They call it "Omugwo". That time when a mother comes to take care of her daughter's newborn baby. I was happy when my mother-in-law, Mama Chioma, arrived from the village. She was kind, hardworking, and she loved my husband, Emma, very much.
But she had one rule that was very strãngẽ. She insisted that she must be the one to bathe my son, Junior. And she insisted it must be done at exactly 12:00 Midnight 🥲💔.
"It is our tradition," she told me, her face serĩous.
“The night water makes the child strõng agãĩnst ẽv!| eyes.”
I complained to Emma. I told him it was unnãtũrãl to bathe a baby in the co|d of the night. Emma just laughed. “Babe, leave Mama alone. She bathed me like that, and look at me today. I am a manager at a Oil Company. Maybe it's the sěcrẽt to success.”
So, I allowed it.
Every night at 11:55 PM, Mama would take Junior from my arms and |õck herself in the bathroom. I would hear sp|ãshing sounds, strãngẽ humming, and then si|ẽnce. When she brought him back, Junior would be s|ẽeping so deeply, like a cõrpsẽ. He wouldn't wake up for brẽãst mĩlk until noon the next day.
And I noticed something else, Emma started getting richer. Suddenly, he bought a new Benz.
Two weeks later, he bought a land in Victoria Island. He was bringing home bags of cash. "God is blessing us," he would say.
But my mother's instinct was scrẽãming. Junior was not grõwing. He was shrĩnkĩng. His skĩn was becoming pã|e, almost trãnspãrent. He looked like a õ|d man trãppẽd in a baby's bõdy.
Last Tuesday, I decided I had seen enough. While Mama was in the kitchen cooking, I snẽãked into the bathroom. I hĩd my old smartphone behind the laundry basket, facing the bathing tub. I set it to record.
That night, as usual, Mama took Junior at midnight. I pretẽnded to s|eep. When she brought him back, I waited for her to start snõrĩng. Then I crẽpt to the bathroom and retrĩẽved the phone.
My hands were shãking as I pressed play 😭.
I watched Mama enter the bathroom. She |õcked the door. Then, the hõrrõr started. She didn't put water in the tub. She put... sand. Rẽd sand 😌.
She placed my nãkẽd baby on the sand. Then, Mama Chioma removed her wrapper. But as the wrapper fẽ||, her skin fě|| too. I covered my mouth to stõp a scrẽãm.
The woman in the video was not a hũmãn bẽĩng.
Her skin pẽẽ|ed õff like a snãkẽ, revẽã|ing a crẽãture with scã|es and a long, fõrkẽd tõngũe.
She didn't bathe Junior. She started |ĩcking him.
She |ĩckẽd him from his head to his toes. And as her tõngũe touched his skin, I saw golden dũst fa||ing from my son's bõdy onto the red sand.
She was scrubbing his dẽstĩny õff his body. She was hãrvẽstĩng his life to turn it into gõ|d dũst.
The video ended 🥺.
I ran back to the bedroom, shaking, swẽãting. I woke Emma up. “Emma! Your mother is a snãkẽ! She is k!||ĩng our son! Look at the video!" I shoved the phone in his face.
Emma watched it. His face didn't show fẽãr 😰 . It didn't show shõck. He looked... annõyẽd. He calmly took the phone from my hand and smãshẽd it on the floor. Kpim!
"Emma?" | whispered.
He looked at me with cõ|d, d3ãd eyes. "Why can't you women just mind your business?" he asked. “Do you think the Benz is free? Do you think the promotion is free?”
I tr!ed to rũn to the door.
Mama Chioma was standing there. Her eyẽs were vertical s|ĩts, like a rept!|ẽ. "The baby is almost fĩnĩshed," she crõãked, her voice soũnding like grĩnding stõnes. “He has no more gold left in him. We need a new source.”
Emma stood up and |õcked the door. "Sorry, babe," he said, pũ||ing a mãchẽtẽ from under the bed. “But Junior is ẽmpty. And the gõds are still hũngry.”
I am writing this from the bathroom. They are bãngĩng on the door. The wood is crãckĩng. I can hear the h!ss of the snãkẽ on the other side.
If you are reading this, nẽvẽr let anyone bathe your child at mĩdnight. The sp|ãshing sound you hear might not be water. It might be your |!fẽ going dõwn the drãĩn 💔😰
If you feel something is off, then take quick and smart actions.
Be vigilant
