45

The tip of the blade pierced my throat, and adrenaline-fueled rage pushed me into action. I bellowed like a stubborn bull refusing the meat hook. I made a fist and punched Samaké in the crotch. Admittedly, he was in the ideal position for that, crouched above me with his pockmarked face. His eyes rolled back in his head like the reels of a slot machine. I would have found this hysterical if I hadn’t been busy bleeding out. With his hands clasped between his legs, the cab driver fell on his back and let out an ear-splitting cry. His cohort rushed at me while I crawled toward my weapon, slipping on my own blood. I grabbed the Glock and flipped on my back. The hit man was hovering over me with his knife raised. I fired several rounds, riddling him with bullets. He fell on top of me blade-first, dead as a doorknob. A monstrous pain ripped through my gut.

I clenched my jaw and struggled to stay conscious. I was crying in agony as I pushed the guy off me. How could such a beanpole weigh so much? I stood up unsteadily. The knife fell to the floor, gunky with my blood. The room was spinning, or maybe I was imitating a whirling dervish. I couldn’t tell. Taking hesitant steps I walked outside, into the fading late-afternoon light. As I stumbled onto the path, passersby gawked. No word could describe the pain I was experiencing. Incapable of taking another step, I stopped and opened my blood-soaked shirt to discover my innards hanging out. In a trancelike state, I held my insides and kept walking. Then, behind me, I heard the enraged man rushing toward me. I turned around. Samaké, holding the knife, was approaching me with eyes steaming with fury. Pedestrians had already started coming closer. I moaned as I leaned down to pick up a huge rock. Samaké slowed when he saw me brandishing my pathetic projectile.

“What do you plan on doing with that pebble, Camara?” he snickered.

“Throw it at your face,” I croaked.

He approached with caution, pointing the knife at my stomach. I was still standing, thanks to God knows what miracle of will power.

“I was told to make you suffer before offing you,” the killer said.

“Why’d you kill her, Samaké?” I asked, staggering.

“Why does it matter? For the money, actually. But I wasn’t the one who killed the slut. If you want to know what really happened, you’ll have your chance soon. You’ll be joining her in no time.”

I could feel my blood pouring down my leg and filling my shoe. I couldn’t bear the agony of my shredded gut much longer, but I was determined to do something as long as I was standing.

“This man killed a young woman, and now he’s going to kill me!” I shouted to those around me.

More and more people were edging closer.

Two things surprised me when I first came to Bamako. One was the speed at which a crowd could form. In a few seconds, a small pack had united around us. Kids, old people, workers, women…

“Look, he’s still holding his knife. He’s a killer!”

Samaké, protesting vehemently, tried to hide his blade behind his back. “Don’t listen to him. It’s not true…”

But my call to action was gaining momentum.

“He ripped open my stomach!”

I opened my shaking hands to show the onlookers my gut, and a chorus of exclamations rose up. Like a single creature gifted with reason, the crowd began advancing toward Samaké.

The other thing that surprised me at the start of my extended stay in Mali was the way its citizens rendered justice without bothering with legalities. It was a merciless justice of the masses. With fear in his eyes, Samaké brandished his knife, yelling at the crowd to step aside. He tried to reach his cab, but someone felled him with a blow to the skull.

“Serves you right,” I muttered.

And with that, the feeding frenzy began. The crowd rushed at him, pummeling him everywhere. He was disarmed in seconds. Samaké curled into a fetal position. As for me, I was writhing on the ground, clutching my gaping stomach. I felt weak. I was losing too much blood—way too much. At this rate, I would bleed out in a matter of minutes. As I wept, I untied my tagelmust and made a tourniquet around my thigh.

“Enforce Article 320!” I heard a woman yell.

Cries of joy met her proposal. Article 320—street code—came about during the 1991 uprising against the Moussa Traoré regime. Vigilantes opposed to his dictatorship took the law into their own hands by setting fire to their enemies. At the time, a liter of gas cost three hundred francs, and a box of matches cost twenty francs, hence the expression Article 320. It signified that the people were going to mete out justice in the quickest and most effective way possible. In recent years, this custom had seen a resurgence among Malians who felt powerless against judges who were quick to sell their verdicts and police who padded their wages with extorted bribes. But Article 320 was also invoked against rapists, murderers, and the most violent thieves.

A man holding a small jerry can stepped up. The crowd parted and held its collective breath. Through my deep state of lethargy, I saw Samaké’s pleading and swollen face. But that didn’t thwart the guy with the jerry can as he poured its contents on the killer. The crowd moved back when he struck a match. Just before losing consciousness, I saw Samaké’s body catch fire. His screams and those of the crowd were deafening. Children, meanwhile, skipped and danced in front of the blazing man.