Mob Justice

By Omari Jackson

When they were finished with him, they called him a monkey. They were not even satisfied to deride him, and lower his honor. On a Monday morning, thousands of them ran through the principal streets of the village. In fact it seemed that they were rejoicing for his eventual down fall.

“Monkey come down,” they sang in chorus. “We’re tired with the nonsense.” They sang aloud and there were children among the mob. There was also hysteria and many of the people did not care if he died or not.

From where he sat, behind men and women who had sworn to protect him even unto death, Jack Solomon held his peace. His eyes would blink from time to time and his mouth would betray his resolve to defy his enemies, who sought his downfall.

Now he was a monkey, and he must come down! True he was once, when he ruled the entire village from coast to coast. It was the time, several years ago, when the people allowed their young daughters and young men to parade down the center of the village, calling on his name, as if he were a god.

Now he knew they had done with him and he must come down.

And he was still sitting behind two of the men when a third person, perhaps he was a soldier or someone in authority announced that it was time for monkey to come down.
“What you mean by monkey?” It was the voice of his best pal, who could not agree that Jack Solomon’s time in the village was over. “It’s wrong to call him monkey now.”

It seemed that the man who had made the announcement was not prepared to hear it. His face seemed to indicate that he was come to help monkey down.

Solomon’s face registered regret, for until his enemies insisted that he should come down, he was the darling of everyone in the village.

“The whole village is in turmoil and we need peace here,” the same man said, and it was apparent that he meant business this time. It was also true that he was some kind of authority, a police man or something. He pulled his gun from his shoulder holster and dangled it before for all the friends, about ten of them to see.

He did not speak his mind afterwards, and with his eyes looking this way and that way, Jack Solomon could not think on anything but the time he would be handed over to his enemies.

He would regret the time and day of his surrender and of course the time would come in the end. His father fought and lost to the end!

He then raised his two hands over his head and gave a deep breath. His face looked so sad, and his lanky frame was beginning to dwindle short. Some of his friends sitting by him saw the changes in him and several apparently felt sorry for him.

After all Solomon had been responsible for the deaths of many of the children in the village. He had boasted about it and at the time he felt there was no power in the world that could call him to account.

His father, killed several days ago by the same mob, got the worst treatment worth recording, both ears slashed off, and his legs broken under him. What was his crime? His mind was asking him and he had the answer.

As a leader of the people, his father had given him power, and he had abused it. There was a story, still told in the village, when Solomon crushed a woman to death, when he drove in his motor car, which was paid for with the money from the village.

There was another story, still told in the village, where Solomon had slapped another woman who had mistakenly crossed his path.

The stories were many, and he was aware of that. So it seemed that now that he was being described as monkey, like the mob did to his father before him, he would have no choice but to come down as the people wanted.

What would they do to him, when he came down? He was not sure but felt that coming down could give the mob the choice to either kill him as a pay for the lives he had destroyed or just beat the hell out of him.

“I will come down, now,” was what he said. His friends thought he was going out of his mind, but he stood firm.

He nodded his head to the nearest man to him and re-emphasized his earlier declaration to step down.

“I am coming down,” his voice this time was clear and everyone, including his friends heard him loud and clear.

Then the man who had reechoed that he should come down grabbed him by the shirt and swung him down, and just when he was landing on his butt, he thought he heard a loud noise, say, “that’s monkey coming down now.”

The mob then moved on him and began to execute violence on him.

Though there were women among the mob, none wanted him to survive. As his eyes dimmed and his breathing began to lose its power, he could hear faintly the chanting song of the mob, “monkey has come down.”

He lost consciousness then, and died thereafter.

Sando’s Camera

By Omari Jackson

It was after the war, and many things done in the past were being exposed. They were being put in the eyes of the public, and while Monrovia and many of the people loved it that way, there were still others in authority who did not like it.

“It began with the Veep,” Sam Wlue was saying, “when his picture was snapped he ordered his men to seize it.” Sam Wlue was only twenty four years, but he was a comical person.

The Veep in question could be a reference to the Vice President of the Republic, Hon. J. Boakai who had ordered a camera seized, during a ceremony in Monrovia. It was not clear if the Veep was unhappy because of the angle the cameraman stood to snap the picture.

Since that time, after the president proper had decided to restitute the loss, it was considered that those in authority would not continue to embarrass the government, again!

Among the newspapers presently being published in Monrovia, the Daily Observer was doing its best. And in the same vein, Cameraman Sando was also doing his best.
“Look at that picture,” Sam Wlue was still saying; a copy of the Observer straddled on his lap “I just love the way the woman is sitting there and her children surrounding her.”

“Sando‘s a good cameraman,” Beatrice Won, said, grinning. Beatrice was sixteen, and was a street vendor, selling newspapers. Like Sam, lack of financial support had forced her to “work” and with three children to feed, returning to school seemed her less worry.

In another day, and another time, Sando’s camera had snapped a little girl, sitting down under a tree. It was the rush hour, and just across from her, there were others her age, in their neat-fitting dresses on their way to school.
The contrast in the picture was clear though, it was not a mockery in any sense, the reproach in it could not be overlooked.

At a time when women were being encouraged to lead, and one of their own was leading the Liberian nation as a president, it showed a sense of reversal when young females were not fully educated. But in this country, education was the duty of a parent and not that of the government.

And that was where the borderline between Sando and his camera was drawn.
Though, like the vice president, some in authority had resented Sando’s ubiquitous voice in his Camera lens, and might do all they could to prevent their picture from being snapped, Sando still found a way to get what he always wanted.


But whoever thought that Chief Justice Johnnie N. Lewis would add his name as one of the Camera seizers? After all he was the number one law-man in the country. He was supposed to respect the law.

In a country that lawlessness reigned supreme for fourteen years, it was a poor example for a Chief Justice to seize a camera, and none but the one belonging to Cameraman Sando.

“Was he mad,” Wlue said, staring at Christiana, as both huddled around customers moving back and forth. “What does the law say?”

“If that is the case,” continued Wlue angrily, “then where is the rule of law?” His companion was inattentive, since there were many people making purchases. And it took some interval of several minutes before she could straighten up, and adjusted her skirt about herself.

“It was in poor taste,” she said, wringing her hands.

But then it appeared that the Chief Justice was not prepared for any reconciliation. For after the incident, the Press Union declared: “In 48 hours we want the camera delivered to us.” It was an intriguing development since confrontation with violent in its sleeves, was brewing up. Who could not have seen the confrontational nature of the Press Union’s release?

It was during the visit of Mr. John Agyekum Kuffour, president of neighboring Ghana, and a journalist had asked the Chief Justice whether he was bothered at all about the ultimatum from the press union. The Chief Justice’s face had turned red, his nose had begun to expand, and his eyes were wide like he was seeing a snake.

His answer was this: “Don’t ask me (a) foolish question. Get out of my way.” That observation was read by John Wlue, and he was not happy about it.

Though he was a street vendor, hawking newspapers, he had had some good learning, and like his companion, money had forced him to discontinue his education.

“Maybe everybody needs some trauma counseling,” was all he could say to that. And an eighteen year-old boy, standing by, and who heard Wlue’s remark could not fail but laugh.

“Some of these big people were not here during the war,” he said, “but I can tell you they all deserve some counseling to develop new attitude.”

That suggestion could be further from the truth. But if that should be the case, how can anyone explain with certainty the action of the Chief Justice? Since it appeared he did not have regard for Cameraman Sando, how could someone respect him?

“Read that side,” the young man pointed that out to Wlue, “the president of Ghana says he is sorry for what happened to Liberians in Ghana. Can we do the same to ourselves?”
That was also an intriguing question.

For the meantime, Cameraman Sando was reported to be considering the experience with some caution. Hardly the one to open his mouth, he was said to have noted that those at the top should show an example that would be worth emulating.

“I see why minister Woods wants this nation dismantled. As a Chief Justice he must make the law reinforced and that way we will not be talking about dismantling the nation,” another person, standing by said with some warmth.

When Wlue heard that remark, he was beside himself with laughter.

“Education should make me a good man, like Sando,” he said. And as intriguing as his remark was, the casual observer could not fail to notice the excitement in his voice. Though the Chief Justice’s action was not one of good behavior, and it was apparently the reason many in Monrovia called for a truce, the damage to his position had already been compromised.

“Why is he embarrassing the country?”

Sam Wlue’s remark might not have been heard by his companion, for she was seen rushing towards a passenger car, to deliver a product to a customer.

“Has anything changed after all?” This was another question for thinking Liberians to ponder over.

Time to end It

By Omari Jackson

Tony felt sick after he learned he was the target of the attack. The assault was led by Sam, an assassin, which snuffed out the life of his younger sister, Janet. It was like a stab in his heart. How could they have done that? Didn’t they know she was just an innocent kid?

His eyes misted, and tears rolled down his tear-drenched eyes. His face was like someone suffering from one of those diseases that had been credited to Apollo and the days when the Americans were shuttling to and from the moon. He could feel the dusty itch tearing his eyes, and he wondered how long he could continue like that.

He stood at his Lawrenceville ramshackle house, and he could hear the sounds of cars passing by. He could also smell the arcane scent of leaves and felt the cold weather on his face.

The thought of his niece’s death scorched his heart. They killed an innocent child, and he could not accept the reality of it and he blamed himself, somehow. Now he was meeting Sam, and making up his case against him. Jane was a child of his older sister, who died when she was three. The last time they were together, the young woman had called him, “Uncle Tony.” What would his sister thought of him? A failure? A disappointment? He was full of venom from here on.

“You killed her and destroyed my life,” he told him with a sniff, “You will have to pay for it.”

“I’m not afraid of you,” he replied, “Be ready to follow her to hell.”
“Why did you kill her?”
“I was looking for you,” Sam said, “And when she would not reveal your hideout, I decided to teach her a lesson.”
“You killed an innocent child,” he told him, with anger building up in him, “Isn’t life for life?”
“Then come get it.” The other said, and he positioned himself for the eventual combat.

Tony launched preemptive strike against the man who held his peace at the corner of the room. First it was his right leg, like a Chinese in a Kun Fu movie. Then his left leg followed in rapid succession, and he could hear the man’s groan. It was like he was suffering from a heavy banter to his head.

Tony did not really care any more. He felt enough pain and was now prepared to deliver the ultimate blow to his adversaries. He was not, to be fair, a violent man, but the days had changed and things were now different. Lawlessness had been in an open display, and he could not be counted out.

If for that reason someone would describe him as a violent man, then so be it. At a time when young boys and girls had been armed by politicians to kill off their brothers, uncles and parents, there was no wonder that Tony had become a Jackie-Chan-type of character.

The Chinese might not have deliberately chosen to make physical combat their national pastime. It might have been a strong reason for that.
Now Tony was kicking butt, and who dared to interfere? By now the enemy had crumbled before him, blood oozing out from his head. Despite the poor visibility, Tony could see very well the damage he had caused the murderer.

With a thud, Tony’s victim had earlier lost his balance and had fallen heavily on the ground. In the process, something had slipped out of his fingers. A closer looked and Tony could tell it was what he correctly thought, a gun. For whatever the situation was, Sam could not bring himself to use the weapon, and died not able to use it.

One down, and Tony was up and running to the next rendezvous. It was like an appointment with death itself!



Tony was risking death to escape from John. It had happened before, and he only survived by applying some of his wits. That day, three months ago, he had been caught napping, and John was in control. John was one of them, a man who was the second in command of a murderous gang. They had been terrorizing, and robbing the people off their wealth.

The battle that day was tough.

He had Tony’s head between his legs, and his large thighs held his head, and John’s massive right hand banged on his head from time to time.
“Say you are my master,” he ordered the vanquished Tony to say, “I will always serve you.”

It was too much for him and when he decided to lift his head in a swoop, John, who by then had relaxed his hold on his head, vaulted backwards, sending himself into the deep gutter behind him. Now free, Tony took the turn and as he paid John in his own, he had wept like a child.

And so now they were meeting again.

From the beginning, Tony pretended he was down and out. John thought it was an opportunity and he went for it. His right hand was outstretched and he was moving to hold Tony by the neck when the other reacted. His swift reaction threw John off balance, and he went down.

Tony was standing over him, as the vanquished John crawled away from him. Tony had moved swiftly and had crushed his head into a pulp.

It had happened suddenly!

With John dead things were turning out to be different and Tony did not think the enemy could be ahead of things no matter what happened next. He had disposed of Sam, one of the toughest guys in the Useful Gang and now John was also gone. The gang was responsible for rapes and assaults on women in the Lawrenceville area, and since the law was slow in reacting, the former army sergeant Anthony (Tony) Roscoe, was doing it his own way.



Wesley Dollar tried to force Tony to join his group and when he refused, he decided to act tough on him. They were standing apart from each other and Tony sensed Wesley’s uneasiness. It was barely three hours after Tony’s encounter with John Penny.

Tony apparently was enjoying the spectacle. He had vanquished the two men who had been sent to kill him. Their master was now before him and he was having fun.
What might have confused Wesley was apparently due to Tony’s presence. This man was supposed to be dead, but then what had happened? Wesley was the big boss, who had sent a couple of friends, assassins to complete his mission.

The report said the eighteen year-old girl, raped and killed by the gang members was Roscoe’s sister. Now he could see the event carefully.

In fact Wesley had not expected to meet Tony here, for he had been told the job of killing him was a simple one. But those who thought Tony’s murder could be simple could not be found. He had not believed that Tony could have the strength to eliminate two tough guys.

But why did he forget Tony’s strength? Did Tony not participate in Operation Iraqi Freedom? Did he not survive several attempts on his life, and when he returned to the United States, did he not earn the “Purple Heart” from G. W. Bush? But if Tony Roscoe was too tough a guy, where was he when his native Liberia was in flames?

But everything being equal he would have to deal with Roscoe, and how well that would translate into action was anyone’s guess.

One thing, he was without a weapon, and with Tony’s right hand behind his back, what was he holding on to? Had he called on the police to come get him? Rumors indicated Tony was working for the law, was that true?

“It’s the end, Wes” he heard it, and it was loud and clear. His voice never lost it vitality, and now he was urging him to end it.

“What happens,” Wesley said, “if I don’t?”
“You don’t want to die, right?” The question had come with a strong powerful voice. That was what scared him now.

Then he heard the siren blaring towards them.
“So you did it?” Wes said, “You called the cops?” He was moving backwards, and Tony wished he could order him to stop.

“You don’t need to kill yourself,” he urged him, “Be a man to face the law.” But it was too late as Wesley Dollar allowed his body to fall behind and with a whooping sound disappeared. When Tony looked keenly to see if he was still there, there as an empty space.

“He has put the end to it all,” he said, and took the device from his pocket, and shut it off. “He thought the cops were coming.”