I poured 5 liters of petrol on the expensive baby crib my mother in law bought for my unborn son and set it on fire. What I heard coming from the fire made me go into labor instantly.
I am typing this from a hospital bed in Maitama.
My baby boy is in the incubator, fighting for his life.
If I had put him in that crib, he would have been used for suya by the underworld.
My name is Amara, and this is how I discovered that the people I loved most were ready to sell my child for wealth.
For nine long years I cried myself to sleep almost every night.
Nine years of barrenness.
Nine years of mockery.
Nine years of peeing on sticks that always came out blank and cold.
If you have never lived in a Nigerian family where everyone expects grandchildren immediately, you cannot fully understand my pain.
My mother in law, Mama Chinedu, was the captain of my tormentors.
From the first year of my marriage she made it clear that my value as a wife depended on how many sons I pushed out.
The first time she visited us in our tiny rented flat in Gwarinpa, she looked around and clicked her tongue.
“At least if there was a child here,” she said, “this poverty would have meaning.”
I laughed then because I thought she was joking.
Seven years later, I realized she was not.
She called me “man woman.” She told my husband, Dave, to kick me out.
“Dave, why are you wasting your sperm on this rock,” she would shout whenever she visited. “Send her back to her father. Let him keep his fellow man.”
I would hide in the bedroom and cry quietly into my pillow, trying not to make noise so they would not say I was “emotional.”
Dave would come in later, hold me, and wipe my tears.
“Baby, do not mind her,” he would say. “Children will come when God says it is time.”
He was a good man.
Or so I thought.
Dave was a contractor, always chasing government jobs. For a long time, contracts were scarce. We managed with his small jobs and my salary as an accountant in a small firm. We were not rich, but we were happy.
Then, two years ago, his business changed like overnight miracle.
One day he was coming home with a tired face and dusty shoes. Three months later, he was coming home with car keys and cartons of wine.
He started winning big contracts one after another. Road construction. Housing estates. Supply of materials.
Money began to flow like water.
We moved from our old flat into a four bedroom duplex in Maitama. We bought two cars. Dave started wearing Italian suits and gold wristwatches. He opened a big office and hired staff.
Everybody congratulated us.
“God has finally remembered you,” they said.
Only one thing was missing.
A child.
Every night, after praising God with my lips, I still cried into my pillow. All the wealth felt empty without the sound of tiny feet around the house.
Mama Chinedu used to call and say, “Now you have money but no child. What is the use. Who will inherit it”
Sometimes she would fake cry on the phone.
“God, what did my son offend you that you tied his destiny to a barren tree like this”
Dave would cut the call and hug me.
“Do not listen,” he said. “My happiness is with you. Children will come.”
So when it finally happened, I thought heaven had kissed my forehead.
Six months ago, I missed my period.
At first I assumed it was stress. I had been working late and supervising some renovations in the house. But when the second week passed, something in me whispered, Go and buy a test kit.
I went to the pharmacy after work and bought two.
I could not even wait to reach home. I entered the staff toilet, followed the instructions, then covered the strip and stared at the ceiling while my heart beat in my throat.
After three minutes I looked.
Two red lines.
Positive.
My eyes blurred. I sat on the toilet floor and cried for almost ten minutes. My hands could not stop shaking. I clutched that small plastic like it was the key to my whole life.
On my way home I bought another kit from a different pharmacy. The second test shouted the same answer.
Pregnant.
When Dave came back that night, I dropped the two tests in his hands without saying anything.
He looked at them, looked at me, then looked back at them.
“Amara,” he whispered. “Is this… real”
I nodded.
He shouted and ran around the sitting room like a child. He carried me and spun me until I begged him to drop me before I vomited.
We prayed. We laughed. We cried.
For the first time in nine years, I slept without tears.
Telling Mama Chinedu was the part I feared.
I expected sarcasm. I expected her to say I was lying, or accuse me of sleeping with another man.
But her reaction shocked me.
The moment Dave told her on the phone, she screamed.
“Praise the Lord,” she shouted. I could hear her voice loud and clear from the receiver.
She started dancing and rolling on the floor. She called me her “Golden Daughter.” She said I had proven my enemies wrong.
I sat there, confused but relieved.
From that day, her attitude changed like magic.
She began calling me every day to ask how I was feeling. She sent money into my account “for fruits.” She posted me on our family WhatsApp group and told everybody to be careful with how they talked to me because I was “carrying the future of the family.”
She came to Abuja twice for antenatal visits, cooking herbal soups and praying over my stomach.
For the first time since I married into their family, I felt accepted.
My friends said, “You see. Sometimes mother in laws are harsh because of frustration. Now that you are pregnant everything is fine.”
I believed them.
I relaxed.
I thought the storm was over.
I did not know that it was only gathering strength.
Last week, which was my thirty seventh week of pregnancy, Mama called to say she was coming from the village with a special gift for her grandson.
She sounded excited. Too excited.
“Amara, get ready,” she said. “I am bringing something nobody in this Abuja has. Your baby will sleep like a prince.”
The next day, a truck drove through our gate, followed by an old bus. Mama stepped out of the bus and supervised as four men brought down a huge object wrapped in cloth.
It was a crib. But not like any crib I had seen.
It was hand carved from thick dark wood, polished until it shone like glass. Intricate patterns wound around the legs, and tiny faces were carved into the headboard. A small wooden mobile hung above it, with carved animals that looked almost alive.
It was beautiful.
Almost too beautiful.
“This is for my grandson,” Mama said, rubbing my big stomach and smiling so widely her cheeks trembled. “I commissioned the best carver in our village. The wood is from the Evil Forest, but we have cleansed it.”
The way she dropped the words “Evil Forest” so casually felt like cold water down my back.
My people grew up hearing stories about the Evil Forest. Sacrifices. Curses. Spirits that wandered at night. Even the elders respected that land.
I chuckled nervously. “Mama, why from the Evil Forest now. Is there no other forest”
She waved her hand dramatically.
“Do not fear. Strong wood gives strong child. We have done the necessary cleansing. Pastors prayed. Dibias washed. This crib carries power.”
Her words made my skin crawl, but Dave was smiling proudly.
“Mama, thank you,” he said. “This is really fine.”
She insisted that nobody else should touch it.
“I will set it myself,” she said. “Nobody must disturb the arrangement.”
She carried the parts into the nursery and locked the door behind her. For almost two hours, we heard the sound of metal tools, whispers of chanting, and once, a faint humming from Mama’s throat.
When she finally opened the door, the crib stood by the window like a throne.
I forced a smile. “It is beautiful.”
Mama beamed. “Yes. Our grandson will sleep there his first night home. It must be so.”
That sentence echoed in my head long after she left the room.
That night I could not sleep.
Mama had gone to the guest room. Dave lay beside me snoring gently. The house was quiet, but my mind was racing.
Every time I closed my eyes, I heard something.
At first I thought it was the neighbor’s cat. Then I realized it was a baby.
A baby crying.
The sound seemed distant but clear, as if the baby was in another room. The hair on my arms rose.
I sat up and listened.
“Waaaah. Waaaah.”
My heart pounded. I tapped Dave’s shoulder.
“Baby, are you hearing that”
He turned over, eyes half closed. “Hearing what”
“The crying. It is like a baby crying.”
He listened for a few seconds then shook his head.
“I am not hearing anything. Amara, it is pregnancy hormones. Sleep.”
He wrapped his arm around me and dozed off again, leaving me alone with the sound.
The crying continued. Soft. Persistent. Coming from one direction.
The nursery.
My spirit became unsettled. I felt a weight in my chest, like someone had placed a stone there.
Around two in the morning, something inside me snapped.
I cannot explain it properly.
It was like a strong hand grabbed my inner self and dragged me off the bed. I felt an urge to destroy that crib so intense that I could not ignore it.
It was not ordinary anger. It was a deep holy fear. Like the Holy Spirit himself was warning me.
I stood up slowly. Dave was snoring.
I went to the garage and took the gallon of petrol we kept for the generator. My hands were trembling but determined.
I marched to the nursery.
The moment I stepped inside, the air turned cold even though the weather was warm. The crib stood by the window, casting a long shadow across the room. The carved faces on the headboard seemed to be watching me.
The crying stopped.
I stared at the crib.
A voice whispered in my head.
Burn it.
I dragged the heavy wooden crib to the balcony. My back ached, and the baby inside my womb shifted as if he too felt the urgency.
On the balcony, under the moonlight, I opened the petrol and poured it all over the wood. The smell filled my nose and made my throat itch.
My hands were shaking uncontrollably as I struck the match.
“Lord, forgive me if I am wrong,” I whispered.
The flame caught instantly.
Boom.
Fire roared around the crib, swallowing it in seconds. The flames rose higher, fed by the petrol and the old dry wood.
And then I heard it.
The scream.
High pitched. Agonized.
“Weeeeeeh. Weeeeeeh.”
But this was not a normal baby cry. It was sharper, twisted, filled with something that did not belong to this world. It sounded like a baby and a snake and a grown man all crying together.
My knees weakened. I stepped back, terrified.
Fragments of the wood began to crackle and split in the heat.
Suddenly, with a loud snap, one of the crib legs broke open like a burst pipe.
From inside that hollow leg, a live python tumbled out.
A real snake.
It landed on the balcony floor, its body already on fire. It writhed and thrashed, trying to escape the flames, but the petrol had soaked its scales. It burned alive, releasing a horrible hissing sound that mingled with the fading cry.
My mouth opened in a scream I did not hear.
Mixed with the burning wood I could see something else.
Small bones.
Tiny. Human shaped. Charred.
The world spun.
My scream tore through the night and my body responded violently. A sharp pain stabbed my waist and shot down my thighs.
My water broke on the floor.
I clutched my stomach and fell to my knees as contractions slammed into me like waves.
Dave burst onto the balcony, his eyes wild.
“Amara, what are you doing”
Then he saw it.
The burning crib. The dead snake. The ashes.
He did not rush to hold me. He did not even ask if I was okay.
He collapsed to his knees and began to cry like a child.
“Mama,” he shouted. “We are finished. The covenant is broken. The exchange has failed.”
Even through the pain, his words pierced my heart.
“Exchange,” I managed to whisper. “What exchange”
He looked at me with eyes full of something I had never seen in him before.
Hatred.
“You stubborn woman,” he spat. “You just burned my life. That crib was the transfer point. The baby goes, the wealth stays.”
I stared at him, not understanding.
“The baby goes,” I repeated faintly. “The wealth stays.”
The meaning crashed into me like thunder.
So that was it.
My son was the price.
The booming contracts. The house. The cars. The sudden success.
It all made sense now.
I had married a man who could stand up to his mother’s insults but not to the call of money. He had accepted wealth in exchange for the first fruit of his wife’s womb.
My body could not handle the shock.
Darkness swallowed me.
When I woke up, I was in this hospital bed.
The ceiling was white. The smell of antiseptic filled the air. My stomach felt lighter, empty. Panic shot through me.
“My baby,” I croaked. “Where is my baby”
A nurse hurried over and pressed my shoulder down gently.
“Madam, relax,” she said. “Your baby is in the incubator. He came early but he is fighting. The doctor says he is strong.”
Tears filled my eyes.
“Can I see him”
“Not yet,” she said kindly. “Soon. For now you must rest.”
I nodded, but the images from the night flooded my brain. The burning crib. The screaming. The snake. The bones. Dave’s confession.
I started shaking.
“Madam, are you cold,” the nurse asked, adjusting my blanket.
“I am not cold,” I whispered. “I am afraid.”
Later that morning, one of my neighbors came to visit. She said they heard my scream and rushed to our compound. They found me collapsed on the balcony with blood everywhere. Dave was nowhere to be seen.
They rushed me to the hospital with the help of another neighbor who had a car.
While we were talking, my phone rang.
It was the police.
“Madam Amara,” the officer said, “we are calling from Maitama Division. We went to your house this morning after receiving a report from your neighbors. We found your husband and his mother inside the living room.”
My heart skipped.
“How are they,” I asked.
There was a pause.
“They are alive,” he said slowly. “But paralyzed. They cannot move or talk. They are just staring at the wall.”
I closed my eyes.
The covenant they made had snapped back on them.
The wealth they pursued had turned around and devoured them.
The officer continued, “We will need you to come in when you are discharged to make a statement. For now, focus on your health.”
I thanked him and ended the call.
Then I burst into tears.
The nurse rushed in again. “Madam, what is it”
“My husband wanted to use my son for ritual,” I sobbed. “Now he is paralyzed. What kind of life is this”
She put her hand on my shoulder and whispered a prayer for me.
This evening my younger sister, Chioma, came to sit beside my bed. She held my hand while we watched my tiny boy through the glass window of the neonatal unit.
He was so small. So fragile. Yet his little chest rose and fell with stubborn determination.
“God did not bring him this far to abandon him,” Chioma said.
“I know,” I whispered. “But I am afraid. That house. That money. Everything smells of blood now. I want to abandon all and run away with my son to a small place where nobody knows us.”
Chioma squeezed my hand. “Run to where. With what money. Amara, think. Dave is now a vegetable. All the property is in his name. As his legal wife, you can claim it. Use it to raise your son.”
I shook my head.
“What if the money is cursed. What if taking it continues the covenant he made. What if my baby becomes another target”
Chioma frowned. “But it is also possible that God has already broken the covenant. Maybe the paralysis is the price, and you and your son are free.”
Her words hovered between us, heavy and confusing.
I looked at my boy again. Tubes connected to his tiny body. Machines beeped softly.
“I do not care about big cars anymore,” I said. “I just want him to grow up normal. To laugh. To run. To call me Mummy.”
Chioma wiped my tears. “You will have all those things.”
I sighed and picked up my phone.
I opened the women’s forum I belonged to and started typing my story, just like I am telling you now.
Because I am torn.
Part of me wants to flee and never step foot in that house again. To leave Dave and his mother to face whatever spiritual punishment is waiting for them.
Another part of me is angry.
Angry that I almost lost my child. Angry that I spent nine years of my life loving a man who saw my womb as currency. Angry that Mama Chinedu pretended to be happy for me while planning to sell my baby like goat at the market.
Should such people keep their wealth while my son struggles to breathe
Is it wrong if I claim the house and the cars and use them for my child’s future
Is the money cursed or has the curse already bounced back to them and ended there
I do not know.
So I am asking you, my fellow women, my sisters in pain and strength.
If you were in my position, what would you do
Would you take the property of a man who wanted to use your child for ritual, or would you run for your life and start from zero with your baby in your arms
Drop a comment if you think I should claim the house.
Drop another if you think I should leave everything.
I am reading all of them.
And as I read, I am praying that my son, my miracle child, will live long enough to one day hear this story and understand that his life was worth more than any covenant, any crib, and any curse this world could ever offer.
