Anusiem's Daughter & Family

Anusiem's Daughter & Family Senior Theatre Practitioner đŸŽ„ 🇬🇧
Mom to 3 amazing Boys 👩 👩 👩
Creating Memories đŸȘ©

MY MOTHER IS NOT MY MOTHERPART 7We waited until morning.Not because we wanted to sleep—nobody slept in that house after ...
07/08/2025

MY MOTHER IS NOT MY MOTHER
PART 7

We waited until morning.

Not because we wanted to sleep—nobody slept in that house after what we saw.

We waited because the dead deserve light.

When the first c**k crowed, we wrapped the bones in white cloth.

My father tied them with his old prayer shawl. I folded the tiny Bible beside them. Then we covered it all in a raffia basket—something that felt more human than the way they buried him the first time.

I wanted to scream.
But there was no energy left for that.
Only purpose.

We walked quietly to the church again.
The sun was still low.
The compound was empty.

But when we reached the gate, we saw someone waiting.

Sister Gladys.

She was barefoot. Her scarf was missing. Her eyes were swollen like she hadn’t slept in years.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she said.

“And you shouldn’t be alive,” I replied.

She looked at the basket in my father’s hands and started shaking.

“I told them to stop,” she whispered, “I told them the child wasn’t evil. But they threatened me.”

I stepped closer.

“You washed your hands in my mother’s bl0 *0d. Now tell the truth—who gave the order?”

Tears ran down her cheeks.

She looked behind her. Then at the church.

Then she said one name.

> “Elder Nnadozie.”

I didn’t flinch.
I already knew.
But hearing it out loud made it real.

The oldest elder.
The one who always prayed the loudest.
The one who told my mother to “renounce her womb or die trying.”

We pushed past Sister Gladys and walked to the back of the church again.
To the place where we had dug up my brother.
This time, we brought oil.
Salt.
A small bell.
And a name.

I poured the oil into the soil.
My father sprinkled the salt.

And then I said, loud and slow:

> “His name was Chibuike. The one you bur. ied without a name. The one you said was a curse. He was a child of light. And today, he will speak.”

I rang the bell once.

And that was when the ground moved.

Just a tremble.
Like someone breathing beneath the earth.

My father stepped back.

But I remained.

The sun rose higher.

And the church bell rang on its own.

From inside the church.

Even though nobody was there.

Even though the ropes had been cut for years.

That’s when the people began arriving.

One by one.

Drawn like moths to fire.

First Sister Grace.

Then Mama Nkechi.

Then even the usher who once slapped me for playing on the altar.

They came.

And they saw the bones.

And they couldn’t unsee them.

The whisper started again.

“The prophecy is true.”

“She was right.”

“She came back.”

And then—

> Elder Nnadozie arrived.

He came with police.

Three officers.

With gux .

He pointed at me and said, “Arrest her. She’s disturbing the peace.”

But one officer looked into the basket and froze.

He stepped back and asked:

“Why is the chil ’s skull still crying?”

Nobody answered.

Because it was true.

The small skull was leaking a tear.

One single line of liquid, like saltwater, running down the cheekbone.

And that was when my mother came again.

Not as a ghost.

Not as a demon.

As a storm.

The clouds turned black.

The sky cracked open.

A wind blew so hard the police fell to the ground.

And she walked through the gate.

Not floating.
Not screaming.
Just walking.

But her presence bent the trees.

She looked at Elder Nnadozie.

And said:

> “You called my child a de .
Now face the real thing.”

The ground broke open under his feet.

He screamed.

Tried to run.

But roots—yes, roots—shot out from the earth and held his ankles.

He begged.

He cried.

He called the name of Jesus.

But even Jesus was silent that morning.

Then my mother looked at me.

And nodded.

It was time.

I carried the basket of bones.

And for the first time since I was born, I walked into the altar of the church.

Not as a child of shame.

But as a priestess of justice.

I placed the bones where they should have been laid 8 years ago.

At the foot of the cross.

And I said:

> “He was a child. You were the mon .”

Then I struck the floor with the bell.

Three times.

The whole church groaned.

The roof cracked.

And then silence.

My mother knelt beside me.

Smiling.

Real this time.

Peaceful.

And then, she vanished.

Like morning mist.

Leaving only warmth behind.

I picked up the Bible she left in the basket.

And the words were clear:

> "Vengeance is mine, says the Lord."

But today

The Lord let me borrow it.

TO BE CONTINUED

Written By Anusiem's Daughter & Family

MY MOTHER IS NOT MY MOTHERPART 6At first, nobody moved.The elders just looked at the box like it was a coffin.Like somet...
06/08/2025

MY MOTHER IS NOT MY MOTHER
PART 6

At first, nobody moved.

The elders just looked at the box like it was a coffin.
Like something inside it would jump out and bite them.
But it didn’t need to.

I was the one holding the bite now.

“Open it,” I said.

They didn’t move.

Then I turned to the congregation.

People were still standing, watching.
Some members were whispering.
Some were shaking their heads.
Some looked confused.

But the choir mistress—Sister Gladys—refused to look at me at all.

I saw her slowly stepping backward.
Like someone trying to run without being noticed.

“Don’t move,” I said, pointing.
“Your name is in this box too.”

She froze.

Then Elder Kalu—the youngest of the elders—stood up.

He cleared his throat and said, “Ada
 you don’t understand the things you are touching. That child was not of God.”

I laughed. A small laugh. One that didn’t reach my eyes.

“How do you know?” I asked.
“Did you ask God? Or did you just believe a lie that scared you?”

Nobody answered.

So I said louder:

> “You killed my mother.”

Gasps filled the church.

“You poisoned her spirit. You bu ried her ch ild like an animal. And now you are pretending it never happened.”

Pastor James was not around.
He was still in the hospital.
They said he had been screaming all night, crying like a child.

I guess that’s what guilt does when it finally starts boiling.

But the elders still didn’t speak.
Until my father did.

He stepped forward, quietly.

And said:

“She warned you.”

The church turned to him.

“My wife told you it was a gift,” he said. “She told you she conceived without trying. After seven years of not seeing her period. She called it a miracle. But you—” he turned to the elders— “you called it a demon.”

His voice cracked.

“She begged you. She cried. She even went to deliverance with you. But when she started ble eding that night
 you didn’t pray. You didn’t help. You buried the truth behind the children’s Sunday school building.”

DĂȘad silence.

That was when one old woman fainted.

Her name was Mama Nkoli—she used to be my mother’s closest friend in the church.

I think her guilt finally found her lungs.

They tried to cover it up.
Say it was spiritual attack.
Say I was possessed.
That I was trying to destroy the church.

But too many people had heard the truth now.

Some started crying.
Others walked out in silence.
But I stayed.

Because I knew it wasn’t over.

Not yet.

That night, we went to the church again.

This time with a torch.

And a shovel.

Me.
My father.
And one of the church caretakers who had always suspected something strange was buried.

We walked to the old children’s block behind the building.
Grass had overgrown the area.
But I could still feel the pull in my chest.

I knew where to dig.

And when the shovel hit something soft and hollow
 I knew we had found it.

We didn’t uncover much.

Just bones.

Small ones.

Not full.

But enough.

A rib.
A skull the size of a coconut.
A string of beads.
And something that made my father fall to his knees:

My mother’s Bible.

They buried her child with her Bible.

As if the Word of God would silence her.

But some words don’t die.
They become fire.

That night, the crying began again.

Not from the baby.

But from her.

My mother.

The thing pretending to be her finally entered the room again.

But this time she didn’t smile.
She didn’t whisper.
She screamed.

“BRING HIM TO ME!!!”

The walls shook.

The windows shattered.

The lights went off.

And for the first time, Ebuka saw her too.

He screamed, “Ada! That’s mummy! That’s mummy!”

But I held him.

“No,” I said, holding him tight.
“That’s what’s left of her.”

She stood in the doorway, her wrapper soaked with red sand, her hair wet and tangled, her face twisted.

“You let them take him,” she cried, “You let them take my child!”

And I cried too.

“I didn’t know, Mama. I didn’t know.”

She fell to the floor, sobbing, wailing, shaking the ground like thunder.

I didn’t run this time.

I knelt beside her.

And whispered, “We found him. We found his bones. He’s not alone anymore.”

She raised her head slowly.

“Then bring him home.”

TO BE CONTINUED

Written By Anusiem's Daughter & Family

MY MOTHER IS NOT MY MOTHERPART 5The next morning, I woke up and couldn’t speak.Not because my mouth was paining me.But b...
05/08/2025

MY MOTHER IS NOT MY MOTHER
PART 5

The next morning, I woke up and couldn’t speak.
Not because my mouth was paining me.
But because my chest was heavy.
My heart was full.
And I knew something had changed.

That dream wasn’t ordinary.
That voice wasn’t just calling.
It was commanding.

“Finish what she couldn’t.”

I sat up on the bed and looked at Ebuka.
He was still sleeping.
His back rising and falling.
Peacefully.

But there was nothing peaceful in my own spirit.

I stood up and walked to the backyard again.

Same place.
Same red earth.
Same mango tree.

This time, there was nothing.
No box.
No disturbed soil.
Like everything I saw had disappeared with the wind.

But the feeling remained.

Something was still watching.

Later that afternoon, the clouds gathered.
It wasn’t raining yet, but the sky looked like it had swallowed something bitter.

My father still didn’t talk to me.
Not because he was angry — but because he was ashamed.
Every time our eyes met, he looked away like I was someone who knew too much.

He didn’t even eat.
Just kept biting his fingernails and sitting in silence.

That was when I asked him the question.

“Papa
 who are the church elders that came to the house that night?”

He swallowed hard.

“Who are the ones that said the child was not normal?”

He rubbed his face.

“You’ve said enough,” he replied.

“I’ve not said anything,” I said. “But the dead have.”

He looked up sharply.
His eyes shook.

Then I said it again, slowly:

> “The dëãd have spoken. And they won’t stop until you open your mouth.”

He stood up, angry.
But he didn’t shout.
He just whispered:

> “Go and ask Elder Ugonna. He was the one that brought them. He was the one that said the spirit of the child came from the marine kingdom. He said the baby would destroy the church and ruin us all.”

Then he walked out.

Elder Ugonna.

That name alone made my hand cold.

He was one of the oldest men in our church.
Tall, dark, always carried a walking stick.
During deliverance prayers, he would beat the ground with it and shout, “Holy Ghost fire!”

But my mother never liked him.

I remembered something now — something small, but strange.

Before she dĂŻĂ« d, she stopped sitting near the front during church service.
She started sitting near the back, close to the window.
When I asked her why, she said, “Some things don’t like light.”

I didn’t understand it then.

Now I did.

That evening, I went to Elder Ugonna’s compound.

It was behind the market — a short walk from our house.
Old wooden gate.
Paint peeling.
Dog barking somewhere far behind the fence.

I knocked.

No answer.

I knocked again.

Then a small boy came out.

“Is Elder Ugonna around?” I asked.

The boy looked confused.

“You didn’t hear?” he said.

I frowned. “Hear what?”

He pointed behind him.

“He dĂŻ Ă«d last night.”

For a second, my legs froze.

“DĂŻĂ« d?”

The boy nodded.

“They said he woke up shouting, ‘She’s here! She’s here! She brought the baby!’ Then he started shaking and fell down. Bl0 ⁰d came out of his mouth.”

I thanked the boy and walked away, slowly.

My heart was beating fast.

That was two people now.

The Pastor in my dream.
The Elder in real life.

One by one.

One by one.

The dëÊd were speaking.

That night, everything changed.

It started around 1:13am.

I woke up to the sound of water dripping.

But there was no rain.

I stood up and walked to the parlour.

There, on the floor, was a pool of water.

It was coming from the wall.

I touched it.

It was cold.

But when I turned around



all the mirrors in the house cracked at once.

Even the one in the bedroom.
Even the small round one in the bathroom.
Even the one on my mother’s old powder box.

They all cracked.

At the same time.

Ebuka woke up and started crying.

My father came out, screaming, “What is happening?! What is this?!”

But I knew.

The spirits were no longer whispering.

They were here.

The next morning, we saw something written on the wall beside my mother’s old room.

Not written with ink.
Not chalk.
It looked like it was scratched into the paint — with fingernails.

It said:

“LET THE CHURCH SPEAK.”

I packed my bag.
Wore my slippers.
Tied my mother’s scarf again.

And this time, I did not go alone.

I went with my father.

We reached the church around 9am.

People had already gathered.

Because news had spread.

That Elder Ugonna kpaied mysteriously.
That Pastor James had fainted in the night and was now babbling things in a language nobody understood.

When they saw me enter the church holding the baby sock and the black box, the murmuring stopped.

The elders sat in the front row — six of them.

I walked straight to them.

I dropped the box at their feet.

I didn’t greet.

I just said:

“It’s time to confess.”

TO BE CONTINUED

Written By Anusiem's Daughter & Family

MY MOTHER IS NOT MY MOTHERPART 4I didn’t go back inside to take a torch.I didn’t even put on slippers.The sand beneath m...
05/08/2025

MY MOTHER IS NOT MY MOTHER
PART 4

I didn’t go back inside to take a torch.
I didn’t even put on slippers.

The sand beneath my feet was cold, wet, and soft
 too soft.
Like something had disturbed it.
Like something inside was trying to come out.

My fingers shook as I began to dig.

I wasn’t using shovel.
I wasn’t using spoon.
I was digging with my bare hands like a mĂŁd person.

Scoop by scoop.
Rēd earth under my nails.
Breath shallow.
Heart thudding.

Then I touched something.
Something hard.
Not a stone.

Wood.
Old wood.

A small wooden box, soaked and rotten at the edges.
No lock. No name. No symbol.
Just plain, old wood — and pain.

I paused.
The whisper returned.

“Open it, Ada
”

I did.

I opened it.
And I saw things that didn’t make sense.

First — a small white cloth.
Stained in brown bl0 .
Rolled tightly and tied with black thread.

Second — three fingernails. Human.
Long. Yellow. Still fresh like they were clipped that morning.

Third — my mother’s old earrings.
The ones she wore on Sundays.
The ones we buri her with.

And finally — a bĂ„ by’s sock.

Blue.
So small.
So clean.
So strange.

A bĂ„ by’s sock
 but I didn’t have a bĂŠ by brother.
Ebuka was already 8 years old.
There was no other bā by.

But then I remembered — the diary.
The blĂš Ă« ding.
The pregnancy.

There was another child.
One that was never born
 or one that was taken?

My hands went cold.
I tried to stand.
But something held my ankle.

Not strongly.
Just enough to make me stop.

I looked down.

Nothing was there.
But I felt it.
Like cold fingers.

Then the whisper changed.

> “They kpaied him
”
“They took my child
”
“They fed him to the night
”

I screamed.

This time, the scream came out.
It echoed into the compound, bounced off the walls.

Lights came on.
The neighbours started murmuring.
Ebuka ran to the back shouting, “Ada! Ada what is it?”
But by the time he reached me, I was sitting on the ground, staring at the box.

And crying.

Not small tears.
Heavy, hot tears.
For a bā by I never knew.
For a mother who kpaied with secrets.
For myself — now part of a pain too deep for a 17-year-old to carry.

The next morning, my father didn’t go to work.
He sat on his plastic chair, drank garri, and kept looking at me like I was a ghost.

When I came close, he shifted.
When I spoke, he didn’t answer.

He knew.

That evening, I confronted him.
I placed the box on the table.

I didn’t say anything.
I just watched his face.

His lips trembled.
His eyes turned red.
He picked up the sock and started shaking.

Then he whispered, almost like he wasn’t talking to me.

I told her to remove it.”
“I told her she was too old
”
“We already had two children
 what was she looking for again?”

He paused.

“But she said it was a gift. She said it was special. She said God sent it.”

Another pause.

“But the night she started blĂ« Ăšding
 I wasn’t home. I was with Sister Gladys.”

My heart dropped.

Sister Gladys.
Our choir mistress.
A woman who always greeted my mother with a fake smile.

He continued:

“When I came back, she was already weak. I tried to help her. I swear I did.”

But I didn’t believe him.

Because the next thing he said changed everything:

“That same week, the church elders came. They said she brought shame. They said that kind of child was not normal. They said the child must not live.”

I stepped back.

“The church knew?” I asked.

He nodded slowly.

“They said they saw it in the spirit. That the pregnancy was not ordinary. That the child would bring disaster. So they came at night. And
”

He couldn’t finish.
He just broke down and cried.

But I knew.
I knew what they did.

They took the child.
Bu ried it.
Silenced my mother.

And now


She was not resting.

That night, the dream came again.

But this time, it wasn’t my mother.

It was a bĂŠ by.

A small boy.
Crawling in the backyard.
Covered in rë d sand.
Eyes open, full of tears.

He looked at me.

And whispered,

“Finish what she couldn’t.”

TO BE CONTINUED

Written By Anusiem's Daughter & Family

MY MOTHER IS NOT MY MOTHERPART 3The next morning, I didn’t greet anyone.I didn’t sweep. I didn’t brush my teeth.I didn’t...
04/08/2025

MY MOTHER IS NOT MY MOTHER
PART 3

The next morning, I didn’t greet anyone.
I didn’t sweep. I didn’t brush my teeth.
I didn’t even eat.

I just sat on the veranda and stared at the red sand in the compound.

My heart was heavy.

That dream was still fresh in my mind — the blood tears, the swollen stomach, her words:

> “They took it from me
”
“I’m not resting
”
“Come and finish what I couldn’t
”

What did it mean?

Who took what from her?

Who buried her too early?

Later that afternoon, after my father left the house and Ebuka went to fetch water, I entered my mother's room.

Nobody had touched the room since her burial.

The door had remained locked.
But that day, I pushed it open.

It creaked.
The smell hit me first — the scent of dust, powder, old wrapper, and something else.
Something bitter
 something dry.

The curtain was still the same.
The Bible was still on the pillow.
Her favourite brown bucket was still by the corner, half-covered with a scarf.

I sat on the bed.
I looked around.
Then I began to search.

I didn’t know what I was looking for.
But I knew something was hidden.

Behind the pillow, I found her hymn book.
Inside it, an old church program.
Behind that, something folded in a black nylon.

I opened it.

It was a diary.

The cover was torn.
The pages were brown, some were almost stuck together.
But I started reading.

The first page was normal.
Shopping list. Names of customers. Market things.

But then I saw this:

> “I missed my period again this month. Could it be what I think?”

“Oba is too quiet. He doesn’t want it. He says people will talk if I’m pregnant again at this age.”

I turned the next page:

> “I can feel it now. The baby. It kicks softly in the night. I don’t tell anyone. I just rub my belly and pray to God to protect me.”

My hands began to shake.

She was really pregnant.

Nobody knew.

Or maybe
 someone did.

More pages:

> “I started blĂȘēding this morning. I don’t know why. I’m scared.”

“The dreams are getting stronger. I see a woman dressed in black standing at the backyard every night.”

“Last night, I woke up and saw Oba talking to someone behind the house. When I asked, he said it was nothing.”

I closed the book.

My chest was heavy.

I wanted to scream, but no sound came out.
I wanted to cry, but my tears refused to fall.

I just sat there
 shaking.

My father knew something.
Maybe he knew about the pregnancy.
Maybe
 he was part of what happened to her.

Maybe that was why he slapped me when I first said she came back.
Maybe that was why he was seeing her in his dream, standing by his bed.

She was not haunting me.
She was haunting him too.

That night, I couldn’t sleep.
I placed the diary under my pillow.
I held Ebuka close to me.

Around midnight, I heard the sound again.

This time, it was not humming.
It was whispering.

Very low.
Very close.

> “Go to the backyard
”
“Go to the backyard
”

I sat up.

I didn’t want to go.
But my legs moved on their own.

I opened the back door.

The air was cold.
The ground was wet.
The mango tree stood still like it was waiting for something.

I looked at the spot near the wall — where my mother always used to sit and peel yam.

Then I saw it.

A small patch of fresh rĂȘd sand.

Different from the rest of the dry ground.

Like something had been buried there recently.

I stepped closer.
My feet sank slightly into the earth.

I bent down and touched the sand.

And then I heard the voice again — this time louder:

> “Dig, Ada
”
“Dig
”

TO BE CONTINUED

Written By Anusiem's Daughter & Family

MY MOTHER IS NOT MY MOTHERPART 2It was early morning.The sun was not fully out.The compound was still cold and quiet.I c...
04/08/2025

MY MOTHER IS NOT MY MOTHER
PART 2

It was early morning.
The sun was not fully out.
The compound was still cold and quiet.
I came out to sweep with the small broom we usually hid behind the kitchen door.

I was halfway through when I heard someone call my name.

> “Adamma!”

I stopped.

The broom fell from my hand.

That voice


It was her voice.

My heart started beating very fast.
I turned around slowly.

And there she was.

Standing by the gate.

But her face


Her face had no life in it.
Her eyes were wide but empty — like she was seeing something else entirely.
Her lips were smiling, but her cheeks didn’t move.
The smile was frozen
 as if pasted there.

She looked directly at me.

I froze.

Her skin looked pale — almost like dried clay.
And when she took a step toward me
 her foot made no sound.

I turned and ran inside.
I locked the door.
Then I sat on the ground and started crying.
I cried until my throat was dry.

I waited for my father to return.

When he came back that evening, I told him everything.
I told him she was standing outside. I told him she called my name. I told him what she wore.

But instead of holding me

He raised his hand and slapped me.

> “Don’t talk nonsense again!” he shouted.
“Your mother is dead and buried. Do you want her spirit to disturb us in this house?”

He walked into his room and shut the door.

I sat in the parlour. Alone.

That night, I didn’t sleep.
The house was quiet.
Too quiet.

Around 2:00 a.m., I heard a sound from the kitchen window.

It was humming.
Very soft.
Very slow.

It was the same hymn she used to sing when washing plates at night:

> “It is well
 it is well
 with my soul
”

I covered my ears.
But the sound kept coming.
Then suddenly


Her photo on the parlour wall fell down.

Just her photo.

Not my father's.
Not mine.
Not our family picture.

Only hers.

Since that day
 she kept coming.
She never knocked. She never talked again.
But she would stand.

By the window.
By the door.
By the corner of the compound.

Watching us.
Watching me.

And every time she came

her photo would fall again.

The third time she came, I didn’t run.

I stood behind the curtain, holding my breath.

She was standing in the same place again — just outside the window, by the mango tree.
Same wrapper.
Same white scarf.
Same rubber slippers.
Same empty face.

She was not blinking.
She was not moving.
She just stood there, staring straight into the house.

And I
 was staring back.

I wanted to scream.
I wanted to cry.
But something inside me said:

> “If you make a sound
 she will come inside.”

So I kept quiet.

I stood there until she disappeared.
She didn’t walk away.
She didn’t turn her back.
She just
 wasn’t there anymore.

The next morning, I woke up and found Ebuka, my younger brother, lying on the floor beside my bed.

“Why didn’t you sleep on your mattress?” I asked.

He shook his head slowly.
His lips were dry.

“She was standing at the door,” he said in a quiet voice.
“I saw her. She called my name.”

I held him tight.

We didn’t say anything again.

That day, we both stayed indoors.
No school.
No talking.

Later that week, I went to my mother's grave.

I told nobody.
I just walked to the church, barefooted, after evening prayer.

The gate was closed, but I climbed through the side.

Her grave was the fourth from the left, near the mango tree.

There was no headstone.
Only a wooden cross with her name painted in white.

I knelt beside it.
The sand was still fresh.
Tiny red ants were crawling across the edge.

I placed my hand on the ground.

> “If you are truly inside here,” I whispered, “then who is that woman?”

No answer.

No breeze.

Just silence.

That night, the strange thing happened.

I was alone in the parlour.
Ebuka had gone to sleep. My father was out. He started drinking again. Palm wine. Sometimes ogogoro.

Suddenly, the bulb blinked once
 twice
 and off.

Darkness.

The air became heavy.
I couldn’t breathe properly.

Then I heard the humming.

Soft
 but close.

It was not coming from outside.
It was inside the house.

Inside the parlour.
With me.

> “It is well
 it is well
 with my soul
”

I turned slowly toward the window.

She was standing there.

Inside.

Not outside anymore.

Her eyes were black.
Her feet were not touching the floor.
She was floating, just a little. Just enough for me to see there was nothing under her feet.

I screamed.

Loud.

I ran into the room and shut the door.

I didn’t come out till morning.

The next day, when my father returned, I told him again.

He sat on the chair and looked at me — this time, he didn’t shout.

He just said:

> “You think I don’t see her too?”

I stared at him.

“What?”

He nodded slowly.

“I see her in my dream. She stands by the bed. She doesn’t talk. She just cries.”

He stood up and walked into the room, closing the door gently.

That was the moment I knew:
Something is wrong.
Very, very wrong.

And nobody wanted to talk about it.

The compound became quiet.
Neighbours stopped greeting us the same way.
Children stopped coming to play.
Our neighbour, Aunty Esther, crossed herself anytime she saw me outside.

Then one afternoon, I overheard two women talking behind the bathroom wall.

> “They say it’s not ordinary death
”
“They say the mother was pregnant before she died but nobody knew.”
“The family covered something.”
“She was crying for justice before they buried her
”

My chest tightened.

Pregnant?

My mother?

Why didn’t anyone tell me?

That night, I dreamt.

In the dream, I was inside our kitchen, washing plates.
Suddenly, I heard her voice behind me:

> “Ada
 come and finish what I couldn’t.”

I turned.
And saw her.

She was crying bl0 .

Not tears.
Bl0 .

It dripped down her cheeks.
Down her neck.
And then I noticed


Her stomach was swollen.

She was holding it with both hands.

> “They took it from me,” she whispered.
“They buried me too early.”
“I’m not resting
”

I woke up sweating.

The time was 3:03 a.m.

TO BE CONTINUED

Written By Anusiem's Daughter & Family

MY MOTHER IS NOT MY MOTHERPART 1My name is Ada.I’m the first child of my parents.We live in Warri, inside a small flat w...
03/08/2025

MY MOTHER IS NOT MY MOTHER
PART 1

My name is Ada.
I’m the first child of my parents.

We live in Warri, inside a small flat with green zinc roofing that leaks when rain falls.
Whenever thunder starts, we rush to put bowls and basins around the house.
But no matter how many we use, the water always finds a way to wet the floor.

My father is a taxi driver.
He drives a small red car that makes a kpa-kpa-kpa sound anytime he turns the steering.
He leaves the house very early in the morning, before the c**k crows, and comes back when the compound is already dark.

My mother used to sell cooked food by the roadside rice, beans, yam porridge, fried plantain.
She was very popular.
Her voice was loud.
Her laugh could fill a whole street.

She was strong. Always moving. Always doing something.

We were not rich.
But we were happy.
We had peace.
We had love.
We had her.

Until one day


She got sick.

It started small.
One morning she complained of headache.
Later that same day, she said her body felt like hot charcoal.
She started sleeping too much during the day and staying up at night, just staring at the ceiling.

She stopped singing in the kitchen.
She stopped teasing me about my big forehead.
She even stopped noticing that I had washed her clothes.

After a few days, she started forgetting things.

One day, she put salt inside pap instead of sugar.
Another day, she went to the market and came back without her slippers.
She began calling me Ngozi — that’s her younger sister who died before I was even born.

I became afraid.

But I didn’t say anything.

Then it became worse.
She would sit on the bed, staring at nothing, not blinking.
Sometimes she would whisper things like:

> “They are calling me...”
“I can see them...”
“They are standing by the door
”

I didn’t know who “they” were.
Nobody did.

We took her to prayer houses.
They poured oil on her.
They gave her holy water.
They told us to stop her from eating food outside.
We listened. We tried.

But nothing worked.

I remember one particular day.
I came back from school and met her sitting on the cold floor in the kitchen, holding her old Bible upside down.
She was just turning the pages, smiling, and singing with no sound.

I knelt beside her and touched her hand.
It was cold.
Very cold.

“Drink water, Mama,” I said.

She turned her head slowly.
And looked at me like I was not her child.
Like I was a stranger.

She said:
“Who are you?”

I ran out of the kitchen and wept in the backyard.
Not because she shouted.
But because I knew


She was going.
She was leaving us.
Bit by bit.

One week later, she kpaied.

Just like that.
Quiet.
No screaming.
No warning.
No goodbye.

She slept
 and didn’t wake up.

I sat beside her body for hours.
I didn’t talk.
I didn’t cry immediately.

I just kept looking at her face — hoping she would open her eyes.
Hoping it was just another joke.
Hoping maybe she was pretending.

But she wasn’t.

They buried her behind the small Anglican church down our street.
The same church she used to sweep every Saturday morning.
People cried.
Some shook their heads.
Some whispered, “This one na spiritual attack.”

And just like that


She was gone.

But two weeks after the burial


She came back.

To Be Continued....

written By Anusiem's Daughter & Family

Address

Haywards Heath
RH164HT

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