He Died Calling for His Mother
The morning sun hid behind thick clouds, as though ashamed of what the earth was about to witness.
They pulled this man through the narrow path that led to the village square—not like a human being, but like a rag, like a thing. His knees were bruised, his hands tied so tight they had turned purple. His shirt was torn, soaked in sweat, tears, and blood. Dust clung to his skin. His hair was tangled, his lips dry and cracked.
People shouted. Some spat. Others pointed.
“Criminal.”
“Wicked boy.”
“He should be killed.”
“He’s a thief, let him die!”
A woman near the front wailed in anger. A man lifted his walking stick as if to strike.
“What did he steal?” someone asked from the crowd.
The shopkeeper screamed, voice sharp as a whip:
“My market money! Twenty-five thousand naira! He entered when I stepped out. Who else could it be?”
The accused boy struggled to speak. His lips quivered. His voice came out dry and cracked.
“I didn’t take anything. Please… I swear on my mother’s life…”
But his voice was drowned in anger. Nobody believed him. The crowd surged closer.
The first stone hit his forehead. He screamed, not just from pain—but from disbelief.
A man kicked him in the ribs. He fell, gasping for air, curling into himself.
Another hit. Then another. They didn’t stop. Stones. Sticks. Shoes. Even fists.
Children watched, their eyes wide with fear and confusion. Mothers joined in, their faces twisted with rage. Elders stood still, saying nothing, as though their silence was approval.
Blood poured from his nose and mouth. His voice broke through the chaos, fragile yet desperate:
“Mama! Mamaaa… help me!”
But his mother… she wasn’t there. She had gone to fetch firewood that morning, not knowing her only son was being murdered.
The Fire of Vengeance
They brought out a tyre. Someone had petrol. A bottle appeared from the crowd, sloshing with liquid that smelled sharp and deadly.
“Burn him! Let him confess in the fire!”
They poured it over his head and chest. The boy cried louder, begged harder, shaking like a wounded animal.
“Please… I didn’t do it. I didn’t… I want to live…”
But mercy was already gone. Faces that once might have smiled at him now looked monstrous in hatred.
Someone flicked a matchstick. For a moment, the small flame danced innocently. And then—it touched his shirt.
The fire roared to life, leaping up his chest. His scream tore through the sky, louder than any human sound should be.
He tried to crawl out, flames biting at his skin, but someone pushed him back with a stick.
His fingers burned as he reached out for help that would never come. His skin blistered and peeled. His eyes rolled upward as he gasped in horror.
His lips moved one last time, and no one could hear what he said—but maybe it was “I’m sorry,” or maybe, “I’m afraid.”
And then… silence.
The Truth Arrives Too Late
Moments later—too late—a boy ran into the crowd, out of breath, eyes wide with terror. His voice shook as he cried out:
“It wasn’t him! I swear! It was the shopkeeper’s cousin. She took the money. She just confessed to me in tears.”
The crowd froze.
Mouths hung open. Hands stained with blood and soot fell limp at their sides.
A woman began to scream. Another fainted. The shopkeeper fell to his knees, trembling, as he stammered:
“It… it can’t be. She… she’s my niece.”
But the truth no longer mattered.
They had burned an innocent soul.
A boy with dreams. A boy whose only crime was being poor. A boy who called for his mother till his final breath.
A Rain of Grief
The clouds above could hold it no longer. Rain began to fall—at first in gentle drops, then in heavy sheets, washing blood into the dusty earth.
Not to cleanse away their guilt.
But to mourn with the heavens.
Men stood silent, some wiping tears that mixed with the rain. Children huddled behind their mothers, too young to understand the weight of what they’d witnessed but old enough to feel the sorrow hanging in the air.
A woman knelt in the mud, wailing for a boy who would never come home. Somewhere far away, a mother carrying firewood felt a sharp pain in her chest, though she did not yet know why.
We live in a world where accusations spread faster than truth. Where anger blinds justice. Where a single voice can sentence a soul.
Let us not let our rage become a weapon that destroys the innocent.
Tomorrow, it could be your brother. Or your son. Or you. 😔💔
#StopJungleJustice
#VerifyBeforeYouCondemn
#JusticeForTheInnocent
