Upon returning home, I placed a large loaf of sliced bread onto the dining table, its golden ribbon sparkling softly in the low light.
“Can I have some now, Mummy?” Kene inquired.
“No,” I responded rather sternly, perhaps too much so.
His excitement quickly ebbed, replaced by confusion. “Why not?”
I took a deep breath to temper my tone. “Not right now. We just had lunch. Perhaps later.”
Inside, however, I was sure we would never taste it. Not today, not tomorrow, perhaps never.
Later that afternoon, Naza arrived, knocking at the door for our regular chat about Sunday school preparations. Her vibrant and outspoken nature filled the room with enthusiasm.
“Oh wow! Who brought this?” she exclaimed as her eyes fell on the bread.
I recounted the entire story: how the neighbor gifted it, the looming debt she owed me, my discomfort about the situation, and that strange feeling that something wasn’t quite right.
Naza erupted in laughter.
“My friend, what’s the fuss? Don’t overthink it!” she playfully teased. Then, half-jokingly, she added, “I’ll just bless it with the blood of Jesus. Let me take it; we shouldn’t waste such a fine treat!”
Her laughter was lighthearted and carefree. Wanting to avoid unnecessary waste, I handed the bread over to her.
“Are you certain?”
“Just hand it over, will you? I’m already feeling hungry,” she insisted, tossing her head back in delight. She left with the loaf cradled in her arm, still chuckling.
I lingered at the doorway, watching her make her way down the dusty path, completely unaware that I would replay that moment in my mind, agonizing over whether I had made a tremendous mistake.
Around 7:30 that evening, while I was bathing my children, my phone began to ring. I wiped my hands and answered it.
It was Naza, and the joy had vanished from her voice.
She was frantic, “Chinwe! Chinwe!! Ogbonna is yelling ‘My stomach! My stomach!’ He’s rolling around! Vomiting! Chinwe, what was in that bread?”
My heart dropped into my stomach.
“What?!”
“It started as a mild stomach ache!” she cried. “Now he’s sweating and vomiting uncontrollably. Chinwe, he’s losing his strength!”
I could hear Ogbonna’s faint cries in the background, filled with panic and despair.
Panic surged through me.
“We’re taking him to the hospital right now!” Naza screamed. “He’s not breathing properly—”
And just like that, the call ended.
Tremors swept through my hands. Tears began to blur my sight as I sank onto the bed.
“God,” I pleaded quietly. “Please keep that boy safe. Please don’t let anything happen to him.”
Time lingered like an eternity. I tried to call Naza back, but her line was busy. A tightness coiled around my chest.
My husband hurried into the room. “What’s the matter?”
Through my sobs, I recounted the situation. His expression shifted suddenly.
“We need to get to the hospital, immediately.”
We gathered the children, locked the house, and rushed to the clinic near her residence.
Upon our arrival, I spotted Naza and her spouse, both in tears. Nurses scurried back and forth. A stretcher was brought inside, filled with tubes and medications—charcoal, saline solution.
The doctor’s voice shattered the tension: “Food poisoning. A severe case. You brought him in just in time—thank God. If it had been another thirty minutes, we could have lost him.”
Naza sank to the ground, weeping.
Her husband wrapped his arms around her, both trembling while their son lay surrounded by wires and tubes.
I stood frozen, waves of guilt crashing over me.
If anything happened to Ogbonna… If he were to perish… I doubted I could ever heal from such trauma.
In the sickroom, Ogbonna lay motionless, his breaths shallow. A nurse gently wiped his brow. Another adjusted his intravenous drip, while Naza sat closely, clutching his small hand.
He occasionally murmured, “Mummy…” then returned to his discomfort.
Emotions overwhelmed me, and I couldn’t contain my tears any longer.
“I’m so sorry,” I murmured.
Naza shook her head gently. “It’s not your fault. I had warning and didn’t heed it.”
Despite her words, I felt the burden of accountability pressing heavily upon my heart.
As hours dragged on, signs of improvement began to emerge. The vomiting ceased, and his eyelids flickered open.
“Mummy…” he whispered.
Naza let out a sob of relief.
When the doctor finally returned, he assured us, “He’s going to be alright. Quick action made all the difference.”
Those affirming words salvaged my sanity.
As news circulated through our neighborhood, fellow residents congregated like a makeshift council, flooding me with inquiries.
“Who brought the bread?”
“What transpired?”
“Is the child alright?”
The questions ultimately led to Madam Christiana.
Upon hearing the events, she raised her hands in shock. “Me?! No way! I take no blame! I swear!”
“Where did you get the bread?” someone pressed.
She stammered, “A—a vendor in the park.”
Suspicion filled the air.
“Did you consume the other loaf?” asked another.
“Yes! Yes! I purchased two loaves! I ate one myself,” she replied.
Yet her gaze flitted nervously.
Her hands trembled slightly.
Then she attempted to shift blame. “Perhaps the bread seller did something! The bread could have been tainted!”
Naza leaned in close, her eyes blazing with intensity. “Let’s make her eat the remaining bread,” she proposed with determination. “If she consumes it, we’ll know.”
But my husband intervened.
“No,” he declared calmly yet assertively. “Let it be. Leave judgment to God.”
I gritted my teeth. “But she could have caused harm to a child.”
“Let it go,” he repeated. “Leave it.”
I swallowed hard. “Alright.”
However, something within me deteriorated completely that day.
From that moment, I severed all relations with her. I erased her from my social networks, deleted her contact, and let go of the money she owed—nearly 300k. Vanished.
Some losses, I decided, were less painful than the burden of death.
Some battles are better fought in the hands of divinity.
Life pressed on, but the memory left me scarred. Each time I saw young children at Sunday school, I recalled Ogbonna’s frail form on the hospital bed.
Eventually, our family expanded further. More children arrived, along with greater responsibilities and expansive dreams. We transitioned to a larger home across town, leaving the old neighborhood behind, trying to forget.
Years slipped away.
One day, while folding laundry, an old neighbor’s message popped up on my phone.
<p“Have you heard? Madam Christiana suffered a severe stroke.”
I abruptly halted.
“What transpired?” I responded.
“She’s in bed now, unable to move one side of her body.”
Slowly, I sat down, a blend of emotions inundated me, none of them happiness, yet devoid of surprise.
Some conflicts, I recalled, are resolved by nature itself.
With a deep breath, I typed, “May God show her mercy.”
Last week, Ogbonna celebrated his eleventh birthday.
At his party, he scampered around, laughter exuberating life and intelligence—brighter than ever. His joy filled the room like a sweet melody.
As I observed him extinguish his candles, something within me melted and fortified simultaneously.
Later, I leaned in close and whispered, “You are a miracle.”
He beamed, somewhat perplexed but sensing the depth of my words.
At times, in the quiet of the night, I find myself on the balcony reflecting on that day—the grand loaf, beautifully wrapped, my little boy bounding in with it, my instinct tightening, Ogbonna looking frail on the hospital bed, Naza grieving as if she had confronted death itself.
Each recollection sends chills down my spine.
Every time, I murmur, “Thank You, God.”
If my children and I had consumed that loaf…
If I had disregarded the nagging voice within…
If Naza had lingered for just thirty minutes longer…
Our narrative today might have devolved into a tragedy.
Instead, it evolved into a profound lesson—one draped in mercy.
That’s why, whenever I revisit those events, my heart skips a beat.
Sometimes, it’s wiser to tread carefully and be misunderstood than to act recklessly and mourn regrets for a lifetime.