Amaka pushed through the crowd. She squeezed past two men and felt fingers grip her butt. She stopped. Anger surged through her and she formed a fist. This was not the time.
She pushed on, continuing through the throng of people between her and the fire; the body sizzled and popped, and that all-too familiar smell of burning flesh and rubber was thick in the air and impossible not to inhale. At the front, she watched as someone flung another tyre on top of the body that was covered in steel belts from tyres that had already melted away. Another shirtless man sprayed petrol from a water bottle. The flames leapt. The crowd retreated. The fire glowed on the faces of the guilty. Their victim’s hand was visible under the burning rubber; black like coal. Flames wrapped around fingers that had charred into a claw.
A young boy was recording the scene with his phone next to Amaka. She grabbed hold of his hand. ‘What happened?’ she asked.
The boy looked at her and then at his hand in her grip. He tried to pull away, but she held tight. ‘What happened?’ she asked again and tugged, tightening her grip. He looked her up and down, as if weighing her status or authority.
‘Na thief,’ he said.
‘He snatch that woman gold chain,’ he said and pointed.
Amaka followed his finger. On the other side of the burning body, standing behind the people watching and filming, Amaka saw who he was pointing at: Chioma, staring back at her, face blank, hair dishevelled, eyes cold.