JUNGLE JUSTICE

JUNGLE JUSTICE (THE STREETS NEVER FORGIVE)

3251 WORDS

Jungle is a holy place

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Where all men are saints and

The only sinners are those who are

Caught in the act that all are guilty of committing

Justice is a busy court in our hearts

Where we are judge and jury And

there is no mercy.

The witty wiry young man darted through the patterned stalls with adept ease. He was

barefooted, running on his toes. He wore a tattered jean and was chest bare save for

some stained threadbare singlet. With his blood was pulsing and his heart racing, the

escape was him and he was it. Behind him many shouts trailed, gaining on him with

heavy footfalls. Men were running with earnest vigour, chasing a lean figure. The

scorching afternoon sun was wholly interested in this pursuit and it beamed its glorious

face around the action scene. The actors had slick bodies, bulging muscles, squinted

eyes and popping veins. Breathless.

He had earlier navigated the outskirts of the market with much ease, experience leading

him on. A clamber over a table littered with vegetables. A leap over that spirogyra

infected gutter. Oh! To the dust goes Mama Nancy’s array of red tomatoes and pepper.

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His feet were set in a rhythmical up and return movement, a poverty dried up young

man running towards escape. Come see his pursuers. At first, it was just a lone woman,

crying out aloud, trying to reach the fleer. Then at the mention of the words, “Stop him!

He’s a thief! He’s stolen my purse,” a man joined her immediately. He was more athletic

and determined, and was joined by another man soon after. On it went, over again and

the repeated time, till an array of men thronged, growing in size as they progressed in

hot pursuit against the fleeing young man.

Dear Modupe,

The boy I never became or twelve years as a learning child.

I am hungry and I know it. It’s not because of the biting pains in my stomach or the

weakness in my knees, but because I have not eaten any substantive food for the past

two days. I scrunch up my face into the most hideous grimace I could ever conjure and

march to my father who lounges on our broken couch, performing intensive oral

intercourse with an empty bottle of beer.

“Papa, I have not eaten since. I am hungry,” I say, bursting into tears at the sound of my

own predicament.

He doesn’t reply, instead he intensifies his efforts with his lover, trying to suck even the

last bit of her. I repeat myself again, increasing my wailing.

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He pauses and turns to face me slowly. “Come closer, I can’t hear you clearly,” he says

with a face that betrays no emotion.

I didn’t know whether he was concerned or angry so I shuffle to within his reach and

begin my lamentation all over again.

“Papa, I… I… have not eaten anything for two days now,” I say between gulps of tears.

“There is no food in the house and…” I am silenced by a deafening slap. I stop crying

immediately. Maybe it’s shock or the fact that my belly suddenly felt full. I look at my

father trying to understand what I had done to warrant such slap.

“Get out of my sight you dirty rat! Before I break your head,” he shouts, pointing his

lover at me menacingly.”

I shudder at the sound of his voice, retreating slowly. This was not the first time he had

hit me in such way. He had made it a habit to beat me up for every little offence I

committed, but this felt different. I begin to wonder whether it was my fault for being

hungry, or whether being hungry had become an offence. I crawl into a corner and curl

myself into a ball. The pangs of hunger throw their shades at me while I whimper and

sob softly for fear that crying would be an offence too. I hear his voice like a sermon in

the distance. “You be asking me for what to eat. Better go to the streets and fend for

yourself. Foolish boy.”

I peer into the wall with the tears flowing freely from my eyes. My soul has been stirred

and bliss is just one dream away.

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The young man looked back and quickly returned his gaze to his escape, face creased

in worry. He was scared. There was something more than the woman chasing him now

and it was faster and more dangerous. He was out of breath and tired too, but each

glance he threw at the faces of his ever-nearing pursuers gave him breath, gave him

strength. He was literally flying. He had been keeping track of his speed, but his feet,

apprehended by his deep panic, decided that his pace was too slow to ensure their

survival and escape, and equally decided to choose their own tempo.

“I should get out of this market,” he thought. “But the open? That’s too risky. I should

hide instead. Lose them.”

So, the darting began. He was faster, they were angrier. He was wiser, they were

impatient. Soon, he was tucked safely behind a crate of soda minerals, far from their

sight, safe from their grasp. From thence he peeked at them from time to time as their

shouts rang through the market.

“He dey there?” one voice projected. “No, I no see am again,” another responded. “He

must not escape o.” This concluded all he could hear.

Certain that he was safe, he proceeded to empty the contents of the purse, gauge his

gain, and lose all incriminating evidence.

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“I would have to purchase a new shirt and jean quickly,” he thought. “I need to disguise

myself so these evil people won’t recognise me anymore.”

Lost in the serene of flipping through a wad of 500 Naira notes, he lifts his head to see a

little boy staring at him suspiciously. They stare at each other for a while till a shout of

“you don check that side?” breaks their eye conversation. The boy makes as though to

give away the location, but is quickly stopped by the offer of a 500 naira note which he

accepts quickly, licking his lips all the while. He is expected to run along to get some

sweets and biscuits, but he stays, eyeing the wad of notes in the young man’s hand. He

gesticulates with his head that he wants some more. This is met at first with a stern

reprove, fast blinking ad vigorous head shaking, but there is little option. The little boy is

handed some more and on and on till the wad is successfully halved. He stretches out

his hand for more, but at this point, the young man is ready to strangle him. The boy

withdraws his hand and smiles, seemingly satisfied. He tucks his hoodwinked share into

his shorts and then bolts to meet the still infuriated pursuers, screaming all the while,

“the thief dey there o. I don see am.”

The feeling hit like a kick to the gut. This was the first betrayal. The young man ran out

of his hiding place before it was invaded by his pursuers, led by his accomplice. He runs

quickly to the open outside the market. This was a place he would not have considered

on rational terms, but he wasn’t thinking straight. He roughed his way away, pushing the

arriving marketers this way and that as the shouts of “hold am, hold am” followed him

closely. His eyes were fixed on the busy express road. If he could cross in time, he

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would have a chance to lose them once more and again. He surges ahead, trips, and

crashes violently to the earth. His feet had betrayed him, the second betrayal.

Dear Modupe,

A lie I never told or four months in the taskmaster’s home

At the break of dawn; I hear the groans of men resonating as they turn in their sleep,

wincing with ease. The mystic sounds emitted from the bowels of emptiness, speaking

of the scarred flesh scraping the mats, the weakened limbs and hungry jaws stretching.

The lot of us usually woke up before it was time, early enough to avoid being deprived

of breakfast. I see the resigned reflection of resignation in all our eyes, and the fear of

life lingering over all our minds. At once, I'm again a suckling, squirming in my mother's

arms, sucking the warm promise of love, basking in the affection and care. At once, I'm

again a child, running through the succulent mud, paddling down a roaring river,

climbing up the old twisted tree. At once, I'm again a boy, adorned with the rusted

interlocking of metal, traded for some pieces of metal, for the heart is indeed cold, and I

do not understand the world anymore.

Then I hear a ringing bell, sombre speaking of rugged days, on distanced hearts, on the

foreigner’s land. The ding reminded me of mother, as she called us to gather around his

stool when it was dinner time. But this ringing was different. It was not a call to dig into

the steaming Amala, or to draw from the bowl of Ewedu. It was a call to replay the

despondent gyre of men who had outlived themselves. It was a call to break our sweat

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and spill our blood once more and again. It was a call for servitude, for it was time to

work, and we were already dead.

He tastes the dust. It is sad and gritty. He makes to get up. He must be on his way

before he is reached. Oops! Too late friend. He is returned to the earth by the touch of a

club to the back of his head, powered by a well ripped muscled arm, powered by hate,

fuelled by violence. Wait let’s pause a moment there. Sorry to break your flow but where

is the cuffs, where are the handcuffs for God’s sake! Why is a club touched to head

rather than a cuff to hands?

He crashes to the earth once again. It was an uncoordinated fall for the hit wasn’t

expected. His hands fly instinctively to the back of his head, clutching it mindlessly,

writhing in pain with gritted teeth. His brown teeth are now covered by some red which

spits out. He opens his squeezed shut eyes. His vision is blurry but he can make out the

many feet cumulating around and about him. He can’t count, but he sees them all. From

the unshod dust caked ones to the ones clad in shiny black armour. From the little ones

to the big ones to the ones supported by a cane. He sees them all through the blur, a

growing crowd.

The young man now lies on the ground, writhing and clutching his head. The director of

this movie and wielder of the club stands around with his fellow aggressors, flexing their

biceps, tapping their sticks on their palms. Mama Aliya, the lady who first rang the cry of

thief, comes to the scene.

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She bends to see his face and then shouts. “He is the one. This is the thief that stole my

purse and money.”

She spins in a dramatic show, turns back to him and starts kicking his belly. “Where is

my purse? Where is my money?”

Receiving no response other than a grunt, she continues. “You’ll produce it today. Thief!

Ole!” She jams her palms together and makes a scornful face at him.

The aggressors move quick to strip him naked with little resistance. Weariness had

made its call and the young man had answered. They search his pockets and bring out

the halved wad of notes which they quickly give to Mama Aliya. She quickly counts it the

first time, then a second time as though a recheck.

“It is not complete,” she exclaims at last. “Where is the remaining?” She asks, kicking

his belly.

The young man can’t take it anymore, so, he rises to his feet with great difficulty. Mama

Aliya runs away in fright for he is stark naked. He had not been long on his feet when he

is sent back to the ground by another hatred powered hit on his back. The crowd gasps

in shock. He rises again and another is slammed into his knees. His face is not spared

and a pair of teeth fly this way, while another pair nestle in the ground that way. He is hit

repeatedly till his eyes pop out with a spurt of blood; an eyeball just held back from

kissing the earth by a string of flesh. There is no gasp, just a few grunts of disgust.

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He gets up again and just before he is hit, a voice says. “Leave am, make we see wetin

he wan do.”

He staggers dangerously, bleeding likewise. He makes his way to occupants of the

crowd, his hands held out in painful appeal as he mouthed the words. “Please forgive

me. Help me.” He was crying, one eye shows a stream of tears, the other streams

blood. He approaches the first face and it is unsmiling and unyielding.

The face shows him a slap which says, “It is okay to hit the man.”

He staggers back but approaches another face which gives same outcome. He meets

another who rams a blow to his belly. He tries another and he is swept off his feet by a

kick. The crowd presses in on him unleashing violent slaps, blows, and kicks. A stick

with a protruding nail finds his elbows and joints, drawing blood as it returned. He

screams in agony and yells for mercy, but his voice is drowned as he chokes on his own

blood. A whip pulls incessantly at his flesh like a nagging lover. He tries to block some

hits with his hands, but a machete comes as bulldozer, diligently hacking at his bones

till they hang limp. First it was some set of individuals then everyone followed, pushing

and pulling themselves, struggling that they might partake of this communion of

barbarism. Stones found their way in on the young man too. His dislodged eyeball

watched him from a distance before a foot married it to the soil. What a slow and

torturous way to die. Their fiery side of the crowd had been unlocked. They saw now

that it was okay to hit the man. They had evolved from crowd to mob.

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Dear Modupe,

God only knows or all roads lead to survival.

I have written a poem for you. It is short, but it contains all I want to say. I am no longer

a man of many words for pain has taught me the way of silence.

There is no river that flows faster than the blood of

A man who isn’t sure he would see tomorrow

Hanging by the cord of uncertainty as

He chokes on his own fear.

My lover has killed me

And sold my visions and dreams in the

Marketplace where only kings are eligible to trade.

When I am long dead, and I meet my maker

I’ll grab his feet and pray that

He Judge my sins on those

Who made me me.

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From a distance not so far away, a wailing voice comes, screaming and begging. It is a

woman dressed sparsely. She makes her way towards the pressing mob, shouting her

throat out, pleading her lungs away. Her cries are unheard by the angry mob, so, she

presses her way in and throws her frame on that of the young man. No one can make

out what she is saying because they are not interested. They have the thirst for violence

now, it must be sated. She is pulled away from their object of release, thrown in a

corner, and held back by some women. There in the corner she lay sprawled on the

floor like the one whom she cries for, her hands lifted to the heavens.

The mob continues till the young man lays unconscious, coated with his blood. I think

they should stop here now. I mean, this is already some gruesome brutality. But oh!

Who am I kidding? The shouts of “kill am” soon dominates the air. Isn’t he dead

enough?

Tyres materialize from nowhere and are heaped on the young man. He is as well

bathed with a petrol from head to toe. He jolts into awakening and lets out a scream at

the impact. Some people start laughing. He tries in futility to crawl from under the tyres

but another is heaped on him alongside a hit from a club.

Fire. It’s not too yellow or red or golden, but it is dark, very dark. It lets out a roar as

soon as it is unleashed, announcing its dominance. Then it turns to its prey and begins

to devour swiftly, licking, engulfing and draining. Life. Death.

The individuals watch the flames as it does itself. They all watch it and see their

themselves in it. The reflection of what they have done stares right back at them and

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they are ashamed. The flames sneer at them all, judge turned guilty. They all begin to

turn their backs to one another, each of them with a piece of the young man’s flesh,

each of them satisfied enough to last a month of gossip and worship. Boy, girl, man,

woman, old and young, welcome back to civilization. Stones, sticks and whips drop from

bloodied hands. The sun recedes gradually. I think it felt shame or disgust maybe. It

hides its face and withdraws into the horizon, for it saw it all, the nature of man

replayed.

Now we see the movie crew, the camera men, and the producers. They film the scene

on their mobile devices, some from a distance, others from close range. What a good

job you guys are doing. Time to furnish the headlines with the fruits of your evil labour.

Time to disseminate and share to the world the evidence of your inhumane acts.

Soon after, the law came to the scene of the crime, blaring their sirens everywhere and

revving their engines. Then they saw it, the flames all gone now. It was just the dark

frame, blackened, lean and stretched taut. They examine the scene for a while. There

lies the criminal, Mr. law. Why don’t you arrest him? Surprisingly they do. They cuff him

with their hands and drag him all the way to their van. He bleeds as they do so, black

soot. They take his offence charge and criminal statement from some helpful

bystanders, and then they lead him off to jail, a private one, six feet beneath the earth.

Beside the scene, the woman still cries. She sits on the ground, legs in front, palms

clasped in between her laps, and her neck bent at a funny angle. Her eyes bear no

more tears, but they tell their tale that they have cried. She mutters incoherent words. I

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have to go closer to hear. Wait for me dear fellows. Okay I hear her now. She speaks

sad, her tale soulful, her words mournful.

She speaks. “My son, the streets have eaten you. My son, the streets have feasted on

you.”

Love is a mountain

Where we stand to see beyond the

Errors that make us and the terrors that slay us.

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