“I’ve been kidnapped.
Send help.
Don’t call.”
The message arrived in the early hours of February 25, 2024.
It was short, desperate, and terrifyingly clear.
For Mahogany Jackson’s family, it was the moment the world split in two.
Mahogany was just twenty years old.
Young enough to still be building her life, old enough to know when danger was real.
And in those final moments of freedom, she fought to be found.
Her family did exactly what she asked.
They didn’t call.
They reported her missing and began searching, racing against time they didn’t know was already running out.
Every minute felt heavier than the last.
Phones were clutched in shaking hands.
Hope flickered with every passing second.
But by dawn, fear began to harden into something darker.
Because when someone says they’ve been kidnapped, silence becomes unbearable.
And the absence of answers feels like a scream.
Around 2:00 a.m. on February 26, that silence broke.
Mahogany’s body was found on Laurel Avenue in Birmingham.
The road was known grimly by locals as “dead man road.”
She had been shot in the back of the head.
Her body was discarded as if her life meant nothing.
The cruelty of it left even seasoned investigators shaken.
But what investigators would later uncover was far worse than the location of her body.
This was not a sudden act of violence.
It was a prolonged nightmare.
Authorities revealed Mahogany had been abducted.
She was tortured.
She was forced to perform sexual acts at gunpoint.
And then came the detail that stunned even hardened detectives.
Her attackers filmed parts of the assault.
They shared it online.
Then–Birmingham Police Chief Scott Thurmond spoke with visible anger and grief.
“The facts of this case are deplorable and sickening,” he said.
“Saddest of all, they were made public by the suspects’ decision to videotape portions of this horrific act.”
The investigation moved quickly.
Digital trails, witness accounts, and electronic evidence painted a horrifying picture.
Within days, arrests began.
Eight suspects were taken into custody.
Not one.
Eight.
They were identified as:
Brandon Pope, 25.
Francis Harris, 25.
Jeremiah McDowell, 19.
Blair Green, 26.
Si’Niya McCall, 24.
Teja Lewis, 26.
Giovannie Clapp, 24.
And Airana Robinson.
Prosecutors did not hesitate.
All eight were indicted on capital murder charges.
The state confirmed it will seek the death penalty for each of them.
For Mahogany’s family, justice could never mean relief.
No arrest could undo what was done.
No sentence could bring her home.
They were left with one unbearable truth.
Mahogany knew she was in danger.
And she still tried to save herself.
That text message became everything.
Proof of her fear.
Proof of her fight.
She did not go quietly.
She did not disappear without a voice.
She reached out, even while surrounded by unimaginable terror.
The hours between her message and her death haunt everyone who reads them.
Each minute now feels like a question.
Each second feels like something that should have changed the ending.
Her family has spoken of the agony of waiting.
Of checking doors, streets, phones, and memories.
Of knowing something was wrong but not knowing how close the danger truly was.
Friends remember Mahogany as vibrant and full of life.
Someone who laughed easily.
Someone who deserved far more time than she was given.
Her name now joins a list no family ever wants to see.
Women taken by extreme violence.
Lives ended not by accident, but by deliberate cruelty.
The brutality of this case shook Birmingham.
It forced conversations about safety, accountability, and violence against women.
It left a city reeling.
And yet, amid the horror, Mahogany’s courage remains undeniable.
Her final act was not surrender.
It was resistance.
She tried to be found.
She tried to be saved.
She refused to disappear without leaving a trace.
Her message now echoes far beyond her family.
It is read by strangers who stop scrolling.
It is felt by parents, sisters, daughters, and friends.
“I’ve been kidnapped.”
Four words that should have triggered rescue.
Four words that now demand remembrance.
Mahogany Jackson mattered.
Her life mattered.
Her fear mattered.
And her name must never fade into silence.
Because forgetting would be the final injustice.
And remembering is the least the world owes her.
A Gift of Kindness: Meeting Steve and the Power of Prayer.331
One quiet evening, as I was leaving Best Buy, something caught my eye—a man rummaging through the garbage can outside the store. He wasn’t begging or bothering anyone; instead, he carefully pulled out fast food trash bags, inspecting every discarded piece. I watched as he found a few fries here, a bite of a hamburger there, and neatly placed the food in a dirty wrapper beside his knee. His quiet dignity struck me deeply.
I don’t usually hand out money or help strangers because I know not everyone who appears homeless truly is. But seeing this man, so vulnerable and quietly searching for food, I knew I had to do something.
I got out of my car and asked if I could buy him something to eat. He gratefully accepted. He introduced himself as Steve and shared that he’d been homeless since his sister passed away last September. He was trying to get off the streets but it was incredibly hard.
I told him God loved him and that I would pray for him. Then, I bought him the biggest meal on the menu—a meal and a big glass of sweet tea, his only request.
Steve was deeply thankful. After eating, he rode off on his bike, but I felt compelled to go back. When I returned, he had finished his meal and was preparing to leave. I offered him a gift card loaded with meals, and he broke down crying. He told me he had prayed for someone to send him a hot meal today—and that I was the answer to his prayer.
I was speechless. I hadn’t prayed for a meal that day; I took food for granted. Steve then showed me a large mass on his stomach. He told me he had cancer and that he was ready to die, tired of the pain and hardship.
I asked if I could pray with him, and we prayed right there on the McDonald’s sidewalk. Tears flowed freely as he shared his fear and acceptance. I prayed he would feel the love and hope of Jesus, that he would know he was not alone.
That night, I realized everyone has a story, and today, Steve’s story touched my heart deeply. I believe God placed him in my path to remind me of my blessings—a roof over my head, food to eat, health, family, and friends. I felt honored to be part of his story, even for a moment.
If you’ve read this far, please keep Steve in your prayers. God is good. I am blessed. And I am thankful.
Sometimes, all it takes is a small act of kindness to change a life—and to change your own heart as well
