Mummy went into labor on a Thursday evening. Papa was in Lagos. Esther helped flag down a taxi and went with us to the hospital. She was surprisingly calm and helpful. The nurses even praised her.
My brother was named Samuel. A beautiful, chubby boy with full cheeks and a loud cry. Mummy was overjoyed. For the first time in months, she looked truly happy.
But Esther’s smile never changed.
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The real terror began when Samuel was three weeks old.
Mummy’s breast milk was not enough. The doctor recommended formula. Every night, Esther was the one who prepared the baby’s bottle.
One evening, I came downstairs for water and froze again at the kitchen entrance.
Esther stood at the wooden table, exactly as in that terrible memory that still haunts me. She held a black plastic bag — the same kind we used for rubbish. She was pouring a fine white powder into Samuel’s feeding bottle. Not the formula powder. Something else. Something from that black bag.
She poured slowly, carefully, making sure every grain went in. Then she added hot water, shook the bottle, and tasted a drop on her finger.
She smiled.
That same smile.
I stepped back quietly and ran to my room. My hands were shaking. I wanted to tell Mummy, but she was exhausted, breastfeeding and recovering. Papa was still away. Who would believe a ten-year-old boy?
So I started my own investigation.
I began searching Esther’s small room behind the kitchen when she went to the market. Under her mattress, I found strange things: old dry leaves tied with red thread, a small calabash with dark powder, and a notebook with names written inside. One name was circled many times — “Adeola.”
My mother’s maiden name.
My fear turned into cold dread.
