My Brother, My Hero: A Story of Redemption, Resilience, and Prayers for a Second Chance to Come Home!

I just returned from visiting my oldest brother, Negus Thomas, who’s been incarcerated for the past 25 years serving Life Without The Possibility of Parole in Federal Prison at the United States Penitentiary Canaan in Pennsylvania. During my drive from the visit, I started to think about his life and our conversations. I felt compelled to share some reflections about who he is, what we talked about this weekend, and how different life could have been for him, and for us, if systems had shown up in our lives with care and support after years of victimization and losing friends to gun violence. 

Negus is the oldest of five boys. My mother had him at just 17 years old, and with my father largely absent, Negus became our protector — our father figure — long before he was even grown himself. As a teenager, he was gifted in many ways: talented in writing, deeply compassionate, a natural leader, and an incredible athlete.

He was especially good at basketball. He's the one who taught me the game. There’s a legendary story in Michigan about when his high school team, Highland Park High School, played in the Cobo Hall Classic in Detroit — a huge event. Negus led his underdog team to victory and was named MVP. The next day, he was featured on the front page of the Detroit Free Press sports section. He had everything in front of him: talent, heart, drive.

But being the man of the house at a young age came with unbearable pressure. When the lights were shut off, when there was no food, when my mother worked multiple jobs alone — Negus, like so many other Black boys in our neighborhoods, started selling weed. Not to get rich, but to survive. Eventually, that turned into crack cocaine, and he was drawn into the underground economy that so many youth are pushed into when no safety net exists. One summer, after performing in front of college scouts, he was destined for greatness on the court. A few days later, life took a turn. (so similar to my story of being on the brink of success, but life throws a curveball) 

One night while sitting on our front porch, a man in dark clothing approached Negus and his friend and brandished a handgun. He and his friend ran down the street. Shots were fired that fatally wounded Negus’ friend. Negus took a sharp left turn when he saw his friend go down and hid under a van. He heard the shooter’s footsteps circling. By some miracle, he wasn’t found. That night shattered something in him. 

When Negus told the police what happened, word got out. The shooter began roaming the neighborhood looking for him. Negus constantly feared for his life. For weeks, my brother pushed our living room couch against the front door every night and slept there — not out of paranoia, but to protect us, his younger brothers. I remember waking him up just to get to school. He never told us why the couch was there. Only years later did I learn the truth: he was guarding our lives.

Eventually, our family fled Detroit to escape that man and moved to Connecticut. Negus got a basketball scholarship to Erie Community College in Buffalo, then transferred to Buffalo State University. He was on his way to start a promising college basketball career. But when he learned his girlfriend back home was pregnant, he made the hard decision to leave school and return to support her in Hartford, CT. 

Back in the same environment, struggling again to survive and prepare for fatherhood, he started selling drugs once more. One day, while walking down the street he was robbed at gunpoint. Two men threw him to the ground and held a gun to his head. They told him don't move or we will blow your head off. They stole a few dollars — and left him traumatized. Instead of reporting it, which could have cost him his life or labeled him a “snitch,” he and his friend made a tragic, irrational decision: they chased the car, shots were fired, and the driver was killed.

Months later, my brother and his best friend were arrested in a federal drug sweep. They were charged with murder. Negus was tried and convicted. A first-time offender. A man who had never served prison time. He was sentenced to life without the possibility of parole.

That was almost 25 years ago.

In the years since, Negus has done nothing but grow, give, and heal. He put his daughter through college — every dollar he made behind bars went toward her education. He started King & Queen Publishing, a book publishing company for incarcerated writers. He became a mentor and counselor inside the prison and became a mentor to me and to so many others. When I was shot, it was Negus, calling from prison in 15-minute intervals, who became my therapist. He coached me through pain, through trauma, through finding purpose in survival.

This weekend, for the first time, he told me something I didn’t expect:

“I never told my story about being a victim… That day I made a bad decision, but I was a victim first. I was walking down the street. I was robbed. I was scared. My mind instantly went back to the night when I was a teenager and saw my friend get killed. I immediately thought about the guy coming back to look for me to silence me as a witness. ”

He said, “Bro, I couldn’t even say I was a victim. If I had told the truth, that I was robbed, I might’ve been killed. That’s the code. That’s the silence. That’s what we live under.”

Hearing this, it broke me. Because he wasn’t just talking about that night. He was talking about a lifetime of trauma, of fear, of survival. And how systems never gave him a chance to be seen as someone who needed help, not a cage.

Fast forward 25 years, and he has various health complications, including suffering a stroke that has affected his cognitive abilities. Despite some of his health challenges, Negus wants to give back. He wants to work with youth in the inner city. He wants to support families. He wants to rebuild what was broken — not just in our lives, but in communities across the country. He's not the same person he was at 22. And he shouldn't be judged forever by a decision made under trauma and survival.

If there’s anyone deserving of a second chance, it’s him.

Not just because he’s my brother, but because of who he is. The heart he has. The good he can still offer this world.

I pray that one day soon, I’ll get to watch a basketball game with my big brother, not behind glass, but free. In the stands. Side by side. As two men who made it through, who fought to live, and who believe in redemption.  King Negus I miss you and love you bro!

By: Aswad Thomas