Navigating the vibrant yet complex streets of Charlotte, North Carolina, I recently experienced an unexpected encounter that shook me out of my introspection and back into a renewed sense of purpose. Having resided in this Queen City for a short time, my exploration of its downtown core had been somewhat subdued since the turbulent events of September 2021, triggered by the police shooting of Keith Lamont Scott. The city, still processing its collective trauma, carried a palpable tension beneath its polished veneer.
It was around 5:30 PM when I found myself waiting at a bus stop, a familiar urban tableau unfolding around me. A bare-chested Black man, clad in green hospital scrubs and striking red sneakers, approached the bus stop with animated energy. For anyone accustomed to city life, this scenario triggers an automatic response: feign absorption in your headphones, become engrossed in a book, or meticulously check your watch – anything to signal non-engagement and avoid potential interaction. Despite having my headphones on, the “Hamilton” soundtrack providing a sonic shield, I instinctively glanced at my watch, hoping to deter any unwanted attention.
The man was visibly agitated, talking to himself, his arms gesturing emphatically. As he neared the bus stop, he briefly paused to address a woman peacefully reading on a bench. She remained unfazed, her eyes fixed on the page. Then, he turned his attention towards me. Perhaps it was my being the only other Black person present that drew his focus. Though still pretending to be fascinated by my wristwatch, I sensed his approach. My strategy was clear: unwavering disinterest.
And then, it happened. A kick. Not a violent assault, not enough to buckle my knee or leave a mark, but a deliberate, insistent poke with his foot.
In that split second on a Charlotte street, I faced a choice. Retreat? Walk swiftly to the next bus stop? Seek out the increased police or security presence that now characterized downtown Charlotte? But instead of triggering a flight response, the kick acted as a strange catalyst. It flipped a switch. I removed my headphones, turned to face the bare-chested man, clearly grappling with mental illness, met his gaze, and in my most authoritative, faux-school principal tone, demanded, “Did you just KICK me???”
This encounter on a Carolina Street is etched in my memory for numerous reasons. His skin, a rich molasses brown, was smooth and clear, contrasting with the salt-and-pepper cloud of his hair. I estimated him to be slightly younger than myself. His eyes, bright and restless, hinted at the influence, or absence, of psychotropic medication. They darted around before locking onto mine. He mumbled incoherently, gesturing towards his thin, sweaty chest. But sensing no immediate threat, I continued my impromptu address.
“You need to be careful, brother,” I asserted. “You could get hurt doing that. Someone could retaliate if you kick strangers. You could even get shot.” The man responded with more guttural sounds, his eyes still flickering, struggling to articulate the thoughts within his troubled mind.
Maintaining steady eye contact, I mirrored his movements, ensuring we remained face to face. Though the entire exchange lasted perhaps a minute, the rush of thoughts within those 60 seconds was immense.
My mind flashed to Rakeiya Scott, who bravely filmed the police confrontation with her husband, Keith, right here in Charlotte, her voice filled with desperate pleas against the inevitable tragedy.
Alt text: A somber, reflective portrait of a Black woman, possibly Rakeiya Scott, against a blurred background, conveying a sense of grief and resilience in the face of racial injustice on Carolina streets.
I recalled the chilling video of Terrence Crutcher in Tulsa, Oklahoma, seemingly walking with his hands raised when a police officer fatally shot him on September 16th.
Diamond Reynolds’ unnervingly calm livestream of her boyfriend Philando Castile’s dying moments after being shot by police in Falcon Heights, Minnesota, on July 6th, resurfaced in my thoughts.
The horrific July 5th shooting of Alton Sterling in Baton Rouge, Louisiana, flooded back – the sickening image of a man pinned to the ground, officers kneeling on him as bullets were pumped into his body.
And Alfred Okwera Olango’s sister came to mind, who had called El Cajon police on September 27th because her brother was behaving erratically, much like the man who had just kicked me on this Charlotte street corner. I knew Alfred’s encounter with police ended in death. This realization solidified my decision against seeking law enforcement intervention that evening. I continued to engage with the bare-chested man on the corner of South Tryon and West Third Streets, mere blocks from the epicenter of recent protests.
My words flowed, unfiltered. “I want you to be okay, brother. I want you to live.” I could sense the apprehension radiating from the other bus stop occupants, bracing for escalation. But I felt strangely detached, numb. The incident concluded as abruptly as it began. The man bent down, picked up a discarded crust of bread near the curb, and hurled it with surprising force away from the bus stop before wandering off in his hospital scrubs and red sneakers, muttering to himself. Before replacing my headphones, I caught the glances of some onlookers – those who had abandoned their pretense of reading or watch-checking – their expressions suggesting that I was the one perceived as erratic.
Later that night, as sleep eluded me, a delayed emotional response surfaced, and tears welled up – not for my leg. I wept because I recognized an overwhelming compassion fatigue that had been silently crippling my writing and eroding my self-belief. The weight of global concerns felt suffocating. The endless stream of injustices, the constant need to bear witness and respond – it felt impossible to capture it all, to adequately address every issue that demanded attention. While I had considered joining the protests, vigils, and town hall meetings in Charlotte that week, exhaustion prevailed. After nine years immersed in the complexities of Northern Uganda, Kenya, and South Sudan, I had returned to America seeking respite, a silencing of the constant mental clamor. Instead, I found myself increasingly consumed by anxiety and despair about my homeland’s direction. What new perspective could I offer? How could my words possibly make a difference?
And so, some of those tears were tears of gratitude for the mentally ill man who kicked me on a downtown Carolina street. That seemingly random act was a jolt, a disruptor. It reawakened my muse. It granted me a moment of stark clarity and renewed purpose. It wasn’t my years in East Africa that instilled a sense of boldness or recklessness, enough to confront a stranger on a busy city street.
It was just four months back in America that brought the stark realization: in many ways, my vulnerability mirrors his. And perhaps, his fate, like that of so many others, is to become another name mourned by a grieving sister or mother. I hope he finds his way to safety and care. I know I will be alright, because he reminded me of life’s fragility, its potential to end in an instant, in unimaginable tragedy. And the only true response is to live with authenticity and purpose, while time remains. To borrow a phrase from “Hamilton,” I’m going to write like I’m running out of time. Because I am. We all are. Unless we heed the urgent message of America’s racial justice crisis, we are all hurtling towards a brutal awakening.
And the consequences will extend far beyond a fleeting pain or broken glass. It will fracture the very foundation of this nation.
