“Oh, oh. So they are the ones you usually sneak out to meet at night, abi!” I snapped.
One evening, she said she was going to an evening service. But Cynthia returned home late from church, at 9 p.m. I sat calmly in front of the gate, waiting for her. Meanwhile, I had called the pastor, who informed me that they closed at 6 p.m. and that the service didn’t exceed two hours.
Fear gripped me when I saw her condition.
I focused my torch on her and noticed that she was tattered, as if she had been in a fight, and her clothes were filthy. Her Bible was nowhere to be found, and her eyes were red.
“Cynthia, where are you coming from? Where is your Bible and what happened to your eyes?” I questioned anxiously, placing my hands on my waist and staring at her.
“Mummy, please. I… I…” she stammered.
“Are you normal! I’m asking you where you’re coming from, and you’re opening your stupid mouth to tell me nonsense!!”
“I said, where are you coming from!” I repeated, slapping her on the face.
Despite all my tirades, she just stood there sobbing silently. I then hauled her to my room and began beating her, slapping her, and using some of my belts on her. I gave her the beating of her life, but she didn’t talk to me.
The next morning, when I went to check on her, she was still crying. I was furious because she wouldn’t tell me anything.
Later, I saw my daughter lying down, holding her stomach in pain as blood rushed from her abdomen.
I quickly rushed to the clinic and bought some drugs, which I gave her, and she swallowed. I laid her on her bed, covered her with a thick blanket, and sat close to her.
When her temperature had dropped, I began to pat her.
“But why didn’t you tell me you weren’t feeling well?”
“It’s okay. It’s okay. Hope you’ve eaten. Take this food.”
“Please just rest, okay?” I sympathized with her, pecked her, and left.
But she was still on her bed, sobbing uncontrollably.
“Ah ah. Cynthia, what is it now? Talk to me. Why are you crying?” I muttered, removing her hands.
She just looked at me and turned away, refusing to talk.
My daughter was always returning home late at night, her clothes always torn and she was always crying.
Three weeks later, I started to realize that some of my money had gone missing, and every time I asked Cynthia about it, she would say she had no idea.
Meanwhile, I had been noticing that she was always spacing out and she would stay in the bathroom muttering to herself.
Regardless of all my questions regarding her health, she’d always tell me she was fine.
A few days later, after coming home from work, my daughter was nowhere to be found. I looked around her room, ate, took a bath, and then started looking for her.
When I returned, I hurried to her room and saw her there, panting rapidly and staring straight ahead as blood was rushing from her body. Next to her, I found some abortion pills.
“My daughter, you have killed me ohh!”
I tried getting her attention by tapping her, but she wasn’t responding.
“Jesus, this girl has killed me oooo.. Cynthia, talk to me!”
“Why do this to yourself? Why kill yourself, chaaaaaai… This girl has killed me ooo…” My eyes were soaked with tears.
She was just lifeless, and her body was cold.
I quickly rushed her to the hospital, but the doctor said there was nothing he could do, that we came late, that the pills had completely destroyed her, and that she had aborted many babies.
Right in front of me, cotton wools were inserted in her mouth, nose, and ears and then laid her in the morgue. I fainted twice.
“Ehh, I have killed my daughter. I should have taught her the lessons of life.”
Now I am nothing. I lost my daughter and my only child. Please, mothers, always train your children well.
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