Jungle Justice

Ninety-nine days for the thief. One day for the owner. But when the day of the owner comes, everyone is suddenly involved. It becomes a community affair, loving your neighbour like the Scripture says, but oftentimes, things get out of hand quickly, and it becomes something else—jungle justice.

Jungle justice is an illegal form of mob violence where angry crowds beat, burn, or kill people accused of crimes without a legal trial. It is also known as mob justice or street justice.

It's Friday evening. You're returning from work after a long day. Your boss, as always, was an absolute monster, and somewhere in your heart, you fantasize about standing up to him or, at the very least, giving him a slap just to show him that you cannot be pushed around.

The sun is unusually unforgiving, and you are, unfortunately, sandwiched between a man who is either oblivious to his mouth odour or just likes hearing the sound of his own voice and a woman with a crying baby that sounds like she swallowed a microphone. All you want to do is get home and lie down, but you already know that there will not be light, and besides, the weekend is too short, so you have to start putting things in place for the new week. You are genuinely tired.

Loud noises from outside the bus interrupt your thoughts for a moment, and you look out. The street is in chaos. A group of men are standing over something—someone—kicking and beating in an unplanned yet somewhat coordinated rhythm. One of the men is holding a can of fuel, and another is holding a tyre. There's a group of smokers lounging nearby. It wouldn't be hard to get a lighter.

The driver of your danfo, all-seeing, all-knowing, says, "He stole a laptop from the store down there. They are going to burn him."

Of course, everybody on the bus has an opinion.

"All these small small children no fit keep their hand for one place."

"So they will burn this boy like this? Jesus."

"Make they just carry am go police station."

"If police carry am, they no go do anything. The boy go bribe them comot."

You don't say anything, of course. But for a minute, you forget your problems. In fact, you utter a silent prayer of thanksgiving to the heavens that you are, at least, better than the young man who is about to be burnt.

On Saturday evening, on your way to rehearsal, you pass by the same street. It smells of burnt skin, ash, and anger. The police never came.

Data indicates that 43% of Nigerians have personally witnessed a physical mob attack or instance of jungle justice in their local communities, while 16% personally know a victim.

In a country where the justice system has failed, Nigerians, with our ever-increasing creativity, came up with another form of justice. One that delivers a verdict before it asks questions or investigates. All that is needed is a one-time call of "Thief!" and everybody gets into a mad frenzy. Instant punishment becomes the only punishment. Imagine if we were all judged instantly for our sins.

And sometimes, more often than we dare to admit, the wrong person is punished. One man is killed for the sins of another, but on the streets, it's another Tuesday. And come next Tuesday, there will be another body to burn, another man beaten to death, another time "justice" prevailed.

The more important question is not why people steal. It is why so many people stop to watch, cheer, film, or strike. Why does a crowd make violence permissible? Crowds have a peculiar way of dissolving individual responsibility. The first blow makes the second easier, the second invites the third, until no one remembers who struck first. If it's done in private, it's murder. If it is done on the street, it's normal. We take out our phones, searching for better angles to record. This is the kind of story that generates views. We do story time on TikTok. Break it into parts. Tell people to subscribe so they don't miss out on the next part. Our watching, our recording, our retelling—does it make us accomplices to an act of violence?

Nobody leaves home planning to become part of a lynching. Yet, in some ways, we've become enablers. Like Paul, holding the garments of the men as they stone Stephen to death, we convince ourselves that not throwing the stone absolves us of responsibility.

But long after the crowd has gone home, the consequences remain. They outlive the fire.

What happens after the body is burnt or that person is beaten to death? Who clears the charred body? Who makes the call to the victim's family? Who washes the blood off the streets? Or do we just pray it rains that evening? Does the man who struck the match dream of the face of that young man screaming in agony? Does the market woman stay home the following day because the killing happened in front of her store, or is it just back to business as usual? Do they remember the innocent man whose name never gets cleared because dead men tell no tales?

And the child who witnessed it now carries a seed of violence. A seed that may lie dormant for ten years until the word "Thief!" becomes a trigger, opening floodgates he didn't even know existed.

Then there is the community itself, slowly becoming desensitized, until the smell of burnt flesh becomes just another smell in traffic.

By Monday, the ash has been swept away. Traffic returns. Traders reopen. The only evidence that a man died there is a dark patch on the road and the people who now avoid looking at it. The city has learnt, once again, how to move on.

The greatest tragedy of jungle justice is not only that it kills. It is that it teaches us to become comfortable with killing. It turns violence into routine, spectators into participants, and justice into something we no longer wait for but seize with our own hands.

Ninety-nine days for the thief. One day for the owner. But the greatest thief of all is the one who steals our humanity. When justice becomes whatever the loudest crowd says it is, everyone loses. The accused loses a fair trial. The victim loses the truth. The crowd loses its conscience. And a nation loses a little more faith in the very idea of justice.

This is the cruelest irony of all: in trying to punish thieves, we became thieves ourselves. We stole justice.

Have you ever witnessed a mob justice?