JUNGLE JUSTICE
Emeka was a mean son-of-a-bitch. He was 60 years old and a Biafra secession supporter. He never hid it either, chewing on a wad of tobacco and telling anyone who would listen about how glorious Biafra would have been, about how Awolowo was just a back-stabbing snake who betrayed Ojukwu by not seceding the South-West Nigeria as well. His teeth were permanently a red-brown and his breath would qualify as a chemical weapon under the Geneva conventions. He was as callous as they come and spent his days cruising the side streets of Ojota in his beat up peugeot 504 and spent his nights listening to Igbo highlife music. Predictably, he didn’t get along well with his neighbors, the Bellos. Usman Bello and his family were yoruba muslims, who to emeka’s archaic sensibilities represented the worst Nigeria has to offer. Consequently they got into several large arguments between the two of them. The last fight they had was a scene to behold. Emeka was screaming obscenities while trying to stop blood flowing from a head wound Mrs Bello had apparently inflicted on him. I say apparently because she still held the omorogun in her hands and she was challenging him “Don't ever talk to my children again! Come and try yourself again! Me I go fight you, old bastard!”
Emeka was red in the face from rage and if the landlord’s son wasn’t holding him back, I have no doubt he would have beaten her and the timid Mr Usman. The argument lasted over two hours and culminated with Emeka beating up the landlord’s son leaving the boy with two black eyes. The landlord had to kick him out which was a surprise to no one but Emeka. He swore up and down to deal with the whole lot of them but I think secretly everyone was happy to see the mean old man leave.
A week later, little Sikirah Bello, the youngest child of the Bellos went missing. It was a heavy blow to the community because she was this lovely amazing kid who always laughing like she knew some great secret the world wasn’t privy to. After two frantic days of searching Mrs Bello collapsed in the middle of the road and wept. Usman, his usual mellow self gone, was sitting next to her, his hands upon her shoulders with tears streaming down his face. The neighborhood gathered at Mama Cass bar in a glum mood, reminiscing about the days when the streets were safe, sharing touching stories about Sikirah or making further search plans for adjoining neighborhoods. As i sat there thinking it may be too late, I heard someone mumble my name “ Brother Taju”, I turned and looked into the bruised face of the lanlord’s son, Akin. “I know where Sikirah is” said Akin “What? Where? How you find am?” My loud excited voice attracted attention from other tables and soon a crowd gathered. I had Akin tell his story again. He spoke of how he overheard a girl crying in Emeka’s new apartment, some 15 minutes from his old place on the next street. Akin told of how he heard the girl sobbing and heard Emeka speaking harshly to her. As soon as we got the address we set gathered a crowd and set off to recover Sikirah. The indignation of the crowd was palpable and we gathered several more people who wielded a variety of homemade weapons like broken bottles, planks of woods and braided ropes with shards of metal. One enterprising individual even hefted a cement block over his head. The scene playing out around me and it's inevitable conclusion filled me with elation. We were going to get him! To stop the unpatriotic child molester who had been festering in our side and who had preyed on Lord knows how many children.
We arrived at his house in an uproar, burst through the door without any warning then pulled Emeka out. With the blood lust of the crowd egging us on, we proceeded to beat Emeka bloody. His screams and pleas for mercy went largely ignored and only served to fan the flames of our anger. Sticks and stones and anything that could be wielded to cause pain fell on Emeka’s shirtless body opening up numerous wounds and gashes. “Get back!” I said, a quiet confidence filling my voice. I wanted to see the look in his eyes when he realised his days filled with heinous crimes were about to come to an end and his precious Biafra would not save him. This may seem callous but I harbor a deep and abiding hatred for people who hurt children. I pushed the mob back and readied my weapon of choice, a plank studded with nails. As I hefted it above my head, I saw our friend with the cement block dash forward and smash the block down on his head. There was a sickening crunch as his skull caved in and his eyes started bleeding. At this point, the elderly who could not physically take part in Emeka’s judgement came out from his house with a little girl in tow where they had been searching for Sikirah. They came back in celebrating that they found her in the bathroom. The angry,hateful mob turned joyful, laughing and dancing over the dying body of Emeka. I lifted the little girl up on my shoulders and carried her to Mrs Bello. My joy sputtered and died as I saw the look on her face. “That’s not Sikirah” she said “That's not my child! Where’s my Sikirah?” I gently pried the girl from my shoulders and took a carefuul look at her. While she had the same short afro Sikirah did, she didn’t have her cute button nose or the birthmark on her shoulder. With a creeping burden in my heart, I asked her who she was “Kelechi” she said through sniffling tears. “Kelechi? Ok. it's ok, Why are you here with this man? Why were you in his bathroom?” “He’s my uncle Meka. My mommy said I should stay with him while she goes to market” She peers past me and sees Emeka’s still form on the floor. “Uncle Meka!” she cried “Uncle Meka get up! I won’t cry about bathing again! Please! Wake Up!” Those words would follow me for the rest of my life. I let her slip past me and she ran to him, patting his head and crying even harder when he wouldn’t listen to her entreaties.
The hate in the group, that blinded misguided hate we held dissipated and congealed as horror, shame and disgust at what we did. We killed an innocent man. For no reason stronger than our natural dislike for him and someone overheard a girl crying. Sirens sounded in the distance and the group scattered leaving me and a couple of stragglers too stunned to run. I sat on the ground next to Emeka and watched his still form. I would have carried her but I didn’t want the stains on my hand and my soul to rub off on her. As i sat there, waiting for the police to come and mete out “justice”, I wondered what would have happened had we ever stopped to consider why we felt we were qualified to judge anyone.
Written by:
Ede Edokpolor
PURPLE WRITERS
Emeka was a mean son-of-a-bitch. He was 60 years old and a Biafra secession supporter. He never hid it either, chewing on a wad of tobacco and telling anyone who would listen about how glorious Biafra would have been, about how Awolowo was just a back-stabbing snake who betrayed Ojukwu by not seceding the South-West Nigeria as well. His teeth were permanently a red-brown and his breath would qualify as a chemical weapon under the Geneva conventions. He was as callous as they come and spent his days cruising the side streets of Ojota in his beat up peugeot 504 and spent his nights listening to Igbo highlife music. Predictably, he didn’t get along well with his neighbors, the Bellos. Usman Bello and his family were yoruba muslims, who to emeka’s archaic sensibilities represented the worst Nigeria has to offer. Consequently they got into several large arguments between the two of them. The last fight they had was a scene to behold. Emeka was screaming obscenities while trying to stop blood flowing from a head wound Mrs Bello had apparently inflicted on him. I say apparently because she still held the omorogun in her hands and she was challenging him “Don't ever talk to my children again! Come and try yourself again! Me I go fight you, old bastard!”
Emeka was red in the face from rage and if the landlord’s son wasn’t holding him back, I have no doubt he would have beaten her and the timid Mr Usman. The argument lasted over two hours and culminated with Emeka beating up the landlord’s son leaving the boy with two black eyes. The landlord had to kick him out which was a surprise to no one but Emeka. He swore up and down to deal with the whole lot of them but I think secretly everyone was happy to see the mean old man leave.
A week later, little Sikirah Bello, the youngest child of the Bellos went missing. It was a heavy blow to the community because she was this lovely amazing kid who always laughing like she knew some great secret the world wasn’t privy to. After two frantic days of searching Mrs Bello collapsed in the middle of the road and wept. Usman, his usual mellow self gone, was sitting next to her, his hands upon her shoulders with tears streaming down his face. The neighborhood gathered at Mama Cass bar in a glum mood, reminiscing about the days when the streets were safe, sharing touching stories about Sikirah or making further search plans for adjoining neighborhoods. As i sat there thinking it may be too late, I heard someone mumble my name “ Brother Taju”, I turned and looked into the bruised face of the lanlord’s son, Akin. “I know where Sikirah is” said Akin “What? Where? How you find am?” My loud excited voice attracted attention from other tables and soon a crowd gathered. I had Akin tell his story again. He spoke of how he overheard a girl crying in Emeka’s new apartment, some 15 minutes from his old place on the next street. Akin told of how he heard the girl sobbing and heard Emeka speaking harshly to her. As soon as we got the address we set gathered a crowd and set off to recover Sikirah. The indignation of the crowd was palpable and we gathered several more people who wielded a variety of homemade weapons like broken bottles, planks of woods and braided ropes with shards of metal. One enterprising individual even hefted a cement block over his head. The scene playing out around me and it's inevitable conclusion filled me with elation. We were going to get him! To stop the unpatriotic child molester who had been festering in our side and who had preyed on Lord knows how many children.
We arrived at his house in an uproar, burst through the door without any warning then pulled Emeka out. With the blood lust of the crowd egging us on, we proceeded to beat Emeka bloody. His screams and pleas for mercy went largely ignored and only served to fan the flames of our anger. Sticks and stones and anything that could be wielded to cause pain fell on Emeka’s shirtless body opening up numerous wounds and gashes. “Get back!” I said, a quiet confidence filling my voice. I wanted to see the look in his eyes when he realised his days filled with heinous crimes were about to come to an end and his precious Biafra would not save him. This may seem callous but I harbor a deep and abiding hatred for people who hurt children. I pushed the mob back and readied my weapon of choice, a plank studded with nails. As I hefted it above my head, I saw our friend with the cement block dash forward and smash the block down on his head. There was a sickening crunch as his skull caved in and his eyes started bleeding. At this point, the elderly who could not physically take part in Emeka’s judgement came out from his house with a little girl in tow where they had been searching for Sikirah. They came back in celebrating that they found her in the bathroom. The angry,hateful mob turned joyful, laughing and dancing over the dying body of Emeka. I lifted the little girl up on my shoulders and carried her to Mrs Bello. My joy sputtered and died as I saw the look on her face. “That’s not Sikirah” she said “That's not my child! Where’s my Sikirah?” I gently pried the girl from my shoulders and took a carefuul look at her. While she had the same short afro Sikirah did, she didn’t have her cute button nose or the birthmark on her shoulder. With a creeping burden in my heart, I asked her who she was “Kelechi” she said through sniffling tears. “Kelechi? Ok. it's ok, Why are you here with this man? Why were you in his bathroom?” “He’s my uncle Meka. My mommy said I should stay with him while she goes to market” She peers past me and sees Emeka’s still form on the floor. “Uncle Meka!” she cried “Uncle Meka get up! I won’t cry about bathing again! Please! Wake Up!” Those words would follow me for the rest of my life. I let her slip past me and she ran to him, patting his head and crying even harder when he wouldn’t listen to her entreaties.
The hate in the group, that blinded misguided hate we held dissipated and congealed as horror, shame and disgust at what we did. We killed an innocent man. For no reason stronger than our natural dislike for him and someone overheard a girl crying. Sirens sounded in the distance and the group scattered leaving me and a couple of stragglers too stunned to run. I sat on the ground next to Emeka and watched his still form. I would have carried her but I didn’t want the stains on my hand and my soul to rub off on her. As i sat there, waiting for the police to come and mete out “justice”, I wondered what would have happened had we ever stopped to consider why we felt we were qualified to judge anyone.
Written by:
Ede Edokpolor
PURPLE WRITERS
