She PAID His Rent For 5 Years – He 𝐆𝐀𝐕𝐄 𝐇𝐞𝐫 𝐇𝐈𝐕 Then 𝐒𝐇𝟎𝐓 Her For Complaining | HO”

If you paid someone’s rent for 5 years, 5 years, and then found out they were cheating on you and gave you HIV, would you be the villain in that story? Because when Dewanda Dejan and her boyfriend Noon were found dead in her house, the house she paid for, everybody just assumed she killed him and then herself.

Made perfect sense, right? Woman scorned and all that.

Hell, some people were even saying they understood why she did it.

I would have done the same thing.

They typed from their phones, sitting on their couches, judging a dead woman they’d never met.

Except here’s the thing.

They were wrong.

Like completely embarrassingly wrong.

And it took her brother 3 days to prove it.

3 days of watching the internet drag his sister’s name through the mud before he went live with paperwork that said one word, victim.

This is a story of Dwanda De Jan and how she got killed twice.

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Here’s what happened.

All right, so before we get into what happened, you need to know who Dwanda actually was.

Not the version the internet created, but the real woman.

Dewanda de Jan was 38 living in Englewood on the south side of Chicago and she had her life together in the way that makes other people quietly jealous.

You know the type bills paid on time, job handle, family taken care of.

The kind of woman who doesn’t post about being a boss, she just is one.

Her nickname was Noo-Noo.

And if you were lucky enough to be in her circle, you knew she wasn’t about excuses or drama.

You needed something done, she’d figure it out.

Something broke, she’d fix it.

Rent due already paid.

Probably paid early just to avoid the late fee because that’s how organized she was.

Speaking of rent, that house on South Normal Avenue where all this went down, that was hers.

her name, her lease, her responsibility.

Keep that in your back pocket because when we get to the part where people assume she was the aggressor in her own house that she paid for.

Yeah, we’re going to need to talk about that.

Now, Dwanda had a son, raised him, loved him, made sure he grew up right, and she had a grandbaby, too.

one of those kids who just lights up a room.

You know, the kind where you pull out your phone to show people pictures even when nobody asked.

That was her weakness.

That grandbaby.

Her whole face would change when that little one smiled.

But if we’re talking about who really had to wander’s back, we got to talk about her brother Daniel.

That was her person.

Not just family, but the first call when life got complicated.

The one who always answered, the one she trusted with everything.

The kind of sibling relationship where you don’t even have to explain what’s wrong, they just know.

And then there was Erica Elizabeth Clay, her best friend.

Not Instagram close where you comment heart emojis and never actually link up, but real close.

The kind of friendship where you don’t need a reason to hang out, you just do.

They had plans for that Sunday.

Actually, October 6th.

Lunch, shopping, just two friends doing regular friend things.

Plans that would never happen.

But neither of them knew that yet.

For 5 years, Dewanda thought she was building a future with someone.

Thought she had a partner.

Thought they were on the same page about where their life was heading.

His name was Non Thurman and we need to talk about him for a minute because I’m not about to sit here and turn him into some cartoon villain.

That’s not how real life works.

But I’m also not going to sugarcoat what he did.

So let’s walk this line together.

Non was 44, originally from Ptoria, South Africa.

Came to Chicago with plans.

enrolled at Malcolm X College was trying to build something.

On paper, he seemed like a regular guy trying to make it work in a new country.

To the people who knew him casually, he probably was a regular guy.

But a swear I’m going to be real with you, and I mean real real.

I looked at his Facebook, scrolled through his photos like I was investigating a cold case because that’s what you do when you’re researching a story, right? And the first thing I noticed, this man was fine.

Like, why are you not modeling for something fine? Good-looking dude with that whole confident smile thing going on.

The kind of handsome that makes you understand why people ignore red flags.

And his comment section, full of women.

Handsome, my love.

Looking good, baby.

All the things women say when they’re either interested or already involved.

So clearly Noon had options.

He had attention.

Women were noticing him.

He wasn’t out here struggling in the dating department.

Let’s just say that.

which makes what he did even more confusing.

But we’ll get there because if you got options, why are you living rentree off one woman while entertaining others? Make it make sense.

Here’s what bothers me though, and I can’t shake this.

Noon had a daughter, a little girl.

I’ve seen the pictures he posted of her, and based on how old she looked, she couldn’t have been more than 10.

probably younger, maybe seven or eight, just a baby, really.

That little girl called him dad.

Looked at him the way daughters look at fathers when they’re that age.

Like he hung the moon and painted the stars.

Like he was a superhero who could fix anything.

And that image, that little girl who loved her father, that’s going to haunt this whole story.

Because whatever choices Noon made, whatever happened in that house on October 3rd, his daughter is the one who has to carry it, she’s going to grow up and Google her father’s name someday, and this is what she’s going to find.

Not my dad was a great man.

Not my dad tried his best, but this murder, HIV, betrayal, national headlines.

How do you even begin to unpack that in therapy? Like, where do you start? Well, doc, my dad killed his girlfriend and himself, but before that, he was living rentree and giving people diseases.

That poor child’s therapist is going to need a therapist.

But I’m jumping ahead.

Let’s talk about how Nunan Dwanda actually lived because this is where it gets good.

And by good, I mean infuriating.

For 5 years, 5 years, Non lived in Dew’s house.

And when I say Dew’s house, I mean exactly that.

Not their house, not a house they got together, her house with her name on the lease.

And in those 5 years, Non paid exactly 0 toward rent.

Let me say that again for the people in the back.

Zero dollars.

Didn’t chip in for utilities.

Didn’t cover groceries.

Didn’t even offer to split the internet bill.

He contributed nothing.

Now look, I’m not one of those people who thinks relationships have to be perfectly 50/50 on everything.

Sometimes one person makes more money.

Sometimes someone’s between jobs.

Sometimes you cover for each other because that’s what love looks like.

I get that.

That’s partnership.

But 5 years, 5 years of paying nothing.

That’s not I’m going through a rough patch.

That’s not I’m between opportunities.

That’s a whole lifestyle.

That’s career freeloading.

That’s professional rent dodging.

That’s like if you let someone borrow your car for the weekend and they just never gave it back and then 5 years later they’re still driving it and when you ask about it they’re like what I thought we were sharing.

No sir we are not sharing.

You are taking every single month Dewanda paid the rent full amount.

Every month she kept the lights on, kept the water running, kept food in the fridge, and Noon just lived there comfortably, like it was his right, like his presence was the contribution, like she should be grateful he chose to grace her house, her house, with his existence.

You know what that is? That’s not a boyfriend.

That’s a dependent.

That’s not a partner.

That’s a bill.

If we’re being honest, Dwanda’s actual bills probably cost less and caused less stress than noon did.

At least when your electric bill is high, you know why.

You left the lights on.

You ran the AC too much.

It makes sense.

But noon, the audacity bill just kept getting higher with no explanation.

To everyone else, they probably looked like a normal couple going about their lives, doing couple things, building to award something.

And maybe, maybe that’s what De believed, too.

Maybe she told herself the money didn’t matter because what they had was real.

Maybe she told herself he’d start contributing eventually.

Maybe she told herself love isn’t about finances.

And you know what? She’s not wrong.

Love isn’t about finances, but respect is.

Partnership is, basic human decency is.

But while Dwanda was out here working, paying bills, taking care of her family, planning for a future she thought they were building together.

Non was out here living a completely different life.

The cheating started at some point.

Or maybe it never stopped.

Maybe there were always other women.

Late nights with explanations that didn’t quite add up.

Phone calls he’d take outside, texts he’d delete.

You know, the classics, the greatest hits of I’m definitely cheating on you behaviors.

And here’s the thing that gets me.

Noon had options.

We’ve established he was good-looking.

We’ve established women were interested.

His Facebook was basically a thirst trap comment section.

So if he wanted to be with other people, why not just leave? Why not be honest and say, “Hey, I don’t want to be in a committed relationship.

I’ll tell you exactly why.

Because leaving would mean paying his own rent.” And had gotten very comfortable not doing that.

See, it’s easy to be with multiple women when you don’t have any financial responsibilities.

When you’re not worried about making rent, you got time.

You got energy.

You can be out here living like you’re on a dating show because you don’t have to rush home to figure out how to pay bills.

You already figured that out.

You just don’t.

But the cheating.

Oh, honey, that wasn’t even the worst part.

That was just the opening act.

That was the preview.

The main event.

The main event was something else entirely.

Noon Thurman had HIV.

And before anybody starts with, “Well, maybe he didn’t know.” Stop.

He knew.

Full-blown HIV.

Not recently diagnosed where he’s still processing.

Not in the early stages where it’s manageable and undetectable with medication.

Full-blown.

And he never told Dwanda.

Let that marinate for a second.

This man was sleeping with Dwanda, obviously unprotected, because how else would she get infected? He was living in her house, using her resources, eating her food, sleeping in her bed.

And the entire time he knew he had an incurable virus.

Knew he was putting her at risk.

Knew she had no idea what she was being exposed to.

and he just didn’t say anything.

Woke up every morning, looked her in the face, and chose silence day after day after day.

That’s not an accident.

That’s not a misunderstanding.

That’s not I was scared to tell her.

That’s deliberate.

That’s calculated.

That’s knowing something that affects someone else’s entire life and deciding your comfort is more important than their health.

You know what that is? That’s not betrayal.

Betrayal is almost too soft a word for this.

That’s biological warfare.

That’s giving someone a life sentence without them even knowing they were on trial.

In most states, that’s actually illegal.

It’s called criminal transmission of HIV.

Because when you know you have it and you don’t disclose it to a sexual partner, you’re not just lying.

You’re making a decision about their body without their consent.

You’re taking away their agency, their future, their ability to choose what risks they’re willing to take with their own health.

Some of you all might be thinking, well, maybe he was embarrassed about what? About having HIV.

That’s not embarrassment.

That’s selfishness.

You don’t get to be embarrassed about potentially killing someone.

You don’t get to protect your feelings at the expense of someone else’s life.

And I know some of y’all are already typing, “Well, why didn’t she insist on protection? Stop it.

Stop victim blaming.” She was in what she thought was a committed, monogamous relationship with someone she trusted.

She [snorts] had no reason to think she needed protection from a man she’d been with for 5 years.

That’s literally the point of trust.

You don’t think you need to protect yourself from someone you love.

Non took all of that from Dwanda.

Her trust, her health, her future, her ability to have children without risk, her ability to grow old without managing a chronic illness.

He took everything.

And then he came home every day and acted like everything was fine.

Probably asked, “What’s for dinner?” Probably watched TV on her couch.

probably fell asleep in her bed without a single thought about what he’d done to her.

The audacity, the sheer uncut, unfiltered audacity.

So, how did Dwanda find out? The way most people find out their partner is living a double life.

Somebody got sloppy.

Maybe noon left his phone unlocked.

Maybe a notification popped up at the worst possible time.

Maybe he got too comfortable and stopped covering his tracks.

Or maybe, and this is what I think, Dwanda’s gut had been telling her something was off for a while, and she finally decided to listen to it.

However it happened, she ended up going through his phone.

And before anyone starts with going through someone’s phone is wrong, is it though? Is it really? because what she found was way worse than invading privacy.

What she found was proof that her entire relationship was a lie.

At first, it might have just been one message, one name she didn’t recognize.

Maybe she told herself it was nothing.

Maybe she tried to give him the benefit of the doubt.

But then she kept scrolling and scrolling and scrolling.

messages to women she’d never heard of.

Photos, conversations that made it very clear this wasn’t new.

This wasn’t a one-time mistake.

This wasn’t baby I slipped up.

This man had been living a whole separate life.

You know that feeling when you find out something and your whole body goes cold? When your stomach drops and your hands start shaking and you can’t quite catch your breath.

That’s what that moment was.

That’s what scrolling through your partner’s phone and finding out they’re not who you thought they were feels like.

It’s not just heartbreak.

It’s humiliation.

It’s realizing you were living in one reality while they were operating in a completely different one.

It’s understanding that every time they said, “I love you,” they were lying.

Every time they made plans for the future, they were lying.

Every time they came home and acted normal, they were lying.

But Danda wasn’t done scrolling yet, because then she saw something that made her stomach drop in a whole different way.

Medical records, test results, the words HIV positive, staring back at her from the screen in black and white.

noon.

Thurman knew he’d known for a long time.

Long enough to have it in his medical records.

Long enough to have had appointments about it.

Long enough to be managing it.

And he never said a word.

Now, I need you to imagine what that moment felt like.

Actually, imagine it.

You just found out your man of 5 years.

The man whose rent you’ve been paying has been cheating on you with multiple women.

That alone is devastating.

That alone would break most people.

But then you find out he has HIV and he never told you and you’ve been sleeping with him this entire time unprotected for 5 years.

That’s not just a bad day.

That’s not even a bad year.

That’s your whole life changing in the time it takes to scroll through a phone.

That’s finding out everything you thought you knew was wrong.

And also, by the way, you might be dying now.

That’s the kind of moment where your brain literally can’t process what it’s seeing.

Where you read something and then read it again because surely surely you misunderstood.

But she didn’t misunderstand.

Dwanda didn’t waste time.

She scheduled her own test.

Had to sit in that clinic waiting room, probably feeling like she was in a nightmare.

Probably praying, begging God, the universe, whoever was listening.

That maybe, just maybe, she’d be the exception.

That maybe the virus didn’t transmit.

That maybe this was one betrayal she could escape.

The results came back positive.

He’d infected her.

The man she loved.

The man she trusted.

The man whose rent she’d been paying for 5 years, gave her an incurable lifelong virus, and then acted like everything was fine.

And you know what’s even crazier? He was still living in her house when she found out.

Still eating her food, still sleeping in her bed, still had the nerve to be there.

If I’m being honest, I don’t even know what I would do in that situation.

Like, genuinely, I don’t because the rage would be astronomical.

The betrayal would be crushing and the fact that he’s still there, still benefiting from your kindness while having destroyed your life.

I don’t even have words for that level of violation.

Dwanda posted something on social media after she found out.

It wasn’t her usual content.

This was different, raw, pointed.

She wrote about STDs, about people who think things are funny, about HIV, BV, hepatitis C, AIDS.

She listed them out like she was trying to make sense of something that made no sense.

Most people scrolled past it, thought it was random, maybe even thought it was one of those share this to spread awareness posts that people make during awareness months.

Some people probably didn’t even read it, just kept scrolling.

But it wasn’t random.

It wasn’t a public service announcement.

It was Dewanda trying to process the unthinkable.

Trying to figure out how someone could do this to another human being.

How someone could be so selfish, so cruel, so completely devoid of basic human decency that they could destroy someone’s life and just keep going.

Her friends started noticing changes.

She was quieter than usual, distant.

When Erica called, Dewanda’s voice sounded different.

Flat, like she was thinking about something heavy that she couldn’t quite say out loud yet.

Because what do you say? Hey girl, so funny story.

Turns out my boyfriend of 5 years who I’ve been supporting financially has been cheating on me and gave me HIV.

Like, how do you even start that conversation? Inside that house on South Normal Avenue, the tension must have been suffocating.

Two people living under the same roof, but only one of them knows the truth is finally out.

And that person, that person had to be calculating what came next.

Was De going to leave him, kick him out, expose him on social media, call the police? Cuz yes, knowingly infecting someone with HIV without disclosure is a felony in Illinois.

He could go to prison for that.

Or was she planning something else? And what about noon? What was he thinking? Did he know she found out? Could he tell? Was he scared? Was he planning his exit? Was he trying to figure out how to explain the unexplainable? We’ll never know what went through either of their heads in those final days.

What conversations they had, what words were exchanged, whether she confronted him directly, or whether the silence between them said everything that needed to be said.

What we do know is this.

Thursday, October 2nd was the last full day Dewanda Dejun would be alive.

And by Friday morning, everyone would have an opinion about what happened.

October 3rd, 2025.

Friday.

The day starts at 12:01 a.m.

Like every other day, nothing special, nothing unusual, just another early Friday morning in Englewood.

The neighborhood is quiet, Chicago’s Southside.

At night, it’s just like most urban neighborhoods.

Some cars passing by, porch lights on, the distant sound of the city that never really sleeps.

Dogs barking somewhere down the block.

Maybe someone’s TV is too loud.

Normal stuff.

Nothing that would make anyone look twice at the house where Dw and Noon lived.

1:00 a.m.

rolls around, still quiet.

2:00 a.m.

The city sleeps.

Well, part of it anyway.

And then sometime just after 2:30 in the morning, everything changes.

Here’s what neighbors would later tell police.

They didn’t hear shouting.

No glass breaking.

No door slamming.

No sounds of a fight.

No, I’m going to kill you.

Moment that you see in the movies.

If there was an argument, it was quiet, controlled.

The kind of conversation that happens in harsh whispers because you don’t want the neighbors to hear.

The kind where every word is measured and heavy.

Two gunshots.

That’s it.

That’s all anyone heard.

Two distinct pops that could have been fireworks or a car backfiring if you weren’t paying close attention.

The kind of sound that makes you pause for a second, wonder what it was, and then go back to whatever you were doing because it’s Chicago.

And sometimes you hear things.

By 2:33 a.m., someone calls 911.

We don’t know who.

Could have been a neighbor who realized those weren’t fireworks.

Could have been someone who heard something else.

But the call comes in.

Police rush to 6600 South Normal Avenue.

They arrive and from the outside everything looks normal.

The house looks like every other house on the block.

Quiet, dark, no signs of chaos.

But when they go inside, they find something that stops them cold.

Dwan, 38 years old, shot in the head, dead.

Non Thermmont, 44 years old, also shot in the head.

also dead.

A handgun on the floor between them.

No signs of forced entry.

No indication anyone else had been in the house.

No evidence of a struggle.

No overturned furniture.

No broken glass.

Nothing that suggested a fight.

Just two people, two bullets, and a weapon that told investigators this wasn’t random violence.

This wasn’t a robbery gone wrong.

This was personal.

By the time the coroner arrives, family members are already gathering outside because that’s how it works in tight-knit neighborhoods.

Word spreads fast.

Someone hears sirens, looks outside, sees police tape, and within an hour, everyone knows something terrible happened.

People are standing on the sidewalk in their pajamas and coats trying to make sense of what they’re seeing, trying to understand how two people who were alive just hours ago are now both gone.

And then someone says it out loud, murder, suicide.

Just like that, the story writes itself.

And honestly, I don’t blame them.

I really don’t because based on what the scene looked like, based on what everyone knew about noon cheating and the HIV diagnosis, what other conclusion would you draw? A woman’s corn, a man who betrayed her, infected her with HIV, and she took her revenge.

Then, overcome with guilt or grief or the realization of what she’d done, she turned the gun on herself.

It’s clean.

It’s simple.

It makes sense.

It fits the narrative we’ve been taught about crimes of passion and women who snap.

Family at the scene tells reporters that’s what it looks like.

A murder suicide.

CBS News reports it.

Fox 32 picks it up.

And just like that, before the bodies are even cold, before an autopsy is done, before any investigation happens, the story is set.

She killed him, then she killed herself.

Case closed.

By the time the sun rises over Chicago that Friday morning, Dewanda Dejan’s name is already spreading across social media like wildfire.

And the internet, the internet doesn’t wait for autopsy reports.

doesn’t wait for police statements, doesn’t even wait for official confirmation of who the victims are.

The internet sees an address, recognizes the neighborhood, knows the backstory, and immediately starts filling in the blanks.

She found out he gave her HIV and lost it.

Murder, suicide in Englewood.

He cheated, infected her, and she snapped.

Imagine being with a man for 5 years, giving him everything, paying his rent, then you find out he’s been cheating, and he gave you HIV.

Full-blown HIV.

I’m not saying what she did was right, but I understand.

That last one, that post got thousands of comments.

Thousands of people weighing in on what they would have done, what they think happened, what Dwanda was thinking.

The comments under those posts was something else.

I would have done the same thing.

He deserved it.

Honestly, she should have just left.

But I get why she didn’t.

Play stupid games, win stupid prizes.

Can’t say I blame her.

Posts multiply by the hour.

Screenshots get shared, reposted, quote, tweeted.

People who never met Dwand, never heard her voice, never knew anything about her life are suddenly experts on what she did and why she did it.

The narrative writes itself.

A woman pushed too far.

A man who played with fire and got burned.

Revenge in its roarest, most brutal form.

Justice served, even if the method was extreme.

And you know what? The internet loves a story like this.

It’s tragic.

It’s dramatic.

It’s easy to understand.

It confirms everything people already believe about karma and consequences.

It’s a cautionary tale.

This is what happens when you cheat.

Becomes the morale of the story.

People are making videos about it.

Tik Toks, YouTube commentary, everyone has something to say.

Everyone has an opinion.

And 99% of them have the same conclusion.

Dwanda did it.

But here’s the problem.

Here’s the big problem that nobody stopped to think about.

Dwanda Dejan is dead.

She can’t defend herself.

She can’t tell her side of the story.

She can’t explain what really happened in that house at 2:30 in the morning.

She can’t go on Facebook Live and say, “Wait, hold on.

That’s not what happened.” She can’t do anything because she’s dead.

And while strangers on the internet are busy dissecting her choices, debating whether her actions were justified, turning her into a case study about what happens when a woman is pushed too far.

Her reputation is being destroyed.

The woman who worked hard, gone.

Replaced by the woman who snapped.

The woman who paid her bills and took care of her family.

Gone.

replaced by the woman who committed murder.

The woman who loved her grandbaby and had lunch plans with her best friend.

Gone.

Replaced by the woman who couldn’t control her rage.

Dwanda Dejan was being turned into a villain.

A cautionary tale, an example of what not to do.

And she couldn’t say a single word to stop it because someone had already taken her voice.

Her best friend, Erica Elizabeth Clay, tried to push back.

She posted on Facebook, and you can feel the weight of her grief in every word.

You were my friend in real life, Dewanda Desan.

I’ve been at your house since 5:00 a.m.

waiting for you to come out.

I’m a person of many words, but this has left me speechless.

The truth will prevail so that no one can play on your name.

Facts are facts.

I’m going to let the news and the detectives do their job.

I’ve never been the one to go back and forth about false information, and I don’t speak badly on the dead, but you didn’t deserve this.

We had a lunch and shopping date scheduled for Sunday, and so many other things to do.

I’m lost and broken, praying for your family, especially your mom, siblings, son, and grandbaby.

Read that again.

I’ve been at your house since 500 a.m.

waiting for you to come out.

5 in the morning.

Erica showed up at 5:00 in the morning and stood outside that house waiting for her best friend, waiting for Dwanda to come outside and explain what happened, to tell her side, to make it make sense.

But Dwanda never came out because Dwanda was already gone.

And Eric is trying to tell people the truth will prevail, but nobody’s listening.

The story is already out there, spreading faster than Erica can type, faster than the truth can catch up.

People have made up their minds.

Dejan killed her boyfriend in a fit of rage, then took her own life.

Everyone knows it.

Everyone’s talking about it.

It’s obvious.

Except it’s not.

While the internet was busy convicting his sister, Danielle Dejan was silent.

And I don’t mean silent like he was ignoring it.

I mean silent like someone who knows something.

Silent like someone who’s waiting.

Because Daniel didn’t go online to argue with strangers.

He didn’t post long paragraphs defending his sister.

He didn’t get into comment section battles about what happened.

He did something way more important.

He waited for the facts.

The official paperwork, the medical examiner’s report, the crime scene analysis, the forensics, the ballistics, all the stuff that actually matters when you’re trying to figure out what happened.

And on day three, three days of watching thousands of people drag his dead sister’s name through the mud, Daniel got what he was waiting for.

Documents.

Official documents.

The kind that don’t lie.

The kind that don’t care about social media narratives or public opinion.

Documents that said one word.

Victim.

Not suspect.

Not perpetrator.

Not the person who pulled the trigger.

victim.

Tawwanda Dean was the victim.

And Daniel, Daniel was done being quiet.

Three days.

That’s how long Daniel waited.

And then he went life.

>> Man, y’all know god damn well I was coming.

I was coming.

>> Hey y’all look.

Get with me.

Get with me.

>> 100%.

My sister was a victim.

100% victim.

I’m holding victim paperwork.

Victim.

My little sister would have called her brother.

No matter what, if she chose to do whatever, she would have called me first.

I’m here right now.

I just had to do one of the hardest things in my mother life.

>> Roll right here.

>> I ain’t respond to no false narratives.

>> I ain’t say nothing.

>> I let them post, make videos.

And right now that day, guess what I get? To both families, we took a L.

But that [ __ ] y’all put out there.

Oh, she looked in his phone and she snapped and he went out the coward way.

My sister was too raw.

Why would she kill herself to make the envious people of her happy? She too raw for that.

I can only be strong indeed.

>> Cuz I had to shake my head and nod my head and say that’s my sister.

That’s her.

>> Yes.

Everybody that know me personally know the only reason I’m mad.

But I can’t, you know, it is what it is.

>> We good though.

>> So, you know, clear that up.

>> Can y’all please >> she keep my family in y’all prayer, but more so my mama, my sisters, my nephew.

>> We here right now.

We got old everything.

>> I did what? >> She ain’t did shot or did nothing.

>> Victim was bro.

>> Survivors.

Victim.

She was the victim.

>> Victim.

Where my damn thing is so I can flip it.

>> Flip it.

>> Victim.

100%.

Victim.

>> Victim.

>> Not suicide.

Murder.

Suicide.

All that.

I had to identify my baby.

>> She can’t call her brother.

>> They took that [ __ ] Make sure they make sure they post this.

Post this.

Cuz when it was when it was on y’all that say it was us, it was cool.

It was cool.

And I’m still not mad.

I’m mad cuz I can’t do [ __ ] And she still look good.

Still killing mother.

He didn’t hurt that pretty face.

See what I’m saying? >> I can’t even I can’t even cry no more.

>> I’m happy.

I’m so mother happy, y’all.

Y’all know where I’mma be at.

Pull up.

We at >> You know what? Matter of fact, you know what? We going to We going to cook.

We going to We going to build my sister house.

>> See what I’m saying? Like Like >> her house.

>> Her house.

>> Her house >> with her name on it and everything she all that they was saying.

>> I hear crickets.

I’m going to miss my baby so much.

But so much weight lifted off me right now.

I’m still numb.

I’m still But that right there just made me feel better.

I can go hug my mama.

She sent me.

She sent me.

She say, “I can’t do it, son.

I can’t do it.

>> They they they forced me to do the craziest, hardest in my life.

>> I lost a homie in front of me.

>> His brother became her best friend.

That boy broke me down.

I ain’t mad no more.

This is why I ain’t responding.

I couldn’t.

So, make sure everybody post they Why they can’t post? Tell them post.

Tell them what’s going on.

Post it.

I got victim.

100% victim.

Fellas, y’all ain’t ready to deal with no boss.

You going to be insecure and all kind of [ __ ] Let that lady be.

Don’t be no tender.

And I know we all did tender.

I did some.

But not this.

I love every mother that put all 5,000 of y’all that pulled up on me just [clears throat] for me.

Love y’all.

The official autopsy told the real story.

The forensics didn’t lie.

The angle of Dewanda’s wound, the positioning of her body, the gunshot residue, it all pointed to one conclusion.

Someone else pulled that trigger and that someone was non Thurman.

Here’s what investigators believe happened.

Dwanda confronted him.

Maybe she told him to leave her house.

Maybe she threatened to press charges for knowingly infecting her with HIV, which again is a felony and non couldn’t let that happen.

So he picked up a gun and shot her once in the head.

Then he turned the gun on himself.

It was a murder suicide, just not the kind everyone assumed.

He was the murderer.

She was the victim.

So yeah, Dewanda Desan died twice.

both times by the same man.

The first time was when noun gave her HIV.

That wasn’t just an infection.

That was a death sentence, a slow one.

He took her future, her health, her ability to live without managing a lifelong illness.

He killed who she could have been.

The second time was quick.

A bullet final.

He made sure she’d never get to tell anyone what he’d done.

Non’s daughter is growing up without a father.

That little girl has to carry this for the rest of her life.

And to wonder, her name should be cleared.

Her story should be told right, not as the woman who snapped, but as the woman who was killed twice and then blamed for her own murder.

Rest in peace, Noo-Noo.

The truth finally caught up.