My husband asked me to dress our only child in white lace, like a corpse prepared for burial, on the morning of his birthday because it was their family tradition.
He stood in the doorway of our Master Bedroom in Lekki, watching me button Chike’s shirt.
His hands were shaking.
Obinna never shook. He was a man who shouted at bank managers and negotiated million-naira contracts in Victoria Island without blinking.
But today, in the air-conditioned silence of our home, he was sweating.
“Make sure the white is spotless, Nneka,” he said. His voice was too thin. “My mother is waiting. The village is waiting. You know how they are with tradition.”
I looked at him. I didn’t answer.
Six months ago, we were drowning. Obinna’s importation business had collapsed. The bank had come to mark our gate with red paint—X, Possession Taken.
We were eating rice without meat. Then, he went to his village for a “prayer meeting” and came back three days later with a briefcase full of dollars and a new stillness in his eyes.
He told me God had answered his prayers.
“Obinna,” I said, smoothing the lace on Chike’s small shoulder. “Why must we go to the village today? It is his birthday. He wants to go to the cinema.”
“Is it you that decides?” he snapped.
“I said we are going to the village. My mother has prepared a special thanksgiving. Do you want us to go back to suffering? Is that what you want?”
He used the poverty like a wea–pon. He knew I was afraid of the hunger we had just escaped.
I finished dressing Chike.
My son looked up at me, his eyes bright and innocent.
“Mummy, will Grandma give me a bicycle?” he asked.
I forced a smile, but my stomach felt heavy, like I had swallowed a stone. “Something like that, nnam.”
We walked downstairs. The house smelled of the expensive incense Obinna had started burning recently
Outside, the black SUV was waiting. The driver, Sunday, didn’t look at me. He just opened the door.
The journey to the East was long. The further we drove away from Lagos, the more Obinna checked his watch.
“Can’t you drive faster?” he yelled at Sunday. “If we miss the time, it is finished!”
“Sir, the road is bad,” Sunday muttered.
I looked at Obinna. “What time? What happens if we are late?”
He ignored me. He pulled out his phone and typed a message, shielding the screen. But I saw the recipient’s name. It wasn’t his business partner. It wasn’t the bank.
It was saved simply as: The Baba.
My heart hammered against my ribs.
We arrived at the village compound as the sun began to set.
Usually, when we returned home, the women would be dancing, singing praises to welcome the “Big Man” from the city.
Today, the compound was silent.
No music. No cooking smells. No joy.
My mother-in-law sat on a stool near the obi, wearing a black wrapper, not the celebration George I expected.
She didn’t stand up to hug Chike. She didn’t smile.
Obinna stepped out of the car, dragging Chike by the hand. He walked fast, too fast, pulling the boy toward the small hut behind the main house—the one that was always locked.
“Mama, we are here,” Obinna said, his voice trembling.
“We are here.”
My mother-in-law looked up. Her eyes were empty, cold. She looked at Chike, then she looked at the setting sun.
“You are late,” she whispered.
She pointed a withered finger at my son.
“The gate is already closing. Give him to us now, or everything vanishes tonight.”
Obinna pushed Chike forward like he was a goat.
I screamed.
“Obinna! What are you doing?”
But before I could run to them, two men I had never seen before stepped out of the shadows.
They were holding long fulani m@chetes
I dashed for Obinna as I saw the m@chete raised up and ready to land on him.
To be continued… On bcdnovel.xyz
EPISODE 1
MY HUSBAND DRESSED OUR SON LIKE A CORPSE AND TOOK HIM TO THE VILLAGE
Written by Bcdnovels
