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is just to shoot them like this
gabadaya.”
    “I hear The Law’s native doctor is somewhere around, casting spells and mouthing incantations so that no bullet can penetrate his body,” someone in the crowd said.
    “I heard he shot and killed his native doctor some time ago so that she cannot prepare the same
juju
she made for him for someone else.”
    “Let them start, I want to see their blood flow, we shall see today whether it is not the same red blood that flows in the veins of law-abiding citizens that flows in theirs.”
    “Ah, look, one of them is crying like a baby already; look at the crocodile tears, the way they are flowing out of his eyes.”
    One of the robbers, his name was Victor Osunbor, was actually crying. He was said to be the best shot of all the robbers and could shoot accurately while steering their getaway car with one hand. His teardrops mixed with the sweat that was running down his face and the mucus from his nose, turning his face into a dark slippery mess.
    “Most robbers, especially the hardened ones, will always weep before their execution; they want you to pity them but they themselves have no single pity in them,” Dad said to a man who was standing beside us. The man was tugging at his little beard, and his eyes darted from one side of the crowd to the other.
    “Oh yes, they always weep. I have seen all of them weep, from Oyenusi to Omopupa to The Boyisgood to Shina Rambo, all the robbers that have been shot here at Bar Beach, the strong ones are the ones who weep most.”
    “They do not deserve any pity. I know that if they are released now the very next night they will return to the only job they can do well—robbery. Don’t you agree?” Dad said, turning to the man, who had gone back to tugging at his beard.
    “Yes, oh robbers deserve to die, no mercy at all is what I believe in fact this new military government should allow us to stone them to death like they do in Saudi Arabia, I swear to God if they let us stone them, I will pick up the heaviest piece of stone in this Bar Beach and smash it
gbosa
on their heads,” the man said, smiling, his bloodshot eyes glinting.
    Yemi was talking with one of the itinerant musicians who were working the crowd. For a little penny you could request a song that they would sing for you while strumming on their guitar. Yemi was telling the musician to play him a rock number by AC/DC, but the musician laughed and told Yemi that he did not play such songs, that they were not popular and were hardly requested. Yemi asked to borrow the man’s guitar, but the man refused, telling Yemi that he was looking for money right now and was busy. As the man moved away, Dad turned to Yemi and smiled in a dry way.
    “You see now for yourself how a so-called musician is no better than a beggar, look at all of them in their uncombed hair and unwashed jeans begging for pennies from everybody, after this how can you still want to be a musician?”
    “Is it not better to beg with your guitar than to become an armed robber?” Yemi responded. Dad opened his mouth to say something, but closed it and began to mop his face with his damp handkerchief.
    “Aha, they will soon start,” the man beside us said. “The Reverend Father and the Imam are both here now.” A priest was walking from one of the men at the stake to the next and whispering into their ears. He spent a long time with Victor Osunbor, who was heaving dry sobs. The priest gave him rosary beads, which he quickly wrapped around his fingers, and began to make signs of the cross on his forehead and chest.
    The leader of the soldiers, a warrant officer, blew his whistle. “Take your positions,” he bellowed. “Get ready. Fire! Fire! Fire!” he screamed. As the shots rang out, the crowd screamed.
    Suddenly it began to rain. Fat dollops of rain were cascading from the open skies, drenching everyone quickly and making people turn to each other with accusatory looks. The rain washed away the pool of