jaylar
I knew Ziggs since he was born. I held him in my arms. I watched him grow. And I watched his mother, Ina, turn him into what he became.
Ziggs was never wrong. If he threw paint on someone and they tossed it back, Ina would fly into a rage about her ‘pickney’.
if Ziggs hit anyone and they hit back, Ina had to be restrained from beating someone else’s child.
The wise move was to chase him away. Keep him from your children. For no matter what he did, from stealing, smashing, beating, Ina always defended him.
No one played with Ziggs, but he didn’t care. He could do anything he wanted. He could walk into anyone’s yard, take anything, knowing his mother would defend him.
One day Ziggs was walking and the police told him to stop. He didn’t. One police man grabbed him. He stabbed the policeman. The policeman shot and killed him.
I heard the shot.
Later, everyone who had been there gave the same story, and even if they wanted to lie and claim that the police shot him for nothing, there was the stab wound, the knife, the blood.
Ina wanted to sue to police for killing her pickney.
They buried Ziggs, I didn’t go. I couldn’t. I would probably push Ina in the grave with him.
