How Do You Know?

by J-piriyodhi

Job Vermeulen

A death of humanity

They had tightly tied his hands behind his back with strips of tree buck. The many rough and rugged restraints rutted deep grooves into his skin, cutting him. Blood from torn flesh streamed down like an orphan’s tears, slow, painful and uncomfortable to watch.

His feet had become misshapen, lumpy and swollen like sweet potatoes planted in damp valley fields. A woven cattle whip tied his ankles, taut and tense. From the ashy black look of them, they no longer had blood in them. No, they had tied his feet for too long and he would never walk the same.

He had slashes, gashes, scratches and cuts from all the whippings and stabbings. His khaki Bermuda shorts, the only clothing they had left him with, were shredded and his manhood showed. This did not shame the crowd gathered around him, not after they had speared and pierced him, pricking and puncturing his body.

He was a bruised package of exploding flesh. Bloody, broken and barely breathing. They had mobbed him, punching and kicking him until he had curled into a fetal ball. They had stomped on him then, an entire compound of people.

300 people had attacked him. Fathers who loved their daughters. Mothers who had sons of their own. Young men who had lived with him. Young women whom he had spoken to. Little children, boys and girls, had clapped and cheered as people spit and urinated on the man. An old wizened woman had lifted her skirts and defecated on him whilst they all watched.

Now, each of them had picked up a stone. Massive and ugly looking rocks. 300 heavy loads in the hands of 300 angry people. All 300 gathered around the man as he lay there wheezing pained breaths. The bound man was uncomfortably prostrate in a wide clearing, the one just outside their compound. All the residents were here and in moments, they would leave this place one neighbour short.

“Stone him,” said the freedom fighter with the AK47 hanging off his shoulder. A deafening quietness fell upon the mob.

Thwap! The first stone hit the lump in the centre, and it grunted. A small boy, no more than seven, had thrown it. A young woman stepped into the circle. Thwap! Another rock had hit the lump but this time it was a cracking sound that followed. Must have hit his head. A moan came from the man on the ground.

That sound broke something loose in the gathered crowd. It seemed to unleash their ire and then all that could be heard were thuds and rocks hitting flesh. Thwap! A rock broke his shin. Thwap! Another cracked his rib. Thwap! This one tore out an eye. Thwap! Thwap! Thwap! Until the final thwap.

When the gathering was done, the clearing was no more. Now it was a scattered littering of stones of all shapes and sizes. At its centre was a pile of rocks with a stain of a man beneath it. Blood had seeped into the soil and stained the land.

A few strong men carried boulders and dumped them on the remains of the dead man, creating a morose monument. He would not be buried, and he would not be missed.

Now, it must be said that no man deserves to die in such a manner. Every human life matters. If your life matters, then my life matters also. We all matter. We matter to ourselves, to other people and are bound in collective worth as humans. We each matter because to lose the value of one life is to lose value for all life.

What manner of monsters were these people that they would do such a thing? They had made innocent children not only watch but participate in a murder. Whole families had thrown stones. Neighbours had stood shoulder to shoulder as they each hurled a rock at a living person.

Now, there is a saying, ‘there are two sides to every story, yours and the truth.’ I will tell you about this man’s story. I will tell you of how he spent the last five days of his life.

His side of the story

On Monday, this man had looked at the haphazard array of shanty buildings with hope and contagious optimism. He had looked at the compound, his compound, and he had envisioned a bright future for the people that lived here.

He would start by erecting a new fence around the compound. He would remove the rotting poles and replace them with a new wire fence he was going to buy; he would put a stronger and more impressive-looking boundary around their home. It was going to be glorious and safe for the inhabitants for this place.

He was going to have to enlarge the cattle kraal as well, what with all the new herds of cattle he would buy. They would never go hungry for meat in this place again.

Looking around at the people milling in every direction, his heart sank at how their threadbare clothes looked hanging on their limp bodies. The people looked pitiful, their eyes sunken and their moral robbed. He would transform them into a proud tribe. Living under the yoke of the white man was not easy but there were ways to make it bearable.

This is what he spent most of this day doing, walking about the compound and conversing with people. On his expansive track around the tiny compound, he went about making a mental record of things to fix and things to replace.

This is how he spent his Monday.

On Tuesday, he was not at the compound but on Wednesday, he spent the day with his mother. He had made her a hot cup of tea with tea leaves from the city. He did not want her catching a cold as she was getting on in years.

He had spent a long time talking to his mother; she sorely needed someone to frequently cheer her up. Being the man that he was, he did not mind that she was becoming more disagreeable with each new grey hair on her head. With much maternal long-suffering, he humoured her in her contrariness.

He had spent the remainder of the day running errands for his mother and doing chores for her. She had no one else after all. Just him and a brother who was hardly ever around when she needed him. He had left his mother’s house after she had told him that she was tired and needed to retire for the day. He had bid her a good day and left her to rest.

That evening, he had met with other men in the compound and caught up on the manly gossip, or as it is commonly called, the news.

On Thursday, he had dressed in his best clothes. He had even changed clothes twice that day. He wanted to look his best for the love of his life. He meant to propose to her this day. He had bought sweets and some fabric for the girl that made his heart skip many beats. The girl that made him grin ear-wide like a moron. To him, she was a tall tree growing among stunted shrubs.

On this day, he had said burning words of passion to her. He had said to her, “When you walk you mesmerize all creation, even birds forget to fly and fall from the sky.” She had smiled at this. He had given her the sweets. He was the only man in the compound who had sweets to give to the love of his life.

He had walked all the way to the store and bought the only packet of sticky brown sweets.

He had picnicked with the girl of his dreams and he had proposed to her. She, of course, would need to talk to her parents before she could accept. He had told her that he would wait until the day he died for her acceptance.

He had gone to bed with dreams of a great future with the woman who made his days brighter standing by his side. A future of eternal brightness. As long as she stood with him, his life would be complete.

On Friday, he had been helping with caring for the orphans in the compound. Children from burnt-up villages who had lost their parents and their place in this world. The compound had taken them in and together, the people of the compound provided for these children. Each family donated a portion of their food store to gogo Moyo, the aged widow who lived with all the orphans.

The man had spent the day playing with the orphaned children. He had done chores for the old woman and he had talked with her at length. They had talked about the great service that she was doing for the compound. He had made her an offer to reduce her burden.

Later in the day, he had seen a bug-eyed, open-mouth, half-starved orphan boy plastered to walls of gogo Moyo’s house. He had given the boy food and had assured him that should he require food to eat, he was always welcome to come and ask for it. He even planned to buy this boy a new pair of shorts to wear.

He had left early Saturday morning and returned late in the evening. Men in the shadows of the night had grabbed him, tortured him and tied him up. On Sunday morning as the lazy dawn light yawned its way to full bright, he was a splutter of flesh beneath a pile of rocks.

Is there ever a world where a man such as he, deserves the end he got? Unfortunately, this world is like that. It is a dark and horrible place filled with terrible pain. The only reprieve to the hurt is the change in the type of pain one suffers as they live out their sentence on this earth. When one’s time is done, they die and go to meet fresh hell in the life that follows.

How do you feel about the man’s death? Would you have saved him if you could? I want you to hold that thought in your head, while I tell you more about how this man spent the last five days of his life.

The other side of the story

On Saturday, this man had spent the day away from the compound making plans with men who would help him bring about a fantastic transformation to his home. His vision for the compound could only be realized with the assistance of these men.

He had spent the whole day in their company as they described what they required of him. He had spent the day agreeing with them. Sacrifices for the greater good would have to be made, obviously. He had sacrificed so much already.

He had left the meeting with his head full of the plans to make the compound a better and happier place. That was the night he had been accosted.

On Friday, he had approached gogo Moyo and told her of his great vision. She had listened intently without any interjections. He had been circling the hill which was his big ask of her for most of the day. She had finally asked him to speak plainly. He had asked if she could part with some of the orphans who were even now crowding her house.

He had found them a new place to live, somewhere where they could learn a trade and have enough to eat. She had slapped him and accused him of wanting to sell her darlings for money. She had accused him of wanting to kill the little children. She had risen to go and tell the elders of his plans.

He had grabbed her, and he had held her mouth and nose closed as she struggled. He had held her for a very long time. He had held her until her body had begun to stiffen. He had held her as the warmness of her skin had gone cool, then he had laid her down and made her seem as if she had gone to sleep.

On his way out, he had met a little scared-looking thing glued to the wall with eyes wide open. He had offered him food and told him to behave himself otherwise the things of the night would come after him.

On Thursday, he had worn his best clothes and gone to the house of the girl he intended to marry. She had not been there, a little girl had told him. The little girl was the younger sister to the girl he had come to see. She was turning into a beautiful girl, this little one. She was all of seven years.

He had offered her a brown sweet to eat which she had gladly accepted. He had asked for a cup of water and she had gone into the house to fetch it for him. He had followed after her. He had grabbed her. He had torn her clothes. He had held her down. He had forced her legs apart. He had broken her. He had spent himself and he had smothered her.

The man had left the house, gone home to change and he had gone on to look for the girl he intended to propose to. He had found her and had whisked her away to the hills to sit on the rocks and enjoy the bright blue heavens. He had given her sweets and he had proposed to her.

She had returned home to a funeral. She had wailed and rolled herself in the dirt. She had gotten up and gone to see her sister. She had been the one to wash her for burial. She had found a sticky brown sweet stuck in her torn dress.

On Wednesday, the man had spent the day with his mother. His mother had insistently asked him where his brother was. She had demanded that he tell him what he had done to his brother. He had denied knowing where his brother was. He had told her that his brother was probably at the neighbouring compound drinking himself to the ruin of their family name and an early death.

At these words, his mother had wept and had told him that she was too tired to stay awake. She had gone into her room to sleep. She had stayed up all night mourning her son.

On Tuesday, he had gone to meet his ‘friends’ to discuss the fate of the compound. His brother, who had noticed his frequent disappearances from the compound, had followed him. His brother had seen whom he had met with. His brother had seen him receive money. His brother had returned home and told his mother everything.

Later that evening, his brother had confronted him. The man had offered to explain it all but only in private. Once they were alone, he had stabbed his brother and killed him. In the deep darkness of night, he had dragged his brother’s body and hid it in the forest. The man had returned and had spent the day at his mother’s house.

On Monday, before he had returned to the compound to muse about the future of the place, he had been in a meeting with three white men. They had discussed the need to take all the men in the compound and press them into work, forcing them to build a railway line kilometers away. The man had listened as one of his ‘friends’ had said that he would need children for some work that was never specified. There was nothing honourable about these white men yet he agreed wholeheartedly with them because they had the means to change his life.

He had had waking daydreams of a compound full of women, and him the only man. He had made plans on how he would help to lure the men into a trap, how he would betray the people in the compound through lies and subterfuge. He had agreed with plans to separate families, displace people, and enslave his countrymen. All so that he could live a better life. All that, with the hope that the same wouldn’t happen to him.

Would you mob?

When people are pushed to breaking, they temporarily set aside humanity and sanity. In recent history, gruesome deaths, such as the one this man suffered, have been shown in videos on social media. Xenophobe and tribalistic mobs have killed people in broad daylight in some parts of the African continent.

Now I turn to you. Would you pick up a rock and throw it at the man? Knowing what he has done and how he has hurt others, would you throw a rock? If not, then you are better than most of us.

Maybe let me thin the herd again some more. If you are sure that you would not participate in group murder, would you stop this mob from killing this man? Would you do it even if it meant your possible death? If you would, then you are the best of us, and I hope that you do really exist.

Maybe let me ask you this: if you had been alive at this time, and had known the destruction that traitors, sell-outs and collaborators would help engineer, would you then throw a rock?

Think of the suffering of millions of black people, generation after generation of oppression under the various colonial regimes. Now will you throw the rock?

Would you have joined the guerrillas in the fight for independence? Would you have picked up a gun to shoot at and kill another human being?

Would you kill a white person who oppressed you and your family? Would you kill a black person who helped white people to oppress you and your family?

Was the man a traitor or was he just greedy? He was selfish, as are we all to varying degrees. I am not looking to give you a solution here. I want you to search in your heart and understand the kind of person you are.

How angry are you about the lives of oppressed people? Forget the lines of race. How much do you value the life of a human being, even the worst of the species?

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J-piriyodhi is a Zimbabwean writer and an avid African hermit. She works off an old Dell Inspiron and hands over flash drives with her work for editing and publishing. She is currently off the grid working on three manuscripts and a host of short stories that no one has asked for. If you follow her on Twitter @jpiriyodhi, she’ll probably follow you back the next time she is near civilisation.