JUNGLE JUSTICE, A NORMAL NONSENSE IN NIGERIA

The rate at which the populace embrace Jungle Justice in Nigeria is insidious for a developing society. Many Nigerians easily resort to Jungle Justice as a perfect way to uphold normalcy in the society, and it’s without a doubt because of the loath attitude of the police toward Justice: the Nigeria’s judicial system is warped. How do you feel when you see the killer of your father walking as a free man on the street?

Recently, some young men were lynched in Onitsha, a popular market in the Eastern part of Nigeria. Robbing people off their valuables in the market, these young men became a victim of extrajudicial murder. The most perturbing occurred in

Obafemi Awolowo University, a prestigious university. A 500-level, final year student from the University’s Engineering department was beaten to death by his colleagues for stealing a phone. The gloomy phenomenon saddened me. “Is this not another occurrence of ALUU 4?-four students of the University of Portharcourt, were killed on October 5, 2012 by residence on the allegation of being thieves which was false.” I pondered. The youths that are supposed herald a new era are the ones indulging in this contemptuous act. I'm afraid our society can not be saved.

The surge of Jungle Justice in the nation took me down memory lane of how I narrowly escaped being lynched along side my friends.

Thursday 26th, March 2020

It was the fourth day of the impromptu holiday the Lagos State government declared to curb the spread of the Corona virus. I had been sitting idly at home with my mom and siblings, but the quietness of the room induced me to saunter to B.J’s workplace. He worked in a piggery, and he had always sung the praise of the whooping remuneration he received in the piggery everything he weighed pigs earmarked for sales.

I set out under the round, fiery furnace ensconced in the sky to to shun boredom, and somehow the desire to confirm B.J's colossal wages underlay my walking there. Taking a few steps and following his lucid description, I arrived at B.J’s shade in the farm. I was, however, informed he had left with a truck to gather some pigs. I was contemplating whether to tarry or return home when I heard successive, boisterous hoots. It was a double-decked truck, bearing grunting pigs and tottering along the jagged road. Yes, I was right; it was the truck B.J worked for. I craned my neck, hoping I would find him amidst the pigs herding them. Tired of straining my neck, I decided I would ask the driver about B.J’s whereabouts. As if a divine force acknowledged my try, I caught B.J, patting a gargantuan boar as he led him to the truck. Soon, I admired his courage; I couldn't stand such a huge image then.

I conversed with B.J and his colleagues for some minutes before the conversation was cut short by B.J’s boss, saying the truck would be heading to another piggery situated in a remote local government, so that more pigs could be purchased. This, of course, saddened me, and I said my goodbyes, my face tinged with puerile disappointment—these boys had promised me nothing. Seeing my countenance, they urged me not to leave but accompany them to their next destination instead. After a hasty thought, I decided to join them, and gave me a near-sordid cloth.

We arrived at a piggery in Epe, a local government in Lagos State, after standing for some hours drive in the double-decked truck with pigs. The farm attendant sanitized us and our sturdy jute ropes. And almost immediately, as if time had warned them of its trick, the boys started weighing the buyable pigs in the pens. Greatly awed, I stood and watched as these teenagers hefted pigs that weighed over 200kg on the analog scale’s dangling hook.

As the day budged into night, I became less interested in the scenario. My mom and siblings would be looking for me, and there was no means of communication since none of us had a phone. We were done with weighing animals around 8 PM. And soon, the truck was ready to leave Lagos for Warri, where the pigs would be sold. The boss counted some notes and handed over to Bro Clinton, presumably the senior to give to the workers.

THE WORST EXPERIENCE

We bade farewell to the boss and some few boys who decided to accompany the truck to Warri. Four of us couldn’t follow the truck to Warri. We hopped on one of the workers’ bike bearing me, one dark-complexioned boy, B.J, and Bro. Clinton. We sat on the unlit bike with great discomfort. At Itokin, we passed through some soldiers who flicked their flashlights, subtly warning us for cramming ourselves on the bike. The military men’s warning gave me an impression that something awful was coming our way.

I encountered the worst experience of my life when Imota took us into her rusty auspice. I had heard stories of the notoriety of the youths in Imota, but I never knew I would one day encounter it. It was getting dark, my pulsation increased beause I knew Mom would be looking for me. Not more than thirty minutes, we noticed sitting youths wielding different weapons and flashlights. Timidly, we passed them, and they ordered we stopped in a dialect nobody understood. So the rider continued. Offended, the youths stood in anger and pursued our bike. Unfortunately, they caught up with us in no time.

We were accused of being members of the Aye confraternity (One of the most dreaded cult groups in Nigeria), our costume fit the stereotype as we wore a red and black outfit and Bro. Clinton was on dreadlocks. A dwarf amongst the louts was the wickedest, no wonder God gave him a mocking height. He blew everyone in turn. We sat, faces creased into innocence, eyes darting here and there searching for a sympathetic person amongst the youths. I had started weeping, imagining how Mom would feel when she read the news that I was lynched. I imagined my portraits on different newspapers and TV stations. I saw bloggers with their fascinating headline, “FIVE FEARED KILLED AS THEY WERE BURNT TO DEATH IN IKORODU.”

The imposing presence of the SARS (Special Anti-robbery Squad) officials, a unit of the Nigerian police, would have saved us completely but it only gave an ephemeral relief because they zoomed off after eyeing us, their eyes condemning us as suspects—is this how orderliness is established in the society?

Luckily, someone among the mob asked who we were and Bro. Clinton told him we worked in a piggery settlement. To be cocksure, he demanded for a proof, and we swiftly showed him the study ropes, scale and other things. In a less satisfactory tone, the dwarf said "Orí yo yín e lo nrìn rìn crayfish àba tí sùn ya yín" which literally means God saved you we would have burnt you. That's how we were saved.

We mounted the bike and we continued the journey in silence—no one talked to each other. We arrived Gberigbe at 12:10am. Bro Clinton gave me 1,500Naira and BJ collected 5,500Naira, just for a day work! BJ and I bade them farewell and we bounced from Gberigbe to Oke agbo as we live in the same community. I arrived home at exactly 12:3am, the door wasn't closed. Mom sat on the couch, waiting for my return. Everyone had slept except Mom.

If not, that we were lucky we would had been wasted by these dream killers. With my experience, I realized, that not all lynched truly did what they were alleged of. How many had been unlucky? How many will still be unlucky? It's high time we demolished this insidious flaw in our society.