My name is Chioma, and this is how a bowl of rice turned my home into a place of terror, suspicion, and flight, forcing me to run for my life.
I had been married to Ebuka for three years, living in Lagos, loving him deeply, yet carrying the heavy silence of a womb that refused to speak.
In Nigeria, childlessness is not just private pain; it is public judgment, whispered insults, and open accusations disguised as concern from relatives, neighbors, and especially mothers-in-law.
Mama Ebuka never hid her hatred for me, not even once, calling me empty, useless, and cursed, reminding me constantly that her son deserved a “real woman.”
Is it possible to sleep in the bed of someone who has passed away?
Last Christmas, she looked me in the eyes and said I was a man pretending to be a woman, that my presence was blocking her son’s destiny.
I cried myself to sleep almost every night, holding my stomach, praying, begging God to remember me, while Ebuka tried to protect me from her words.
My husband defended me, yes, but his mother was relentless, calling daily, threatening to remove me from her son’s life by any means necessary.
Then yesterday happened, and everything shifted so suddenly that my heart didn’t trust the change, even before my mind could process it fully.
Mama Ebuka arrived from the village unexpectedly, smiling, dancing, praising God loudly, calling neighbors to witness her “transformation of heart.”
She hugged me tightly, calling me her daughter, apologizing for years of cruelty, claiming God spoke to her on a prayer mountain.
I was shocked, confused, and cautiously hopeful, because desperate people cling to hope even when it comes wrapped in unfamiliar kindness.
She brought a large cooler into our living room, opening it slowly, releasing the rich aroma of local rice mixed with bushmeat and spices.
She said the rice was cooked with special herbs, prayed over by powerful men of God, and that it would “wash my stomach” for pregnancy.
My heart softened despite myself, and I knelt, thanking her, imagining that maybe God had finally touched her heart and remembered my tears.
Then her voice dropped, and she whispered that I must eat the food alone, without sharing it with my husband or anyone else.
She said if a man ate it, it would become poison, but for a barren woman, it would open the womb instantly, miraculously.
She dished the rice generously onto a plate and insisted I eat immediately, watching me closely, saying the power worked only while hot.
Something inside me rejected it instantly, a tightness in my chest, a warning I couldn’t explain, but fear is hard to justify politely.
I lied and said I needed to shower first, and though she frowned, she agreed, reminding me again that delay weakens spiritual work.
I carried the plate to the backyard, my hands shaking, unsure whether I was being ungrateful or simply trying to stay alive.
I planned to dump the food quietly, but Bingo, our strong German Shepherd, ran to me, tail wagging, eyes hopeful and trusting.
Against my better judgment, I poured the rice on the ground for him, whispering apologies, convincing myself it was harmless village food.
I washed the plate, wiped my mouth theatrically, and returned inside smiling, telling Mama Ebuka the food was delicious and satisfying.
She stared at me intensely, asking if I finished the meat too, and when I said yes, her lips curved into something terrifying.
It wasn’t joy; it was relief, cold and calculated, like someone confirming a task had been successfully completed without interruption.
She told me to sleep, saying the miracle had begun, while my heart raced violently, pounding warnings against my ribs.
Ten minutes later, I heard choking sounds from the backyard, sharp, desperate noises that sliced through the silence of the house.
I looked through the window and saw Bingo rolling violently, foam spilling from his mouth, his eyes whitening as his body stiffened.
I screamed his name, but within two minutes, my strong, loyal dog was lifeless, cold, dead on the ground because of that rice.
My knees buckled, and I realized with sickening clarity that if I had eaten that food, I would be the one dying.
Before I could react, I heard Mama Ebuka speaking quietly on the phone in the guest room, her voice low and conspiratorial.
I crept closer, heart hammering, pressing my ear against the door, hearing words that froze my blood instantly.
She said the ritual was complete, that I had eaten it, and by nightfall I would vomit blood and die quietly.
She laughed softly, saying her son would be free to marry the woman she chose, and my spirit would be used further.
My phone rang suddenly, loud and stupid, breaking the silence, and Mama Ebuka stopped talking instantly, shouting to know who was there.
I ran to the bathroom and locked myself inside, shaking uncontrollably, texting my husband frantically while tears soaked my clothes.
She began banging on the bathroom door, demanding I open it, asking why I wasn’t sleeping, her voice now sharp and angry.
I could hear her forcing the handle, her breathing heavy, her patience gone, knowing something had gone terribly wrong.
Ebuka wasn’t picking up my calls, and the walls felt like they were closing in, trapping me with a woman who wanted me dead.
I remembered Bingo’s lifeless eyes, the foam, the speed of his death, and knew hesitation would kill me just as quickly.
I climbed out through the small bathroom window, cutting my arm on broken glass, not caring, only running barefoot into the night.
I didn’t stop until my lungs burned, hiding now in a neighbor’s unfinished building, shaking, bleeding, alive, but hunted.
Mama Ebuka knows I didn’t eat that rice, and she knows I heard her, and she will not stop looking for me.
If you want to know what happened when she broke down the bathroom door and discovered the truth, type “Next.”
Part two is ready, and trust me, you are not prepared for what comes after this. 😭
