At first I thought she said Sharon, my cousin, and Derrick (that must be her boyfriend, I thought) had been shot. Then I mumbled something like, "What happened?" It became clearer, she was saying my nephew Sherrard Bryant and his stepbrother Derrick had been shot.

She, my sister, brother, his wife and other family members were headed to the hospitals, or hospital. My mother told me she would call back later.

I was stunned.

With the second call from Baltimore, a short time later, came the worst part of an already horrible situation. Sherrard was dead. He�d been shot seven times. Derrick, shot three times, was in surgery. He did survive the shooting.

Details were still murky. The two had apparently gone to a store near where they live. They came back home and sat on their steps. Then two men walked up and tried to kill both of them. It may have been mistaken identity. Gunshots were fired in the area a few hours before Sherrard was killed. Time may yield the answer to that mystery.

It sounds like a clich�, but neither Sherrard nor Derrick was in a gang or any criminality�even the police have admitted what family members already know. The boys lived on Ellamont St. in West Baltimore, near North Avenue, not far from where I grew up. Their block wasn�t "bad," I�m told, but the area has typical urban problems of drugs and violence.

My mother told me how 16-year-old Derrick is a good young man. He worked and sometimes took Sherrard with him. They were close, enjoyed playing video games and doing other things together. They had been at church the night of the shooting. My brother and his wife are trying to bring their children up in a God-centered home, with a strong moral and spiritual foundation. They are trying to raise good children.

Like many of our children, Sherrard was raised by his mother, grandmothers, aunts and relatives�all of whom are devastated.

As a ninth grader at Frederick Douglas High School, Sherrard was "a good kid."

And, he was bright. Before he died, teachers had placed him in a teen program at a local community college, hoping to help track him into a life where he could share his gifts and talents. Sherrard was an honor student.

Though my mother wouldn�t say he was her favorite grandchild�she doesn�t believe in favorites�they had a special connection. They would talk, they would shop together and she enjoyed him. She loves all of her grandchildren. I live in Chicago, with my three sons and daughter. She talks with all of the children on the telephone and never forgets birthdays. Yet the bond with Sherrard was something special. He was there with her, close in proximity, and she was proud of him.

Having raised four children alone, my mom has battled all her life. She knows well how to defend herself and worked hard to protect her offspring.

When I was arrested at age 13 for carrying a knife, it was her ferocity that kept me from being railroaded as a menace to society. But the toll fighting the juvenile justice system took on her touched me. It touched me so deeply that I told myself I�d never get in trouble again. I didn�t. Now she had to bury a grandson who was killed for no good reason. He was buried before his parents, two grandmothers and his maternal great-grandmother. My family is shell-shocked. Several of my relatives went to work the day after Sherrard was killed, but they had to come home. They just couldn�t take it. I went to work and started to write.

Sherrard was murdered. He was 14-years-old. He was innocent. He might have helped resolve some of the madness in the world and the Black community had he lived.

His death hurts.

Hearing about deaths like this drove me into the Nation of Islam nearly 15 years ago. I couldn�t stand the thought of young people dying and nobody giving a damn. When I heard Min. Louis Farrakhan speak, urging us to stop the killing and do something for ourselves, his message resonated with me and I decided to join his struggle.

It is painful that 15 years later a Black child, not just my nephew but any child, could be slaughtered in the street.

Once hunted like game by our open enemies, we now prey on one another. And though others may manipulate circumstances, ship in the guns and the drugs, feed us crazy images of ourselves and try to program us, we are destroying one another.

We are pulling the triggers and fueling the funerals.

That is the worst part of this whole ugly experience.