
07/08/2025
MY MOTHER IS NOT MY MOTHER
PART 7
We waited until morning.
Not because we wanted to sleepânobody 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 basketâsomething 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 hadnât slept in years.
âYou shouldnât be here,â she said.
âAnd you shouldnât be alive,â I replied.
She looked at the basket in my fatherâs hands and started shaking.
âI told them to stop,â she whispered, âI told them the child wasnât evil. But they threatened me.â
I stepped closer.
âYou washed your hands in my motherâs bl0 *0d. Now tell the truthâwho gave the order?â
Tears ran down her cheeks.
She looked behind her. Then at the church.
Then she said one name.
> âElder Nnadozie.â
I didnât 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 ârenounce her womb or die trying.â
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:
> âHis 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.â
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.
Thatâs 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 couldnât unsee them.
The whisper started again.
âThe prophecy is true.â
âShe was right.â
âShe came back.â
And thenâ
> Elder Nnadozie arrived.
He came with police.
Three officers.
With gux .
He pointed at me and said, âArrest her. Sheâs disturbing the peace.â
But one officer looked into the basket and froze.
He stepped back and asked:
âWhy is the chil âs skull still crying?â
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:
> âYou called my child a de .
Now face the real thing.â
The ground broke open under his feet.
He screamed.
Tried to run.
But rootsâyes, rootsâshot 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:
> âHe was a child. You were the mon .â
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 todayâŠ
The Lord let me borrow it.
TO BE CONTINUEDâŠ
Written By Anusiem's Daughter & Family