In the early hours of April 4, a life filled with promise was violently cut short when 19-year-old Zion Greenwood was shot and killed in West Oakland. Now, three months later, Zion’s family continues to grieve his devastating loss while the man charged with his murder—his own uncle, 30-year-old Marvin Prudhomme—remains a fugitive. The pain is raw, the trauma fresh, and the questions haunting: why would a man kill his own nephew? How has the accused eluded capture for so long? And how does a family reconcile love, loss, and betrayal in the same breath?

Zion Greenwood’s death is not just a story of violence in Oakland—it is a story of deep familial heartbreak. His mother, Kentara Gaines, speaks through tears. “I am hurt, I’m distraught, I’m crying every day and I can’t even seem to come to grips on my own life,” she said, her voice trembling under the weight of unspeakable grief. Zion, her only son, was more than a statistic or a crime scene victim. He was a bright, multilingual teenager—the first grandson in the family—who spoke Mandarin, Cantonese, and Spanish, and who brimmed with promise, talent, and charisma.

What makes Zion’s death even more difficult to process for his family is the identity of the alleged shooter: his uncle, Marvin Prudhomme. According to Oakland police and court records, Prudhomme, a 30-year-old convicted felon who had been down on his luck, was temporarily staying at Zion’s father’s apartment near 14th and Filbert Streets. Sometime shortly after midnight, a confrontation unfolded inside that apartment. Marvin allegedly pulled a gun, shot and wounded his brother Markus—Zion’s father—then turned the weapon on Zion and fatally shot him before fleeing the scene.

For Zion’s grandmother, Sherrie Gaines, the pain is made worse by the family connection to the accused killer. “It’s heartbreaking and it’s devastating, knowing that it’s someone in the family. It doesn’t make it easy because we know who it was. It makes it worse,” she said, speaking on behalf of a family stunned not only by the murder but by the betrayal that defines it.

The following day, police recovered a 9mm handgun blocks from the shooting, near 14th and West Streets. Witnesses later told investigators that Marvin Prudhomme had returned to the area and admitted to using the weapon, reportedly saying he was “in trouble” because he had shot someone. The gun, and the witness accounts, became critical pieces of evidence in the case. Authorities filed charges against Prudhomme, but he has not been arrested. For three months, he has remained on the run.

For Kentara Gaines, there is no place in her heart for compassion toward her son’s accused killer. “The situation does not call for me to be compassionate or hold space for Marvin,” she said firmly. “Marvin has murdered my son and he’s now on the run, non-remorseful.” Her words land with painful clarity. She is not just grieving. She is demanding justice, and she is doing so in the face of prolonged, agonizing silence from the man who turned her world upside down.

The ripple effects of Zion’s death are felt across generations. His great-aunt, Rasheeda Gaines, issued a clear and urgent plea to the public: “He needs to be found. It’s not snitching. If you see him on the streets, call 911. He’s dangerous.” The plea is not just for law enforcement—it’s for the conscience of a community. This is not about loyalty or family secrets, she insists. It’s about safety, closure, and accountability.

Among those mourning Zion is his second cousin, Tarquin Gaines, who once coached him in basketball. “He had a ton of potential,” Tarquin said. “So the biggest thing for me is like—what could have been. And I care a lot about what is said about him. I want people to know how cool he was.” In those few words, Tarquin paints a picture of a young man full of possibility, whose life was stolen just as he was beginning to step into his own power.

Zion’s story could have unfolded differently. He was gifted, vibrant, and hopeful. But the circumstances of his death lay bare a deeper crisis—one that blends familial dysfunction, untreated trauma, community instability, and gun violence into a lethal mix. In a city like Oakland, where residents are all too familiar with shootings, the murder of a teenager by his own uncle still lands like a lightning strike.

The tragedy is compounded by the fact that Marvin Prudhomme is a convicted felon. His criminal history raises uncomfortable questions: How did he come into possession of a firearm? What red flags were missed? Was there a history of volatility or threats that should have prevented this tragedy? And perhaps most haunting of all—could Zion’s death have been prevented?

The answer to that last question remains elusive. What is clear, however, is that this act of violence was not random. It was intimate. It occurred in a home—a place meant to be safe. The alleged shooter and the victim shared blood. This wasn’t a street crime or an anonymous act of aggression. It was familial implosion. The very fact that Marvin had been staying in the apartment suggests a level of trust, or at least tolerance, from the family. That trust was shattered in an instant.

The legal dimension of this story is unfolding slowly. Marvin Prudhomme has been formally charged with murder. But without an arrest, there is no trial date, no court hearings, no opportunity for the family to confront him or seek legal justice. Every day that he remains free is another day the wounds stay open. “Justice looks like him going to jail,” Kentara said—a stark but sincere statement of her expectations.

The emotional dimension, however, is immediate and overwhelming. Zion’s death has cast a long shadow over his family. Grief, anger, and disbelief swirl together. His grandmother, his mother, his cousins—they all speak of him not in abstractions, but with intimate, precise memories. A boy who could speak three languages. A grandson who was the “first in the family.” A basketball player. A teenager with “a ton of potential.”

And then, there is the silence left in his wake.

On Friday, three months after the shooting, family members gathered to honor Zion’s memory and reaffirm their demand for justice. It was not merely a vigil. It was a statement: Zion Greenwood’s life mattered. His voice mattered. His story matters. And the man accused of silencing that voice must be held accountable.

The silence of Marvin Prudhomme speaks volumes. His failure to turn himself in, to face the consequences of his alleged actions, is a wound layered on top of the violence he’s accused of. To the family, his absence feels like cowardice, a refusal to reckon with the horror he allegedly inflicted. And the fact that he has managed to evade capture for three months adds insult to injury.

Yet amid the pain, there is love. There is memory. There is resilience. Zion’s name is spoken with reverence. His story is told with heartbreak and hope. And while his mother and extended family grieve deeply, they are also fighting—fighting for justice, for accountability, and for the chance to ensure that Zion’s life is not reduced to a case file or a cautionary tale.

In a nation grappling with the normalization of gun violence, Zion Greenwood’s story is a stark reminder that the most devastating tragedies often happen not at the hands of strangers, but within families. It is a reminder that trauma and violence often grow in silence, behind closed doors. And it is a plea—for justice, for healing, and for change.

Until Marvin Prudhomme is found, there can be no legal closure. But through the voices of those who loved Zion—his mother, grandmother, great-aunt, and cousin—his story will not fade into obscurity. Their words are both mourning and resistance. They are memory and demand.

They are love, even in the face of betrayal.