THINKING ABOUT A MURDERED WORKER
One is never greeted daily with an offer to work for free. But here was this instance in the past when someone volunteered to be one among several crews I hired to construct my house. The workers knew that I only have bare resources to make do hence there was this so much care in the manner of using materials. We cannot stand to spend more than what I had budgeted for the purpose. And because I was stingy in my resources, someone offered to work without pay. “Just feed me.” was the only requirement and it was a practical one.
And so, I marked this man silently as one of my real friends.
When my cottage was completed, he asked if he still could stay to assist. Again, he never expected to be remunerated at all. All that he asked for was merely a small space where he could stay within spitting distance from the house which I resided in. He merely wanted to be called a trusted man. He merely wanted to be known as my ally.
In the community where I established my residence, I had a reputation for kindness, benevolence and well, brilliance. My record as a prison official spilled over to the community. Prison work and community service had been an advocacy I was committed to be involved in. Anyone therefore with a knack for public service would rather get through me, get near me or volunteer to be with me if only for the cause I was espousing.
I used to work alone. Well, I chose to do things all by myself. I never wanted nor prodded anyone to work for me. If at all there were those who milled around me, projecting an impression that I had a number of recruits, it was never my choice. It was these people who wanted to be helped, who wanted to be assisted, whose needs they sought from me. I operated as if I was an entirely complete person and because of that, some people thought that they could ask from me some surpluses or excesses which they could tap to sustain their deficient needs. They were all welcomed.
If I had so much, I would generously share. If I had nothing coming, a sincere smile would do. All those around me would partake of anything, be it a morsel or an amusing story. Both of which could already fill up their day. I know because if they were unsatisfied or bored, unrequited or disgruntled, they could just pack up and stroll away. There were no contracts or agreements anyway. But people flock to stay nonetheless and I had no stomach to drive them away.
And so this fellow, this volunteer worker of mine, Jojo Viray chose to reside in a small hut outside my gated cottage, within my entrance corridor almost exposed to the main street. I had plots of vegetable plants on which anyone can pluck for a simple viand. Jojo was sharing this area with another volunteer worker. Technically, they were on their own. I had no predators or enemies not even any competitor to guard about and so they were merely tasked to maintain the garden from where their comeuppance may be derived.
It was a full year of self sustaining activity. At times, they were conscripted to maintain my own garden but generally, they had their small areas to concentrate on.
One dimly lit afternoon however, while Jojo was stretching after a routine farming chore, a bungling person crept into his area, aimed a firearm and shot Jojo mercilessly until he splayed dead on the orchard. I was somewhere that time and when I was informed about the incident, it was a puzzle, almost bizarre.
Those hits were only done on “important” personalities. Jojo was merely a dirt farmer. The manner by which he was taken down partakes of an activity or involvement with big time syndicates. It could be drugs or anything lucrative to merit death as penalty for those who would transgress its discipline. But Jojo would never qualify even as runner because he had no credentials for it. Before Jojo volunteered to work in my small farm, he was a pedicab driver. He never knew any work at all and for quite a time, he was unemployed. Assuming he cornered some enemies sometime past, he would have been stabbed by a bar-b-q stick or hacked by a rusted pipe. He could have been poisoned or pushed in the highway. Yet he was like a bemedaled soldier or a controversial politician when he was murdered.
He must have known something, or witnessed some kind of an incident for which an instant rub out was a necessary move. But it would once again boil down to the same analysis. Why an expensive bullet and not something that befits a lowly man.
Crime today is no longer that simple anymore.