Quincey Ikechukwu Ockletree was born on January 27, 2006, in San Diego, California, and from the very beginning he arrived like he meant it—feet moving, eyes bright, spirit already certain of itself. Quincey lived his 20 years the same way he entered them: independent, determined, and full of a kind of life that didn’t ask permission. He passed on the morning of February 9, 2026, in Escondido, California, leaving behind a silence that feels impossible to explain to anyone who didn’t know what it was like to be in a room with him.

Quincey was the light and the life wherever he went. His middle name, given to him in the womb by his grandfather, means God’s power. He didn’t just walk into spaces, he changed them. People noticed him and wanted to be around him. He was fearless and unfiltered with the energy of someone who could make a whole room laugh, think, and feel all at once. At times, he was a bull in a china cabinet, bold, loud, and impossible to ignore, but always with a heart that leaned toward protection. He paid attention to people. If he saw someone being overlooked, hurt, or needing help, Quincey was the one who stepped in. He gave himself freely, instinctively, as if caring was as natural as breathing.

At home, Quincey was one of the “louds”, and if you knew him, you’re probably smiling through tears at that, because it’s true. In a house of six, there were three loud and three quiet, a perfect balance. And among the louds, Quincey was the loudest: outspoken, hilarious, intense, and fully himself. He commanded a room like it was his birthright, not out of ego, but because leadership was just woven into him. Quincey had a way of softening the hardest hearts, warming the coldest rooms, and brightening any darkness. He could dare life to meet him where he stood, and somehow, life usually did.

His smile was the kind that filled a room before he ever said a word—big, radiant, unmistakable, like it carried its own sunlight. And those eyes… one glance was enough to stop you in your tracks, because they didn’t just look at you, they saw you. Put that smile with that gaze and nobody stood a chance. You were going to feel him, and you were going to remember him. Quincey had a rare kind of magnetism, the kind that pulled people in from every age and every background, and somehow made them feel like they belonged in his orbit. He was truly one of one—powerful and tender, hilarious and unforgettable, a whole force of nature wrapped in a single beautiful soul.

A part of Quincey’s story will always be football. He grew up in the Broncos Murrieta Jr. All American League, playing from the time he was six years old all the way into high school. On that field, he learned discipline, built brotherhood, and found the kind of belonging that stays with you for life. When it was time to carry that love forward, Chaparral High School football became the natural high school extension of what the Broncos had already built in him. It carried the same grit, the same family, and the same pride, only now under the Friday night lights. He also spent a year at Vista Murrieta High School, and no matter the jersey, he did what he always did. He showed up big, played with heart, and made his presence impossible to miss.

More recently, Quincey chose to serve his country by joining the United States Navy. He stepped into that calling with the same determination he brought to everything in life, working hard and pushing himself day after day. He earned the rank of E-3 as a Machinist’s Mate Fireman (MMFN) aboard the USS Boxer in San Diego, and that achievement fit him perfectly. When Quincey set his mind on something, he didn’t just hope for it. He went after it with his whole heart until it was done.

And if you ever heard him playing video games, you already know Quincey didn’t play quietly. He played to win, with a fierce competitiveness that could fill the house and spill into the next one. It was loud, it was hilarious, and it was pure Quincey. Even now, the memory of that sound carries his voice, and the laughter that came with it still feels close.

Quincey was deeply loved in his community, and he left his mark in a way that can’t be measured. He had a gift for making people feel something the moment they met him, and he collected hearts everywhere he went. In just twenty years, he made the impact of many lifetimes. He will be remembered as a son, a brother, a grandson, a cousin, and a friend, but also as a protector and a natural leader, the kind of presence that lingers long after the room goes quiet.

Quincey is survived by his mother, Ifeanyi Kerri-Walker; his father, Terrance L. Ockletree; his stepfather, Jason Walker; and his stepmother, Ruth Palacio. He is also survived by his siblings: Terrance O. Ockletree, Taesean M. Ockletree, Jailyn A. Walker, and Jason A.I. Walker. He is lovingly remembered by his grandparents Diane Kerri, Sandra Jenkins, Terry Ochiltree, Eddie Jenkins, and Linda Hodge, and he is preceded in death by his grandfather, Dr. James N. Kerri. He is also lovingly remembered by his aunts, uncles, cousins, and extended family.

There are some lives so vivid that even grief can’t dim them. It only makes their light feel farther away. Quincey was one of those lives. He was loud love. He was laughter and protection. He was the warmth in the cold, the spark in the dark, the bright, unstoppable presence that made people feel more alive just by being near him. And though we are learning how to live with the ache of his absence, we will carry the story of him—his smile, his voice, his courage, his heart—for the rest of our days.

In Lieu of Flowers the family suggests to honor Quincey’s life and the joy he brought to so many, the family invites you to make a donation in his memory to All Kids Play: https://allkidsplay.org/donate/