It was a bustling evening on the streets of Osu. Vehicles competed with pedestrians for road space. Businesses encroached on the road with their tables, kiosks, and services, scouting the streets for prospective clients. The busiest street—Oxford Street—never went to sleep on a weekend. It was alive with all kinds of hues glowing from the short and tall buildings that lined each side of the street. The neon signs on the doors of food joints, bars, casinos, and discos danced vibrantly in anticipation of their loyal customers.
Kabutey heads to the kenkey joint
Kabutey was not paying attention to the neon signs or the music blasting in every corner. The kenkey joint was his destination. It was all he could think of that early morning behind his desk at work. He anticipated how soft and hot the kenkey would feel as he pushed his fingers into it for his first mouthful. Now he was a few steps away from reality. He was not the only one who craved kenkey. Young and elderly, middle and upper class, patiently waited their turn at the kenkey restaurant. Even stray dogs examined the area; perhaps a kind Samaritan would offer them leftovers of their unfinished meals.
Kabutey arrived at the kenkey joint and manoeuvred his way into the fluid semicircle of loyal customers waiting their turn around a table, where the kenkey seller and her helper pitched a large metal pan of kenkey balls. In no time, it would be his turn to place his order. The scent of fried fish with the corny aroma of kenkey wafted into Kabutey’s nostrils. He could almost taste it. He swallowed the saliva that threatened to escape the corner of his lips.
A new father
The kenkey seller handed over an order to the elderly woman who stood in front of Kabutey.
“Oh, it’s you, Maame Akweley. Forgive me. I didn’t recognise you in this hairdo,” the kenkey seller said to her neighbour, handing her change.
“Yes, Naa Mansa. The kids won’t let me sleep tonight if I don’t get them kenkey.”
Kabutey snapped into a reverie when he heard the word ‘kids.’
It had been a week since he welcomed fatherhood.
He reached into his pocket for his phone.
“Hello, Ama. Should I get you some of the kenkey?”
“Don’t bother, dear. I already took rice with vegetable stew. Please buy some baby wipes on your way home. The stock has almost run out.”
“Hello babe, can you hear me? What’s that noise in the background? Kabutey, can you hear me?”
“Sorry, I was distracted by the screams of a woman whose purse had been snatched. I’ll be home soon. Is my beautiful daughter….?”
Kabutey suddenly noticed the eyes that had begun to size him.
The missing purse
“My purse has been stolen! I’m doomed! Someone has made away with my purse!”
“Oh! Maame Akweley, how on earth is that possible? You just paid me a few minutes ago.”
“I have no idea when and how it happened, but my purse is no longer with me! Someone help me!”
Maame Akweley quickly turned around, casting a wide glance across Koala Shopping Mall to Korolla X Pub and Hemingway Bar. Peradventure the thief was still in sight. The tumultuous murmuring around her made her heart thump faster. Had her purse been found? Or rather the thief? She turned around to a crowd who had their heads in the direction of Kabutey.
Why did they profile him from head to toe? Kabutey, perplexed by the attention, took a careful look at himself, wondering what was wrong with his appearance. He discovered nothing new. He was dressed in the same sleeveless top and tie-dye-printed shorts as when he left the house. There was a minute of stillness, save for the sputtering engines of the automobiles on the road. The whispering grew louder. Kabutey focused his gaze on their lips, hoping to catch some comments. Sweat beaded on his brows. He turned pallid from laboured breathing.
“Look at his hair.”
“…and his beard.”
“He’s probably not from here, given his hairstyle.”
“Why are his shorts patched?”
“As for these Rasta men…”
Kabutey is assualted
One of the observers marched towards Kabutey, his gaze never leaving him.
Wham! Wham!
Kabutey, realising this onlooker-now-assailant was going in for a third slap, ducked and juked to his left. Premonitions and the agony of a chafed ankle consumed Kabutey’s mind.
“Boss, why did you slap me?”
“Where is Aunt Akweley’s purse?” the assailant said.
A crowd started to cordon Kabutey.
“I’m not sure what you are talking about.” I was on the phone with my wife over there.”
“Weren’t you the one standing behind Aunt Akweley?!” The kenkey seller’s daughter pitched in.
“Yes, I was standing behind her, but I excused myself to place a call to my wife.”
Oko and his friends
Oko and his teenage mates were returning from the field. As they approached the roundabout, it was time to part ways. But first, they had to face Oxford Street. They would play their last game, spotting repeating digits in the number plates of the cars plying the road. The one with the most spots won.
Kwame braced himself, eyes fixed on the road. He will not allow Oko to gain the lead today.
“98…”
“9822” Oko beat him to it.
“You know, I saw it before you.”
“You say that all the time. But remember? “I am the champ!”
“You are lucky. I was distracted by the chanting coming from Oxford Street.
“There we go again. “Mr. Excuses!”
“Not if you strain your ears a bit, guys! “Do you hear that?” Kwame pointed to a gathering near the Surfline Office building. “Looks like a thief has been caught.”
Let's go home
Oko observed the area and readily started heading that way. “Charley! “Let’s go look!”
“Ei, Oko!” Have you forgotten what Mother said when we left the house?” Oko’s younger brother said.
Oko paused momentarily. “Are you coming, or not? “Mummy’s boy!”
“Mummy will…”
“Don’t even think about going home without me. “Wait here.”
The lads ran, the chanting growing louder as they got closer to the scene and out of breath.
The interogation continues
Oko made his way to the front of the crowd to get a feel for the action. Kabutey was on his knees, recovering from the slaps and praying that they were the last.
“I am innocent. I have no idea where this woman’s purse is.”
“Chairman, for the last time, where is Aunt Akweley’s purse?”
I have no idea, sir. You are welcome to search me.”
“You think you are smart.”
“Please search me. I’m innocent.”
“Who here thinks this man is innocent?” the assailant shouted impatiently.
Grab your weapon
Naa Mansa hurried from her workstation into the heart of the crowd. All she cared about was defusing the situation. Who wants their business to be typecast as a haven for vices?
Kwame wanted to get a glimpse of the action, too. He slipped his small frame through the thick crowd. His friends excitedly followed until one of them bumped into Naa Mansa.
“What are you youngsters doing here at this time? Come on! Get out of here!”
Oko and his buddies slipped behind the mob. Oko checked his surroundings for weapons. He settled on a stone.
“What are you doing?” Kwame asked.
“In this town, we discipline thieves.” Oko smiled.
Martin returned the smile, lightly tapping a stick against his thigh. “A good beating cures their thievery.”
“Have you seen his hair and shorts? These weed smokes, the least said about them, the better.”
“Oko, don’t you think we should be heading home now?” Kwame hesitated.
“As for you, you are no different from my brother—scaredy cat. We should have left you behind.”
Naa Mansa tries to intervene
Kabutey’s heartbeat slowed much to his consternation. He felt his own breath choke him. He directed his pleas to Naa Mansa. “I’m innocent, ma’am.”
“Bro Charles, please wait a minute. Let us take him to the police station.”
Bro. Charles turned to see Naa Mansa begging, palm in palm.
“Which police station?”
“But that’s the right thing to do, Bro Charles.”
“Are you sure you’re Ghanaian? Take who to the police station? He’ll be roaming freely on the streets before morning.”
Oko weaved through the crowd, putting himself in Kabutey’s line of sight and hoping under his breath that the thief would not escape unscathed, like an agile deer does to its complacent predator. Bro Charles nodded backwards at Kabutey and winked at the audience. The audience understood. Oko understood. Kabutey understood, regrettably.
Mob action
The enraged throng, gritting their teeth, tightening their fists, and brandishing their weapons, raced towards Kabutey. He attempted to stand up but was hindered by a biting pain in his right thigh. He immediately felt another to his left. Kabutey was big, so he wasn’t concerned about the kicks to his lower body. His head was their prize for now. And he wouldn’t let them have it. He was innocent. Kabutey tucked the back of his head beneath his upper arms, bending his elbow around his temple to shield his face. He felt as if he was being pushed into a test tube.
“These Rasta men are becoming a nuisance these days!”
“Thief!”
“Julor!”
“Finish him!”
Kabutey was barely holding on to himself. The taste of blood in his mouth soothed his parched throat. Kabutey faintly heard Naa Mansa’s voice above the stampede of kicking, yelling, and punching. Tears streaked down her cheeks. “I beg you all! Please stop! Please!”
Oko strikes Kabutey
Oko waited for a brief opening in the stampede. He raised the stone in his two outstretched hands and swung it down with great force. A crack rippled through Kabutey’s head. Blood splattered on Oko’s legs. The mob scattered like a disturbed ant colony. Kwame and Martin took to their heels.
Kabutey whimpered as his mind lit up with a dazzling light. That was the last thing he saw.
“Foolish man!” Let’s see whether you have the opportunity to try this nonsense again!” Bro Charles exclaimed. The lifeless body of Kabutey didn’t need any more discipline. Oko finalised the task that they had begun. For the first time that evening, Oko saw the face of Kabutey, and an uneasy feeling washed over him.
What if Kabutey was innocent?
Naa Mansa bowed her head as she returned to her workstation. What if he was innocent? What if? Her heart raced. What she dreaded stopped her in her tracks. She stared at the leg of the table and looked back at the lifeless body. She looked closely under the table again. Her sorrow erupted in sobbing. She gauged the distance between the lifeless body and the leg of the table.
As Naa Mansa bent down by her table, she picked up what looked like a purse.
She lifted it to reveal it in the light. One last backward glance at Kabutey confirmed her fears. He could not have been the thief.
“Aunt Akweley, isn’t that your purse?” Naa Mansa wept, showcasing her purse.
“Yes, it is! Thank goodness! This Rasta man would have gotten away with it if he hadn’t been caught!”
“Hmm, I didn’t pick it from his body.” Naa Mansa managed to answer through the sobs.
Aunt Akweley lifted her eyebrows. “How?”
“I found your purse under the table—just where you were standing.”
The rotundity of her response left no room for further doubt.
Voices in Oko's head
Oko was still rooted to the spot. It had just dawned on him he had killed a man—an innocent man.
“Ei, Oko! Have you forgotten what Mother said when we left the house?” He couldn’t get the voice out of his head. Oko regretted not listening to his brother. Fear gripped him. He was so caught up in the mob action that he forgot about his brother at the roundabout.
“Oko,” a familiar voice called out. Oko turned around to see his brother in a new attire. A new attire meant he had gone home to change. But why would a six-year-old come back alone? There’s a possible interpretation. Oko’s younger brother did not arrive alone. His mother stood behind him. “You are an exceptionally stubborn child. What did I tell you and your brother when you left home?” Oko gave his brother a disapproving wink while avoiding his mother’s piercing stare.
Oko lowered his head, hands behind his back, like a puppy caught in the act of mischief.
“What are you hiding behind you?” The mother spoke.
She grabbed Oko’s shirt, readying herself to find out what he was keeping in his hands.
She shrieked at the sight of the motionless body that bathed in the light.
Twenty years later
“Oko, do you know what first got me attracted to you?”
As Regina’s gaze lingered on Oko’s face, her cheeks flushed red. She twirled his hair between her fingers. She was enjoying their third date at the beach.
Oko smiled. “Was it my lips?”
“Let me offer you a hint.” Regina caressed Oko’s dreadlocks and teased his lips with hers.
“I was correct—my lips.”
“Haha, it was your hair!”
Oko cleared his throat. Regina scoffed.
“You don’t believe me, huh—?”
“—not that. Every lady who has had any interest in me bailed out because of my dreadlocks. It was a deal-breaker.”
“You don’t mean it! What has your dreadlocks got to do with their feelings for you?”
In this part of the world, a man who locks his hair has been regarded as a thug, a prowler, a weed smoker, a rascal, and a potential criminal. If you’re lucky, you’ll be classified as a ragamuffin. Twenty years ago, I participated in a mob that lynched a Rastaman accused of stealing a purse. It turned out that it was my blow that killed him. I recall that day every night. He was innocent. Not just that! I learnt that very evening he was the best man at my parents’ wedding. Those were the last words of my mother. For the past twenty years, my hair has been a reminder that the appearance of man is not a measurement of his character. That is what I would have told my 10-year-old self the day I joined a mob to kill a man with locks—Kabutey, my father’s best man and best friend.”
What’s next in Peter’s Box? ¡Hasta luego amigos!
The saddest thing about mob justice is that, it violates the fundamental human rights of accused individuals, including the right to a fair trial.
Touché! I couldn’t have said it any better.