Papa came back immediately, but even he couldn’t console her.
I told no one what I knew. I was ten. I was terrified. But I also knew Esther was still in our house, smiling that same smile, cooking our food, washing our clothes.
I began planning.
Every night, I prayed to God. I asked for strength. I started writing everything down in my school notebook — dates, times, everything I saw.
One evening, Mummy was in the sitting room when Esther brought her a cup of tea.
I walked in just as Esther was handing it over.
“No!” I shouted.
Both women looked at me, startled.
“Don’t drink it, Mummy! She put something inside!”
Esther’s face changed. The mask fell completely.
“You stupid boy,” she hissed.
Mummy looked confused, exhausted. “Daniel, what are you saying?”
I told her everything. The spitting in the water. The black bag. The powder in Samuel’s milk. The things I found under her bed. The confession.
Mummy’s face went pale. She dropped the cup. It shattered on the tiled floor.
Esther tried to run.
But Papa had returned early that day. He was standing at the door, listening to everything.
He grabbed Esther before she could escape.
The next hours were chaos. Neighbors came. Police were called. They searched her room and found more charms, more powders, and a small bottle labeled with my mother’s name.
Esther was arrested.
But the damage was done.
---
Years later, I am twenty-six.
Mummy never fully recovered. She had two miscarriages after Samuel. She became deeply religious, attending prayer meetings every single day. Papa retired early and stayed home more. Our yellow duplex still stands, but it feels haunted.
Esther was sentenced to life in prison. During the trial, she confessed everything. She had been paid by someone — an old rival of my mother — to destroy our family. The charms, the poison, the slow torture — all planned.
But sometimes, late at night, I still see that smile.
I still remember the way she poured that white powder so carefully into my brother’s bottle, like she was feeding him love instead of death.
I still wake up sometimes hearing Samuel’s weak cry.
And I wonder — if I had spoken up earlier, would my brother be alive today?
I was only ten.
But ten is old enough to see evil.
Old enough to carry guilt for the rest of your life.
---
