In the beginning, the street was quiet. The birds chirped away, perched on the electric poles. The old men and women sat idly in front of the low cost houses smoking tobacco. The mothers gathered the laundry spread on the lines outside, dusting away the extra dust that had settled on them; this was the harmattan season. A group of dads sat in a corner playing drafts. A few kids could be seen roaming the street. It was quiet when the the mob came.
At first, it was a roaring noise. People were screaming, "Thief!! Thief!!". The people of the street ran into their houses. Doors were locked and windows banged. The street was deserted.
The mob poured in from the north side. They carried sticks, stones, iron rods; some had nothing at all but their clenched fists. A boy ran in front of them. He was sweating and getting weaker and begging "Please... please...". They could not hear him because they were angry and loud. He ran on as the stones were thrown at him. A stone hit his leg. He stumbled, tried to regain his balance. But he was too late.
The crowd was on him in an instant. They beat him. He bled. He begged. No one heard him. They were still angry. "He stole money" some people fumed, "He stole jewellery" some claimed. Nobody knew exactly what he stole... or who he stole it for. He stole. He was a thief. That was what they knew.
A rubber tyre was produced from nowhere. It was thrown around him. Someone brought half a gallon of fuel which was poured on him. He struggled. Blood flowed into his eyes. His nostrils were clogged. He breathed through his mouth. He was tired.
The boy thought of his mother. She would be waiting for the monthly allowance that he normally sent. The last time he spoke with her, her legs had gotten worse. She could barely move them as they were four times their original size. He thought of his younger brother and the Christmas cloth he had promised. He remembered the red shirt he had thrown away when the people began to chase him.
Tears filled his eyes. He could hardly see anything now because his eyes were clouded by dust, blood and tears. He was tired. He breathed through his mouth. The fuel made his skin tingle.
There was a flash. Fire consumed him. He screamed. He was tired.
The people went away as the fire burned him. His movements became fainter; his body grew limp.
The street was quiet again. The people peaked from their windows. Smoke rose steadily from a black lump abandoned on the road. Kites had already begun to circle.
The police came then. The blue and red sirens flashed through the smoke and dust. They wrapped the black lump in a nylon sheet.
In the end, all that was left of the boy was the black ashes that slowly drifted away.
The end.
