Tired

A sun is setting on a common criminal.

The gathered crowd forces an old car tire around his neck.

A spark is lit, then a blazing fire.

Hearts pound to the rhythm of drips of flaming rubber hitting the ground below.

Screams of pain echo past the crowd's silent relief.

Justice and injustice are fused together in this most awful crucible. Where guilt ends and innocence begins, no one is quite sure anymore.

This tragic scene could be cut from the Civil Rights era, or from South Africa's struggle to loosen the noose of apartheid.

Lessons have been passed on from one oppression-weary generation to another.

But this scene comes from present-day Mozambique, brought about by desperate neighbours frustrated by the height of crime. And frustrated by the inaction -- or outright complicity -- of the justice system. Police officers are accused of being paid off by criminals in exchange for front-door prison breaks.

Mozambique is tired.

* * * * *

Give me your cell phone.

As Samuel told me of his experience at the Xipamanine market this morning, he recounted being slow to understand the boy's request. I like my cell phone, he thought to himself. I want it.

I want to keep my cell phone, he said out loud to the boy's repeated request.

You don't understand, the boy said. And very quickly, Samuel did understand.

Just as quickly, there were six boys where the first had stood alone. Samuel was surrounded, then on the ground. A fist struck his jaw, and a knife cut somewhere through the confusion.

As Samuel recounted the story, he still wore a shirt with two slashes in the back and one on the left shoulder. A plastic bag held more destroyed clothing, but luckily the knife didn't penetrate deep. Samuel's skin will heal.

His fear welled up; so did his eyes. He cried for his clothing, for his cell phone. And he cried for his country. Mozambique, he said to me, shaking his head, braving a smile.

Samuel is tired.

His cell phone has been taken. It will cost a month's salary to replace, unless he goes to the black market to buy a stolen one. Those are the choices he faces: a month's salary, or reward the crime of his attackers.

A rich benefactor buys him a new cell phone to dull the pain of the loss. I don't mind. The cell phone may be a month's salary for him, but for me it's just a fraction of what I keep hidden in my sock drawer.

* * * * *

Xipamanine market is crowded with people, but nobody sees Samuel's attackers. Not a person helps. Not a person notices.

Today, the thieves slip safely into anonymity. If they attack another, they may not be so lucky. Eventually, the community will rise up with matches and an old car tire. A series of petty thefts will turn into the irony called vigilante justice.

Mozambique is tired.