“If I never have to plan another funeral, I’ll be happy.”
Ebony Selby sighed as she sat under a gazebo in the Manteo, North Carolina, neighborhood where she and her large, extended family have lived for decades. On the table in front of her were pictures of four beloved family members. Each had been fatally shot over the past couple of years.
The youngest was a niece. She was just 3 when she was shot in the back seat of her mother’s car.
The others were Selby’s brother and sister, and another niece who’d just turned 18. Selby saw two of them as they lay dead and bloodied on the ground, leaving her with memories that will haunt her for the rest of her life.
And while it may be difficult to fathom having even one loved one gunned down, Selby is far from alone in having more than one relative who’s been shot. Numerous families in the Hampton Roads and northeastern North Carolina region have suffered that same fate.
Why some families are touched by violence more than others “is not really explainable,” said Alan Wolfelt, director of the Colorado-based Center for Loss and Life Transition and the author of dozens of books about grief and death.
“It’s a mystery we don’t fully understand,” Wolfelt said. “It’s kind of like how some families go for years without any deaths, and then there are some families that seem to have one death right after another.”
Living in areas where homicides are more frequent likely is a factor for some, he said.
“It could be where you live, it could be putting yourself in vulnerable situations that put you at greater risk,” Wolfelt said. “We don’t really know.”
The grief that results from a loved one’s murder can be much more difficult to deal with than other types of losses, according to counselor Deuene Hickman, founder of the Quality of Life Counseling Center in Hampton. He’s assisted many people who’ve lost family members to gunfire.
In addition to the sudden shock, there’s the knowledge that the victim suffered a violent and senseless death, Hickman said. If the crime isn’t solved, their grief is only compounded. And even if it is solved, navigating the criminal justice system — and all the delays, uncertainty and disappointments that often come with it — can be trying, Hickman said.
For Selby, a 43-year-old single mother of three, the grief is unbearable at times. So is the anxiety.
“I never knew anxiety before all of this,” she said. “Any moment now I could have a panic attack. I had never had a panic attack before in my life.”
Norfolk’s Bilal Muhammad and Chesapeake’s Monica Atkins understand. Muhammad has lost two close relatives to shootings; Atkins three. Both later turned that grief into activism and now lead local anti-gun violence groups in Hampton Roads.
For Muhammad, the first loss came in 1982, when his brother Ruben was killed in Portsmouth. Muhammad, 67, was in his 20s at the time. His brother — a heroin addict who began dealing to support his habit — was 32.
“They dropped his body at a construction site, and a construction worker found him the next day,” Muhammad said. “I was devastated. My mother — she about had a nervous breakdown.”
A man was eventually arrested and charged, but he was acquitted, leaving no one to be held accountable, Muhammad said.
Last summer, Muhammad’s youngest child, Ali Muhammad, was fatally shot in Norfolk’s Ocean View area.
Muhammad said Ali, 33, was on his way to work, and the two were talking on the phone when he heard Ali tell someone to “get that gun out of my face.” Next, he heard a gunshot.
Muhammad called 911, and he and his wife, Cynthia, rushed over. The couple had just celebrated their 39th wedding anniversary the day before.
Ali, a father of three young girls, was dead when they got there.
“I just couldn’t believe it,” Muhammad said. “He was such a good man. He was a family man. He loved his daughters so much.”
About a month later, 28-year-old Jalen Garces was charged with murdering Ali. Video footage obtained by investigators placed him in the area, according to police. Muhammad believes Garces was acting on behalf of someone who was in a dispute with his son, but no one else has been charged.
Moving on without Ali has been difficult, Muhammad said.
“I still break down every once in a while, but they hold me up,” he said, referring to Ali’s daughters, now 3, 7 and 9. Muhammad and his wife have been helping Ali’s girlfriend care for the girls.
“They are what keeps us going,” he said.
Muhammad said he was already active in community events and causes when his brother died, but began to focus on gun violence afterwards. His resolve only grew stronger after Ali’s slaying.
“If he were alive today, he’d be right here beside me,” Muhammad said while leading an anti-gun violence march and social event in Chesapeake’s Peaceful Village in March.
Atkins’ activism began after her cousin Aron Turner was killed in 2013. Atkins said Turner was sleeping on a couch in a home in Portsmouth when someone attempting a burglary began firing into the house. The case remains unsolved.
“In 2013, (the gun violence problem) was nothing like it is now,” said Atkins, 51. “I never thought it would happen to me again.”
But it did the following year. Her son, Antonio Atkins, 25, was shot and killed while driving in Portsmouth. His girlfriend was wounded but Atkins’ other son, who was in the back seat, wasn’t harmed.
“From that moment on, my life changed,” she said.
Atkins said police didn’t have sufficient evidence to charge anyone but she believes she knows who was responsible, and that person is in prison now for another violent offense.
Tragedy next struck last September, when Atkin’s 31-year-old niece, Erica Atkins, was fatally shot on a street corner in Portsmouth. Two other women were injured.
A 17-year-old boy was later charged. Atkins believes it was an accident and that the teen started shooting because he heard shots and thought he was under fire. She believes her niece, a mother of two, was caught in the crossfire.
Working to prevent further violence and educate others about it has been therapeutic, she said.
“My son wouldn’t want me to just sit around and mope all day long,” she said. “Stress can kill you. So can a broken heart.”
Antonio’s father died just six months after his son was killed. He already was in poor health, Atkins said, but Antonio’s death made it worse.
Atkins said counseling has helped tremendously in battling her grief. It’s essential for people who’ve lost loved ones to violence, Hickman said, yet many never seek it.
“Some people live in fear, some are able to move on and do okay, and some are unable to function afterwards,” he said. “But they all lose a portion of themselves. Without counseling, I’m not sure they can get that back.”
Often when a person loses a loved one to violence, they blame themselves, Hickman said, especially in cases where they’re the parent of the deceased. They may ask themselves things such as, “What if we lived in a better neighborhood? What if I hadn’t let my son go out that night?”
Anger is another major issue for many, Hickman said — anger at the killer, and anger at police and prosecutors if they feel their case isn’t being handled properly. Therapists can guide them in dealing with heightened emotions, he said, and also connect them with support groups, and victim assistance agencies that can aid with expenses such as funeral and counseling costs.
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Ebony Selby’s nightmare
The first loss for Selby came in December 2021, when her sister, Takeyia Berry, 39, and Berry’s 3-year-old daughter, Allura Pledger, were fatally shot.
Roderick White — a man Berry had known for years — had asked her to drive him to Elizabeth City, Selby said. Berry agreed and took her young daughter along. On the way, they picked up Jaquan White, an 18-year-old relative of White’s.
After they arrived in Elizabeth City, someone fired on the car. White was the only occupant who survived — but not for long. He was killed in another shooting nearly a year later.
Selby said she’d last talked to her sister the night before she was killed. Both single moms, the two were very close, she said, and helped raise each other’s children. Berry had another daughter who was 16 at the time. Selby took her in.
“We’re a family full of laughs, and she was really funny,” Selby said of her sister. “She loved her daughters so much. She was very serious about schooling with her oldest daughter, who made As and Bs all the time.”
The day of the shooting, Selby’s phone started lighting up with calls and texts. She was told Berry was already gone, but Allura had a chance. Soon after, she got a call saying Allura had died.
The days and weeks that followed were a blur, Selby said. Just getting out of bed was a struggle some days.
Selby believes White was the target and that he used Berry and Allura as shields, thinking he wouldn’t get fired at if he had a woman and child with him. Two men were later charged with the murders and are awaiting trial. One, Ricky Etheridge Jr., faces a possible death sentence if convicted.
The next loss came a little more than a year later, when Selby’s niece, Aonesty Selby, was killed. Aonesty was the daughter of Selby’s brother Demetrius Selby, who would become the family’s next shooting victim later that same year.
Selby was with Aonesty’s parents when they found her body on a remote logging trail in Isle of Wight County on Jan. 13, 2023. It was three days after Aonesty’s 18th birthday, and two days after detectives believe the Williamsburg high school senior was killed.
Aonesty’s family called police after they were unable to reach her, and also sought help through social media. A friend told them Aonesty had shared a cellphone ping to her location. The family told police, then headed there themselves, Selby said.
The area is home to a hunting club and was gated, forcing them to go on foot, she said. It was pitch black so they turned on their cellphone flashlights. After about two miles of walking along the cold, muddy trail, Aonesty’s mother let out a scream Selby said she’ll never forget.
“She (Aonesty) was laying there like she had been perfectly placed,” Selby said. “Her hair, her makeup, her nails, they were all perfectly done, just like they always were.”
A friend of Aonesty’s, Andarius Tyshone McClelland, 21, was charged with her murder days later. Reports indicated the two had been in a relationship, but Selby said that wasn’t true.
Selby was haunted by the ordeal. She avoided going out, especially at night. Her children, now 17, 18, and 20, missed the mom she used to be, she said, a carefree person who always went to their football games and band concerts.
“They also lost them (the murdered relatives), but they lost me, too,” she said. “My anxiety wouldn’t let me go out and be in public. I didn’t want to have to talk about it. I didn’t want to see that look of pity.”
Last summer, Selby lost her job handling medical records at a nursing facility. She felt too anxious to look for another job, and hasn’t worked since.
Then last October, her brother was shot and killed by a sheriff’s deputy outside a friend’s trailer home in Manteo. The deputy — who said Demetrius Selby was coming at him with a knife — was later cleared of wrongdoing.
Selby lives a short distance from where it happened. She hurried over after seeing sheriff’s vehicles racing past. Deputies wouldn’t let her near the scene at first, but she eventually was allowed in and stayed with Demetrius’ bloodied body until it was taken away several hours later.
Demetrius’ surviving daughters filed a lawsuit against the deputy, claiming the shooting was unjustified. Selby has seen bodycam video of the incident and believes it wasn’t justified.
“It’s like I’m afraid to have hope. I’m just constantly scared for all my kids and my nieces,” she said. “I’d rather them be at home with me, but then I feel bad because I’m like they don’t need to be stuck in the house with me all the time.”
As for the future, Selby said she’s considering a move to Maryland to be near a cousin. She’s lived in North Carolina all her life, but believes a new environment will be good for her. She also plans to look for a job, and may finally get the counseling she knows she needs.
Selby said she tries to focus only on the good memories she has of her lost relatives — and fights to keep the images of them lying dead on the ground, or in their caskets, out of her mind. And while she’s fearful for herself and the rest of her family, she doesn’t own a firearm.
“I don’t like guns,” she said. “I’ve never had one, and I never will.”
Jane Harper, jane.harper@pilotonline.com
