Upon returning home, I set the large loaf of sliced bread on the dining table, its golden ribbon sparkling under the dim light.
“Can we eat it, Mummy?” Kene inquired eagerly.
“No,” I responded abruptly, perhaps too harshly.
His expression faltered, and he asked, “Why not?”
Trying to soften my tone, I replied, “Not right now. We’ve just had lunch. Maybe later.”
However, I knew in my heart that we wouldn’t touch it—not today, nor tomorrow, nor ever.
Later that afternoon, Naza knocked on the door to discuss our Sunday school plans as she often did. Her vibrant personality filled the room.
“Wow! Who brought this bread?” she exclaimed upon spotting it.
I recounted how our neighbor had gifted it to us, sharing my discomfort and the debt she owed me, as well as the unsettling feeling that something was amiss.
Naza laughed heartily.
“Don’t worry, my friend! Nothing bad will happen. You’re being overly dramatic,” she teased before adding, “I’ll bless it and take it. It’s too good to waste!”
Wanting to avoid any waste, I handed the loaf to her reluctantly.
“If you’re certain…”
“Yes, please!” she insisted, playfully throwing her head back. “I’m already hungry!”
She left, bread tucked under her arm, still chuckling.
I lingered at the doorway, watching her head down the dusty path, unaware that I would keep replaying this moment, questioning whether handing over that bread had been the worst decision of my life.
That evening, around 7:30 p.m., while bathing the children, my phone rang. I scrambled to wipe my hands and answer it.
It was Naza.
This time, her demeanor was serious.
“Chinwe! Chinwe! Ogbonna is crying, ‘My tummy! My tummy!’ He’s on the floor! Vomiting! What was in that bread?! ”
My heart raced.
“What?!” I asked, shocked.
“It started as just a stomach ache!” she cried. “Now he’s sweating and throwing up. He’s losing strength!”
In the background, I could faintly hear the agonizing cries of her son.
A chill gripped me.
“We’re taking him to the hospital right now!” Naza shouted. “He’s—he’s having trouble breathing—”
The call ended abruptly.
Tremors ran through my hands as tears blurred my eyes. I sank down on the bed.
“God,” I whispered. “Please ensure that boy is alright. Please.”
Minutes felt like hours as I attempted to call Naza back, but her line was busy. My anxiety intensified.
Suddenly, my husband rushed in. “What’s happening?”
I stammered through my tears, my husband’s expression shifting into alarm.
“We need to get to the hospital immediately.”
We grabbed the children, locked the house, and drove swiftly to the local clinic.
Upon our arrival, I saw Naza and her husband outside, both in distress. Nurses hurried past with a stretcher, tubes, injections, and saline.
The doctor’s voice sliced through the chaos:
“Food poisoning. A serious case. You brought him in quickly—thank goodness. Another half an hour, and we might have lost him.”
Naza collapsed, weeping.
Her husband embraced her tightly, both trembling as their son lay surrounded by medical equipment.
I froze, overwhelmed by guilt.
If anything were to happen to Ogbonna…
If he were to die…
I wasn’t sure I could cope with that reality.
Inside the ward, Ogbonna remained motionless, breathing shallowly. A nurse gently wiped his forehead while another adjusted an IV drip. Naza held his small hand close.
He occasionally murmured, “Mummy…” before succumbing to pain again.
My emotions spilled over. “I’m so sorry,” I whispered.
Naza shook her head gently. “You warned me. I didn’t heed it.”
Nevertheless, the weight of responsibility bore down heavily on me.
Hours ticked by, and slowly, Ogbonna began to stabilize. The vomiting subsided, and he blinked his eyes open.
“Mummy…” he called out softly.
Naza erupted in tears of relief.
When the doctor returned, he reassured us, “He will make a full recovery. You acted quickly.”
Those words brought me solace.
As the news spread throughout our community, neighbors gathered like a small assembly, eager to know the details.
“Who bought the bread?”
“What transpired?”
“Is the boy alright?”
The inquiries eventually directed towards Madam Christiana.
Upon hearing the news, she raised her hands in protest.
“Not me! God forbid! I swear I did nothing!”
“Where did you get the bread?” someone demanded.
She stammered. “From a vendor at the park.”
Suspicious murmurs filled the air.
“Did you eat the other loaf?” someone queried.
“Yes! Yes! I bought two! I ate one!”
Yet her eyes flitted nervously.
Her hands trembled slightly.
She then attempted to deflect the blame. “Maybe the vendor did something! Maybe the bread went bad!”
Naza pulled me aside, her gaze fierce. “Let’s make her eat the leftover bread,” she insisted quietly. “If she eats it, we’ll know.”
However, my husband intervened, his tone calm but firm.
“No. Leave it. Let God handle the judgment.”
I clenched my jaw, frustrated. “She could have taken a child’s life.”
“Let it be,” he repeated. “Just leave it.”
I exhaled heavily, relenting. “Alright.”
But that day, a rift formed between me and my neighbor—an irrevocable one.
Afterwards, I severed all connections with her. On social media, I deleted, blocked, and distanced myself entirely. The debt she owed me, close to 300k, I let go of.
Some losses felt more acceptable than losing a life.
Some disputes were perhaps best left for the divine.
Time continued its relentless march, although the haunting memories lingered. Each time I encountered young children at Sunday school, I recalled Ogbonna’s frail form lying in that hospital bed.
Circumstances changed, and our family expanded. More children, additional responsibilities, burgeoning dreams. We relocated to a larger house elsewhere in town, attempting to leave the past behind.
Years accumulated upon years.
One day, as I folded laundry, a message from a former neighbor caught my attention.
<p“Have you heard? Madam Christiana has suffered a severe stroke.”
I froze, my heart skipping.
“What happened?” I typed back.
“She’s now bedridden and cannot move one side of her body.”
Sitting down slowly, a whirlwind of emotions surged through me—not joy, yet not entirely unexpected either.
Some conflicts, I recalled, are resolved by nature itself.
I took a deep breath.
“May God show her mercy,” I finally replied.
Last week, Ogbonna celebrated his eleventh birthday.
During the festivities, he sprinted about, laughing, full of life and intellect—brighter than ever. His joyous laughter echoed like music in the room.
As I observed him extinguishing his birthday candles, something within me shifted, then solidified.
I leaned down close afterwards and murmured, “You are a miracle.”
He smiled, perhaps not entirely grasping the sentiment, yet sensing the weight of something meaningful.
Often at night, I find myself on our balcony, reflecting on that day.
The enormous loaf, so beautifully packaged.
My little boy scurrying in with it.
That feeling of unease that tightened my chest.
Ogbonna, pale and frail on the hospital bed.
Naza, weeping like a mother who had confronted death and triumphed over it.
Each time I reminisce, a shiver runs down my spine.
Each time, I murmur, “Thank You, God.”
For if we—my children and I—had consumed that bread…
If I had disregarded my instincts…
If Naza had taken those extra thirty minutes…
Our narrative today would have been a tragedy.
Instead, it transformed into a lesson.
A warning, wrapped in mercy.
And that is precisely why, on each remembrance, my heart skips a beat.
Sometimes, it is far preferable to be cautious and misunderstood than to be reckless and burdened by regret for eternity.