The Child Who Watched

Part Three - The Child Who Watched

The police came within the hour. Their boots echoed down the marble hallway, their voices low and uneasy as they stepped into Mrs. Graces room. They found her in pieces not in the way grief might break someone, but literally. Parts of her scattered as though someone had tried to erase her from existence.

The senior officer, a man with tired eyes and a cigarette tucked behind his ear, stood in the doorway for a long time before saying anything. A robbery gone wrong, my father told them. His voice was calm, too calm.

Even the police hardened men who had seen every shade of brutality Lagos had to offer could not fathom how a human being could do that to another. But my father was a connected man now. He had friends in places where shadows sat in seats of power, and somehow his explanation was taken at face value. No investigation. No questions. The body was wrapped and carried away, the blood mopped up as if her death was just another inconvenience.

That is one of the perks of working with demons.

A year passed before I was born. It was an unusually hot afternoon, the kind where the air hangs heavy and still. My mother held me in her arms and wept with joy. To her, I was a miracle. To my father, I was something else entirely.

From the very beginning, I was different. I did not cry like other babies. I did not coo or babble. I simply stared. My eyes followed empty corners, traced invisible movements in the air. Always watching, always listening to something no one else could see. My small face would tighten as if I understood, as if I knew the presences that still lingered around us.

But I was a baby. What could I do?

For the first months, my mother adored me. She would sing as she bathed me, kiss my forehead before laying me down to sleep. She would whisper prayers over me, convinced I was destined for something great.

She didnt know that one day she would come to hate me.