---
Two days later, Samuel fell seriously ill.
He started vomiting after every feed. His tiny body grew hot with fever. He cried weakly, no longer the strong boy who used to kick his legs happily.
Mummy was beside herself. We rushed him to the hospital. The doctor said it looked like poisoning — something in his system that shouldn’t be there.
Esther cried with us at the hospital. Real tears. She held Mummy’s hand and prayed loudly in Yoruba. But when no one was watching, I caught her looking at the baby with something like satisfaction.
That night, back at home, I confronted her.
I waited until Mummy had finally fallen asleep from exhaustion. I walked into the kitchen where Esther was washing plates.
“Why are you doing this?” I asked, my voice small but steady.
She turned around slowly. That smile again. But this time, there was no pretense.
“Doing what, Daniel?”
“You put something in my brother’s milk. I saw you. And in Mummy’s water too.”
For a moment, her eyes went completely blank. Then she laughed — that soft, terrifying laugh.
“You are just a small boy with big eyes,” she whispered. “You see too much.”
She stepped closer. I could smell her cheap perfume mixed with something earthy, like grave soil.
“Your mother took something that belonged to me,” she said quietly. “A man. My man. Before she married your father. She ruined my life. Now I will ruin hers.”
My heart was hammering so hard I thought it would burst.
“You’re a witch,” I whispered.
She tilted her head. “Call it what you want. But the boy will not live. And if you tell anyone… your mother will be next.”
---
Samuel died three days later.
The funeral was a blur of black clothes, loud crying, and relatives I barely knew. Mummy was broken. She stopped eating. She would sit in the baby’s room for hours, holding his tiny clothes and crying silently.
