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My name is Daniel. I was ten years old when my mother brought home the housemaid that killed my baby brother.
At first, I thought it was nothing. Just another helper. Someone to sweep the floors, cook jollof rice and eba, wash plates, and keep my mother company while my father was away on his endless trips with the transport company. Papa would leave every Monday morning in his old blue Toyota and return late Saturday night smelling of diesel and exhaustion. So the house in Ibadan — our yellow duplex close to the expressway — often felt too quiet, too big for just me and Mummy.
Mummy was seven months pregnant then. Her belly had grown so large she walked with both hands supporting her lower back, moving slowly like someone carrying a basket of yams. She was always tired. Always sighing. The doctor had warned her to rest, but in our house, rest was a luxury.
The day Esther arrived, I came back from school around 2 p.m., my bag hanging lazily on one shoulder, my socks dusty from the football field. I stepped into the sitting room and saw her sitting beside Mummy on the brown sofa, legs crossed neatly, hands folded in her lap.
She looked young — maybe twenty-two or twenty-three. Dark, smooth skin. A small, heart-shaped face. Very neat cornrow braids that shone with pomade. And that smile.
Not ugly. Not scary. Just… too much. It stayed on her face longer than necessary, like she was performing it.
“Daniel,” Mummy said softly, “greet Aunty Esther. She will be staying with us now to help.”
I greeted her properly, almost kneeling the way good children do. “Good afternoon, Aunty.”
Esther’s smile widened. “So this is Daniel,” she said, her voice low and sweet like melted sugar. Then she laughed — a soft, private laugh that made my stomach tighten.
I didn’t like it. Not one bit.
That evening, Mummy sent her to buy peak milk and bread from Mama Chinedu’s shop down the street. Esther came back with only the bread. No milk.
Mummy, already irritable from the pregnancy, snapped, “Esther, what is this? I clearly told you peak milk and bread. Are you deaf?”
Esther stood there quietly, not apologizing immediately. For a second, I saw something dark flash across her face — a frown she quickly hid. Then she lowered her head and whispered, “Sorry ma. I will go back now.”
Later that night, Mummy called from her bedroom, “Esther! Bring me a glass of water!”
