"Thief!"
"Ole!" Someone rushes past me, a mob not far behind.
"Ole!"
I race hard, joining the seething mass of people chasing the young man, shouting with them.
The owner of the money which he is accused of stealing is a plus-sized woman, who, surprisingly, is at the head of the mob, holding down her flapping breasts and jiggling folds of skin.
Insults rain down on the man, who is running as fast as he can, leaping over obstacles like hurdles. Someone tackles him, limbs flying. He tries to escape from the seething mob that is now on top of him. The general feeling of the teeming mass is anger. Frustration. HATE. I feel it too, and it fills me with an unimaginable energy.
I grab a plank. I swing with all the strength in my tired, winded body. The plank catches him flush on the cheeks. He had been resisting before. This time, he goes down. We all swing planks and sticks and fists savagely, our insults drowning out his feeble pleas for help, which we pretend not to hear.
"Ejo."
"Search me. I did not steal. I don't know about any money", he says, arms over his face and body squeezed together, trying vainly to block off the blows.
It doesn't work. A plank finds his face. I break out in goosebumps at his blood curdling scream. Nevertheless, I keep swinging. Angrily. A part of me observes that he speaks impeccable English. I get angrier.
He tries to plead again, and someone kicks him in the face. A man jogs over, holding a disused tyre. As if on cue, petrol and matches materialise from somewhere.
Dear me. They will burn him alive and I will help them. Despite misgivings, I keep swinging and screaming with the mob, baying for blood.
The owner of the stolen money is no longer visible, lost in the mass of sweaty human bodies. The tyre is forced unto his neck and the petrol is dumped on him. He no longer protests his innocence. He just looks at the mob, accepting his fate.
Our eyes meet. The brown eyes plead for help. His nose is broken, his lips are swollen and blood is rushing down his face from a deep cut in his forehead, and from his battered nose.
I never actually see the match being lit. He just suddenly erupts in flame. The scene is oddly beautiful, but also the scariest thing I have ever seen.
The whole place is silent for about two seconds, then the man screams, and leaps up, and starts to writhe around on the floor.
"E duro, e duro!", someone shouts. The trader who accused the burning man rushes forward, waving a wad of money.
"I don see...".
Her eyes fall on the man, still ablaze. She is stunned to silence. The mob disperses, feet shuffling and mouths tightly shut. A strangely edible smell fills the air. I walk away too, all the while thinking:
What have I done?!
By Precious Oluwatobi Emmanuel
#ANSAFlashFictionContest
