An eye for an eye: Jara the hero and Ziggy the zero

by Jossi Tinga

It’s hard to see the connection. Jara lived but Ziggy died. The two are not remotely connected. Jara is hardworking family man, Ziggy a rogue. Their paths never crossed. Yet they suffered, each in his own way, the same form of brutality.

Ziggy died. A mob gathered around his lifeless body in glee. It is not always that death is celebrated. Ziggy’s death was celebrated. Someone proposed that the body be dragged to the middle of the nearby dirt highway. The mob quickly agreed. Someone offered twine. They tied his two legs and took turns to drag him to the road. Once satisfied with their progress, they piled twigs on the dead man. They were to set him alight. Somehow, the fire never got going. There was no petrol to keep it going.

The police came the next day for the body. Overnight, vehicles swerved around the mound respectfully. Some motorists stopped to examine the body. The villagers retreated to their huts and houses. None wanted to be around when the police came. There would be questions.

Nearly 100 miles south of Ganda where Ziggy lay dead a zero, Jara settled for the night grieving but a hero. Jara is a good man. Right from boyhood he worked. He did not have the chance to finish school. I am not sure he was the school type. His ageing father certainly needed him working to bring the posho home. He left school at Class Six. He became a man many years before he was ripe for it. The villagers in Mwele respected him for it

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He married a local girl. For ten years they had no child. When she came along about two years ago, it was a joy for the whole village. Daddy worked as a tout at the Mazeras Junction three miles away. He is not really a local boy. His father was of the Pokomo tribe. The only way to be truly local is to have a father from the local tribe. That’s a story for another day.

 His father migrated to the area from up north in the Tana County. He was a polygamous man. He married a local Rabai girl, bought a piece of land, then sired Jara and his sisters. Khadira and Maamke were the prettiest girls in Mwele for a very long time. 

I was not alone in casting eyes their way. My uncle actually paid a dowry for Maamke. When she ran away, he offered to have his son marry her instead. The village raised eyebrows. He gave up both the girl and his dowry. 

Maamke was a beautiful mix of Bantu and Cushitic blood. Their father was Cushitic. He is now dead and Jara is the man of the homestead.

In the heat of the skirmishes in the Tana County at the close of 2012, relatives from the war-torn county flocked the Jara homestead. Among them was a step-brother. It was not his first time in Mwele. He stayed a long time at Jara’s as he recovered from TB. In the Tana County hospitals are few and spread too far. Droughts are common and harsh. A man with TB easily dies there. If the dreaded illness does not kill him, then the pain of hunger shall. 

It is not clear why the recovered TB patient took a machete and sliced through Jara’s two-year old daughter. Jara had left for work in the wee hours. The assailant was home with the little girl and her mother. The man swung the machete right through the little girl’s spine. Then he launched on the mother. 

He struck her several times in the arms, head and shoulder. In shock and bleeding, she retreated under a traditional African bed. It is usually built into the mud floor using poles. The attacker struggled to tear it apart. It was too firmly rooted in the ground for his feeble hands. 

Alerted by her screams, villagers gathered around the homestead. The attacker faced them down with his blood-stained machete. He promised death for anyone that approached. The local chief pleaded with the attacker to surrender. The crowd waited armed with crude weapons. Who was to make the first move against the attacker?

Jara arrived as the cornered man defied the entreaties of the law. His little girl and wife were on their way to hospital by motorbike.  Bandaged in lesos or wrappers, they hoped for recovery. At that point few gave them a chance.

The attacker boldly declared his true intent when Jara arrived.

“It was you I was after! I will kill you,” he shouted.

“You have killed my wife and daughter. I will kill you.” Jara replied.

Jara was not enraged. He was a man possessed. The crowd urged him on. When he cast the fast stone, a barrage followed. The attacker fell wounded. He was quickly disarmed. The chief pleaded with the mob to spare him. 

“No,” the mob chanted. “This killer must die. If we hand him over to the courts he will be spared. In a few years he will be back.”

The attacker was tied up. The crowd raised a few hundred shillings for petrol. Motorcycle riders siphoned their tanks. Someone brought used tyres.  They squeezed him through the rimless tyres. The attacker screamed as the flames consumed him. He rolled about for some minutes then succumbed. The flames were merciless. The crowd roared in delight.

“Shetani wewe!” ( You devil!)

The flames ate into his spare body. The sizzling soon turned into a darkened glow. The smell of roasting flesh gave way to a pungent smell of rubber. The attacker was no more. Only the tyres burnt. When the flames died down, the feet had somehow survived.

Jara’s little girl died. Her mother survived. Jara is revered for his honour and courage in the face of a horrendous crime. 

In Ganda, the mob had just come to terms with the realities of the justice system. Ziggy was a troubled child. At sixteen he nearly killed his best friend. The boy stayed in hospital for a year. Ziggy hit him with an iron bar after they brawled over a soft drink bottle. The debacle led to brain damage resulting in badly slurred speech. He never finished school. Neither did Ziggy- he spent years in Approved School.

The Ziggy that came from Approved School was even worse than before. He was an unrepentant thief, a shameless robber, a rapist and general misfit. Numerous convictions followed. He was in and out of jail. Every time he went in, he bragged, it was not to jail but back home. He was a Trustee. Trustees did not work. They only cooked and ate the ‘top layer’. Sometimes they supervised other inmates at work.

The community blamed him for a recent spate of murders. There was no hard evidence. It is thought he was hired to settle scores by some. One night a mob gathered outside his hut. He was not in. They searched the surrounding bushes. He was not found. In frustration, they set the hut alight. Ziggy had to move from the area.

They waited until the embers died down. As they left, a voice shouted from high up a huge mango tree.

“Mtaona. Nimewaona nyote na nitawaua mmoja mmoja.” ( Beware. I have seen you all. I will kill each and every one of you. )

There was a meeting in the village the next morning. Worried villagers pondered the next move. He was far too dangerous to be left in the area. They knew he spent the night at his brother’s. They went there. It is rumoured he could sense danger. His exploits were legend. He could scale any wall and jump from any height. Many times he lived through heinous beatings. He was as strong as a mule. He killed his victims by twisting their necks.

Ziggy escaped from his brother’s house just before the mob arrived. His sister-in-law urged him to surrender to the area chief. He refused. No one could catch him, he insisted. He hid in the farms and walked stealthily into the valley below the village. There was a friend with a bike in the next village. As the mob scoured the farms, he managed to reach the friend’s house.

There was time yet to get to the chief’s, the friend urged. No, Ziggy only wanted a ride to the river bank farther below. He wanted to swim across. It would not help, the friend counselled. Ziggy would hear none of the entreaties. They were still haggling when the friend noticed the mob bearing down on the house.  They panicked.

They quickly got onto the bike. The friend rode towards the chief’s homestead. He had no choice really. The mob would judge him an accomplice if he let Ziggy escape. At least he could claim he only followed the law. He would not hear Ziggy’s entreaties for a change of course.

Alarmed at the course they were taking, Ziggy jumped off the moving bike. He raced into an unoccupied house and locked himself in. The mob surrounded the house. There was little chance of escape. They were all set to burn the house. The owner pleaded for consideration. Someone offered to shoot the villain with a poisoned arrow. They knocked the door down.

They found Ziggy perched in the rafters. He was probably looking for a way to jump out. The poisoned arrow pierced his belly just below the lower left rib. He struggled for a short while before landing limp on the bed below. The thatched house had no ceiling.

They dragged him out and assaulted him. It did not matter he was dying or dead anyway. Someone pushed a stick up his rear. Others jumped on his head. They rained blows on him long after he was dead. Sated, they dragged the body to the road. It is a few hundred yards to the road so the body took quite a few bruises to get there.

That’s how they keep the law down here. Villagers will gleefully tell you how. It is the only effective way. The courts, jails and police have all but failed the public confidence test. Just read the Kenyan news- insecurity, insecurity, insecurity. The two events happened within weeks of each other in Kilifi County. That was back in March. In the news, they made it to the Other News segment. There have been no arrests.