This story basically illustrates the rate which human rights are infringed upon in Africa and other developing parts of the word.
The sun had sat perfectly on the morning skies that day, the women with shops on dirty streets had opened up their windows for their wares to be displayed. The usual breeze accompanied with the unforgiving African heat danced through the market square. There was no peace and tranquil as the regular noise from car horns and mad hustle of thugs and miscreants, nobles and servants littered the already littered streets.
The green flies and foul stench oozing out of this huge pile of rotting trash that sat next to the woman who paid no mind about quality hygiene, but routinely fries her crispy akara balls to be sold to the ever waiting hands of children from poor homes; who would in turn wrap them up as midday snack for school.
Just few feet away from the cascading smoke dancing to the air from a hot bowl of hot oil was a bus stop. And a bus had just stopped. As usual it's passengers filed out and with the regular pattern of waiting in line to collect your cahne from the ever changeless conductor, Timothy, a young man with his pair of black trousers, held together by a black leather belt was in a hurry, and so to him letting go of just N10 change seemed like an action that was worthy. But his quick steps were quickly brought to a halt by the crowd of people screaming from behind him, "thief, ole catch am".
At first he looked forward to see if he could help stop the thief in his tracks, but there was nothing to be stopped because in a matter of minutes his doubts were cleared. This thief was him. It only took seconds for him to be surrounded by a month of sweat-dripping-body-smelling thugs with clubs and stones in their hands. Slaps and punches rained on him like a tsunami as the saliva from their dirty mouths became the only air he could breath. "Na wetin I do? Please!" He asked in trepidation with his knees already kissing the dirty market floor.
"You nor know wetin you do abi? You be thief! Na im you be!".
"I am not a thief"
"Then if you nor be thief, why you con dey run?"
"I was only trying to catch up with...." Pppp....ahh a dirty slap to his face making his upper lips silent, sipping the words away before they could be heard. And now his smoothly ironed starched blue shirt had become rumpled and red, stained with the thickness of his blood. They bring his accuser to look him straight in the eyes.
"You thief my N5,000 for inside bus" she screamed at the top of her voice. They search his pocket and find the exact amount and maybe some change, maybe more, that silenced every word.
"I can explain"
"Explain what?" Slaps and punches continued. Sticks and stones broke his bones, crippling him from moving any distance known and unknown. The hot bowl of oil meant for frying akara balls for hungry school children, found it's purpose in another use as they bathed the already petrified Timothy with it. He screams for life as he watches his flesh react to the pain. The crowd of people cheering in amazement, others with unbelief but on their lips silence, others held up their phones to record every scene, As the huge stones shattered his skull revealing portions of his brain for all.
"Please, abeg, stop! I nor be thief". His dying words meant nothing to their caged hearts.
"Kill am"
"Ole"
"see fire"
"bring petrol"
"I get lighter"
"Make e roast"
So they set him on fire. You could see the fear in his eyes accompanied with confusion as he watches his body go up in flames. His flesh burnt from his bones, see he screamed so loud, he screamed so loud into the thick black smoke, until his once-upon-a-time brown skin became baked black as coal.
Justice had been served. A death by a cold heartless myopic crowd.
Somewhere in House No. 19 was a panicked mother on the phone, with her 2 year old daughter clinging to her knees.
"Hello, Chidi, he said he was coming to collect the N5,000 from you this morning".
"You have already given him the money? That's relieving but it's already past 9pm and I still haven't seen him, this is do unlike my husband, this is so unlike Timothy"
SAY NO TO JUNGLE JUSTICE