “Oh, my God. Please don’t tell me he’s dead. Please don’t tell me my boyfriend just went like that.”

I see that video in my head on repeat. Sometimes I see Philando Castile, the school cafeteria manager who was beloved by his family, community and the kids he saw at work every day. Sometimes I see my brother. I scream inside.

And in the midst of all this, the work continues. We research what’s being done. We look for signs of justice. We plan marches and campaigns. We don’t have time to grieve, because we know that the clock is ticking and it’s just a matter of time before there will be a new video with another black body lost to the fear and hatred that this country has of black skin.

We organized our grief and fear and love and went to the streets again Thursday night. All across the country, we flooded the streets along with allies and friends who love us, to demand the simple thing denied us – for our lives to matter. And during one of the few outlets of action we have, someone started shooting.

I watched video, of black and white people running in terror while police officers bravely ushered them to safety as bullets flew by. Eleven officers shot – five dead. All that we wanted was our officers to stand with us, to protect and serve us like they do the white citizens of this nation. And in Dallas, they did. But before we could have a moment to feel safe; before we could take more pictures of black people and cops standing side by side affirming that black lives do matter, before we could show that progress can be made, officers were dead in the streets.

I wanted to crumple and fall, I wanted to cry and scream until I could cry and scream no more. But I couldn’t, because like always, I have to keep watch. Because while there was never any question that the shooters of these cops would come to justice (and indeed, three suspects are in custody, and one, the alleged shooter, did not survive the night), I also knew that we black people who dared demand that our lives matter were now even less safe.

We had no idea of the shooter’s identity or motive and yet before the night was over former congressman Joe Walsh had declared war on Black Lives Matter and President Obama. “Real America is coming after you,” he threatened. The New York Post declared “Civil War” on its front page. The Drudge Report declared, “BLACK LIVES KILL” and The Wrap echoed both sentiments, asking, “Is This War? When #BlackLivesMatter Veers Into Violence.”



And so, with this added grief, I and so many other black people in America must push forward knowing that this horrific act of violence will be used to silence us, to tell us that we have no right to demand protection under the law and justice for crimes committed against us. We are so sad and scared and disheartened. We have worked so very hard to simply be seen as human, but the progress we made was so fragile, the fear and hatred toward us so strong, that it can be shattered with an act of violence that horrifies us as much as anyone else.

I and many others have been desperately reaching out to my community, reminding them that what we demand is not too much, what we say is not controversial, what we fight for is not wrong. Black lives matter. That is all. That is all we want our country to believe.

Black lives matter. We will not stop saying it.