He Was Holding His Baby When the Bullets Fell — The Tragedy of Darion and Da’mari
It was a warm Sunday evening, the kind that carried laughter through the air.
Music played softly from a speaker, the smell of barbecue drifted from the grill, and the sound of a baby’s giggle mixed with the hum of summer.
Family had gathered to celebrate life, love, and togetherness.
For the McClendons, it was supposed to be an ordinary holiday weekend — a simple moment of peace.
But before the night was over, the laughter stopped.
And the world shattered into silence.
Darion “Debo” McClendon, 25 years old, was sitting on the porch with his baby boy, Da’mari, only four months old.
He had just returned from a family picnic — still smiling, still talking about how much his little one had loved being outside.
Neighbors later said they could hear him laughing, teasing his cousins about the food, bouncing Da’mari gently on his knee.
He looked happy.
Proud.
A young father doing what he loved most — being with his family.
Then came the gunfire.
Out of the night, without warning, the sharp sound of bullets cut through the laughter.
Screams echoed.
Plates crashed to the ground.
In a blur of chaos, people ducked for cover, children were pulled inside, hearts raced in terror.
When the shooting stopped, two lives were gone.
Darion — and his baby boy.
Police arrived minutes later.
Blue lights flickered across the front yard, turning the once-peaceful home into a scene of devastation.
The porch where father and son had been sitting was stained with the unthinkable.
Family members stood in disbelief, tears running down faces that could barely process what had happened.
Darion’s sister, Jasmine, was among the first to speak to officers.
She told them they’d been having a barbecue.
Everyone was laughing, eating, enjoying the night — until a man appeared from the shadows and opened fire.
She screamed her brother’s name, crawled across the porch to reach him.
But it was already too late.
He was still holding his baby.
News of the shooting spread quickly through Monroe.
Two victims — a 25-year-old father and his 4-month-old son.
Killed for no reason.
No warning.
No mercy.
Darion was known in the community as “Debo,” a nickname that followed him since high school.
He was the kind of person who could make anyone laugh.
A young father determined to give his son a better life — one built on love, not fear.
He’d recently started a new job and was planning to move into a bigger place for his growing family.
He loved music, sports, and Sunday cookouts — the simple joys that made life feel full.
More than anything, he loved being a dad.
Friends said he was obsessed with Da’mari — always showing off baby pictures, always talking about how fast he was growing.
Everywhere he went, people could see how much that little boy meant to him.
And now, both were gone.
The Monroe Police Department confirmed the details the next day.
Officers had responded to a call around
10:08 p.m. on May 29, 2022, to the home on Morrow Avenue.
When they arrived, they found Darion and baby Da’mari on the porch — both with gunshot wounds.
Both beyond saving.
Detectives immediately began searching for suspects, piecing together fragments of a senseless act.
The family pleaded for answers.
But days turned into weeks.
And the silence from those responsible grew heavier with time.
At a candlelight vigil days later, the community gathered outside the McClendon home.
Candles flickered on the steps.
Photos of Darion holding his baby were placed beside stuffed animals and flowers.
Someone had written a sign that read:
“Justice for Debo and Baby Da’mari.”
Jasmine spoke through tears, holding a candle close to her chest.
“They didn’t deserve this,” she said.
“My brother was just sitting here with his son.
He was cooking.
He was laughing.
And now they’re gone.
We just want justice.”
The crowd bowed their heads.
Children clung to their mothers.
And somewhere in the distance, a baby cried — a haunting reminder of the life that had been lost too soon.
The investigation continued, and police offered a cash reward of up to $10,000 for information leading to an arrest.
They knocked on doors, followed leads, reviewed security footage.
But the killer remained in the dark.
The family waited — heartbroken, exhausted, and angry — hoping that someone, somewhere, would finally speak up.
Darion’s mother couldn’t bring herself to step onto the porch again.
She said she still hears the echo of her grandson’s laugh, still sees Darion sitting there smiling.
Sometimes, she said, she sets out two plates — one for her boy, one for his baby — because it feels wrong not to.
Grief, she said, is heavier than she ever imagined.
It’s quiet in ways you can’t describe.
In the months that followed, Da’mari’s name became a symbol — a reminder of innocence, of what’s lost when violence takes root in communities.
People shared his photo online — his wide, bright eyes, his tiny fingers gripping his father’s hand.
A baby who never got to say his first words.
A father who never got to watch his son take his first steps.
Neighbors began putting signs on their doors reading “Stop the Violence.”
Churches held prayer services.
Children’s balloons were released into the sky — blue for Darion, white for Da’mari.
And as they floated upward, people whispered through their tears:
“Fly high, Debo. Fly high, baby boy.”
Even now, the pain lingers.
Every family gathering feels incomplete.
Every sound of laughter feels fragile, as if the world could break again at any moment.
But the McClendons refuse to let their names be forgotten.
They speak of Darion as a protector — a big-hearted young man who loved fiercely.
They speak of Da’mari as light — the purest joy they’d ever known.
And they speak of both as reminders of why justice matters, why voices must rise even when grief feels unbearable.
Because silence only protects the guilty.
And love demands truth.
One year later, the porch has been rebuilt.
But the family says it still doesn’t feel like home.
They’ve planted flowers where Darion once sat, and each spring they bloom — small, bright, defiant.
A symbol of love that refuses to die.
Sometimes Jasmine stands there, looking at the sky, holding her breath for a moment that feels like peace.
She says she still hears them — her brother’s laughter, her nephew’s little coos.
And in that fleeting second, she smiles.
Because for her, they’re still together.
Father and son.
Forever.
🕊 Rest in peace, Darion “Debo” McClendon and baby Da’mari.
You were loved beyond words.
And your story will never fade.