Today, as I sit on a wooden stool in the middle of the busy market square, watching my only son eat sand with the calmness of someone tasting fried rice, I hear strangers whisper:
“See her there. A wicked woman.”
“She refused to cure her son.”
“Some mothers are heartless.”
They do not understand.
They do not know what happened inside my compound.
They do not know what waits for me on the other side of cure.
If my son’s madness leaves him today,
I will die before sunrise.
This is not a proverb.
This is not village gossip.
This is the truth I live with every day.
But to understand why, let me start from the beginning.
Fifteen Years of Fire and Smoke**
I was never a lucky woman.
My husband died when Chinedu was only seven. Malaria took him in two nights. Before I could borrow money for drip, he had already left this world with nothing but a cracked pair of sandals and an old transistor radio.
From that day, the burden of life fell on my shoulders.
I sold akara for fifteen years.
Fifteen years of waking by 3 am.
Fifteen years of grinding beans until my arms trembled.
Fifteen years of hot oil jumping out of the frying pan to kiss my hands and leave permanent scars.
Fifteen years of tearing eyes because the smoke from the charcoal stove refused to allow peace.
But I did not stop.
I had a dream, one dream only:
My son must become a graduate.
If suffering was the school of destiny, then I got my certificate with distinction.
Even when I fainted one afternoon from hunger, I woke up and continued frying akara.
People laughed.
“Mama Chinedu, why are you suffering yourself over one boy?”
“What if he grows up and forgets you?”
But I trusted Chinedu.
He was a quiet child, respectful to a fault, always hiding inside books. He told me:
“Mummy, I will take you out of poverty. Just give me time.”
Those words were enough to keep me alive.
And he kept his promise.
At least, that was what I thought.
The Big Boys and the Bigger Lies**
Chinedu graduated three years ago.
I danced that day as if angels were pulling my legs with golden ropes. I rolled on the ground. I shouted. I cried. I told God thank you twenty times before leaving the church.
If parents ever know real joy, it is when their child walks across a stage wearing a graduation gown.
But joy has a twin sister: disappointment.
Instead of looking for work, Chinedu started dressing like Lagos Big Boys — sagging trousers, gold chains, perfume that entered the nose like pepper.
He began sleeping in hotels with boys who carried laptops everywhere like newborn babies.
“Mummy, it is Crypto business,” he told me.
Crypto?
Me that barely understood WhatsApp, how would I understand Crypto?
I asked questions, but he waved them away like flies.
Then six months ago, he came home with a brand-new Lexus Jeep.
Not tokunbo.
Not fairly used.
Brand new.
He renovated our leaking house into something that looked like a small palace. He bought wrappers that made other women jealous. He told me:
“Mummy, your suffering is over.”
I believed him.
Which mother will not be happy?
I gave testimony in church. I danced until my head tie fell off.
If only I had known.
If only spiritual eyes could open like curtains.
Happiness blinded me.
The Rules Nobody Explained**
Soon after the money flowed into our house like river water, I began noticing strange things.
Chinedu never slept at night.
He paced the compound like a security guard, talking to himself in low tones.
Sometimes he would run his hand along the walls as if greeting invisible people.
He also had rules.
“Mummy, never enter my room. Ever. And never sit in the back seat of my Lexus.”
I laughed the first time he said it.
Children can be dramatic.
But he wasn’t joking.
His eyes turned sharp like blade.
I felt something in my spirit.
A warning.
But I ignored it.
When blessings come too quickly, mothers silence their suspicion with gratitude.
The Day the Back Seat Spoke**
Last Sunday, everything changed.
Chinedu rushed out to buy fuel.
He forgot his keys on the dining table.
I wanted to sweep the compound and needed to move the car.
I took the keys.
I opened the Lexus door.
The scent of expensive leather rose into my nose.
But the moment I sat in the driver’s seat,
I heard it.
A sound.
A hiss.
Sharp. Reptilian.
Coming from behind me.
I turned.
The back seat was empty.
“Old age,” I whispered.
But the hiss came again.
Then a voice.
A tiny, sharp voice coming from inside the seat.
“Mama, bring the blood. I am thirsty.”
My body froze.
My palm grew cold.
I held the steering wheel as if it was the only thing keeping me from falling into hell.
“Who… who is that?” I stammered.
“It is me.
The Provider.
Your son promised me your eyes.
Today is the deadline.
Why are you delaying?”
My heart almost burst like overripe pawpaw.
My son?
My eyes?
I did not scream.
I did not faint.
A strange calmness entered me.
A calmness I still believe came from God.
I stood up.
I walked inside the house.
I picked a razor blade from my drawer.
Then I returned to the Lexus.
With one slash, I opened the expensive leather seat.
What came out should not exist in this world.
The Tortoise of Darkness**
Inside the foam of the back seat lay a tortoise.
But not a normal one.
Its shell was painted black.
Its mouth was sewn shut with red thread.
Symbols were carved on its back — symbols that moved like worms.
Yet it spoke clearly.
“You cannot escape,” the tortoise hissed.
“The covenant is signed.”
I dropped the razor.
I grabbed the nearest stone.
I smashed the tortoise.
One blow.
Two.
Three.
Ten.
I smashed until its shell cracked like broken plates.
I smashed until no sound came.
I smashed until blood and bone mixed into a dark paste.
Then I heard screaming.
Not from the tortoise.
From my son.
**Chapter Six
The Madness of Chinedu**
Chinedu burst into the compound holding his chest.
“MY CHEST! MY CHEST! MUMMY WHAT HAVE YOU DONE!”
He fell.
He rolled on the ground.
He clawed at his throat as if something was choking him.
Then he crawled to the spot where the tortoise lay smashed.
He stared.
And his eyes changed.
Something left him.
Something dark.
Something heavy.
Then he screamed:
“The tortoise is dead!
The bank is closed!”
He tore his clothes.
He began eating sand like food.
He shouted nonsense about Crypto.
He laughed.
He cried.
He ran around the compound.
My son — my graduate — became mad in one second.
**Chapter Seven
The Accusations Begin**
It has been one week.
Chinedu roams the streets shouting:
“Blood for Crypto! The tortoise wants interest!”
People throw stones at him.
Children run.
Women make the sign of the cross.
My in-laws came to the house.
They shouted at me.
They accused me.
“You this wicked woman!
You used our son for rituals!”
“You killed him spiritually to prolong your life!”
“Confess!”
Confess what?
That I killed a demon tortoise before it plucked my eyes out?
They want me to take Chinedu to a native doctor.
They want his sanity back.
But sanity is death for me.
**Chapter Eight
The Pastor’s Warning**
In confusion, I ran to my pastor.
I knelt before him.
I cried until my tears soaked the floor.
“Pastor, help me! My son is mad!”
He placed his hand on my shoulder and sighed deeply.
“Mama, listen carefully. The madness is your safety.”
I looked up sharply.
“What do you mean?”
“Your son made a covenant.
You were the guarantor.
If his mind becomes clear again,
the spirit he partnered with will return to take what it was promised — your eyes.”
My hands shook.
“Pastor… should I cure him?”
“You cure him, you die.
Keep him as he is, you live.”
I cried again.
“Mama,” he said softly,
“Sometimes madness is mercy.”
**Chapter Nine
My Choice**
So now, I have made my decision.
I feed Chinedu.
I bathe him.
I wash sand out of his teeth.
I remove stones from his pockets.
When he runs to me laughing like a child,
I hug him gently, even though my heart breaks.
This is the price of motherhood.
This is the price of survival.
People say I am wicked.
People say I am selfish.
People say I have failed as a mother.
Maybe they are right.
Maybe they are wrong.
But I know one thing:
Better a mad son than a dead mother.
If I cure him today,
the spirit will come for me tonight.
I am not ready to die.
Not yet.
