Thinking of Ahmaud

A Sunday afternoon in February. Maybe it was a warm day in Georgia when Ahmaud Arbery went for a jog. Maybe there was a light breeze to keep him cool as he found his stride. ⁣
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A Sunday afternoon in February. Maybe Ahmaud would have arrived back home. Stretched and drank a glass of water. Maybe plan the rest of his evening. Maybe if he got the chance.⁣
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A Sunday afternoon in February was stolen from Ahmaud. His week. His month. Every remaining second of his life stolen. Stolen by two white men who waited with a shotgun and a magnum. Two white men so sure that a Black man jogging must be a suspect. That a Black man couldn’t merely be jogging and exist. Be Black and exist. ⁣
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On a Sunday afternoon in February, Ahmaud was lynched. Shot and murdered. When the police arrived and a white man stood with blood splattered on his hands…the police let him and his son go home when Ahmaud never got the chance.⁣