I was just ten years old when my mom brought in a housemaid that kîlled my baby brother.

Not ugly. Not scary. Just… too much. It stayed on her face longer than necessary, like she was performing it.

“Daniel,” Mummy said softly, “greet Aunty Esther. She will be staying with us now to help.”

I greeted her properly, almost kneeling the way good children do. “Good afternoon, Aunty.”

’s smile widened. “So this is Daniel,” she said, her voice low and sweet like melted sugar. Then she laughed — a soft, private laugh that made my stomach tighten.

I didn’t like it. Not one bit.

That evening, Mummy sent her to buy peak milk and bread from Mama Chinedu’s shop down the street. Esther came back with only the bread. No milk.

Mummy, already irritable from the pregnancy, snapped, “Esther, what is this? I clearly told you peak milk and bread. Are you deaf?”

stood there quietly, not apologizing immediately. For a second, I saw something dark flash across her face — a frown she quickly hid. Then she lowered her head and whispered, “Sorry ma. I will go back now.”

I was in the sitting room watching *Tales by Moonlight* on the old television. I also wanted to sneak into the kitchen for the biscuits I had hidden earlier. So I stood up at the same time Esther entered the kitchen.

I stopped just outside the door, hidden in the shadows.

She took a clean glass cup from the cupboard. Filled it with water from the plastic gallon. Then she looked around carefully, like a thief. Slowly, she raised the glass to her lips, took a mouthful, held it in her mouth for three long seconds, and spat it back into the cup.

My blood turned to ice.

She stirred the water gently with her finger, smiled to herself, and carried it upstairs.

I couldn’t move. I stood there until I heard Mummy thank her.

From that night, I began watching like a hawk.

The next few days were filled with small, strange things.

She would stare at Mummy’s belly when she thought no one was looking. Not with the usual gentle curiosity people show pregnant women — but with something colder. Calculating.

One afternoon, I came home early and found her in the kitchen mixing Mummy’s prenatal vitamins into a cup of tea. But instead of using the spoon, she used her finger again. The same finger she had put in her mouth the previous night.

I cleared my throat loudly. She jumped, almost spilling the tea.

“Daniel! You scared me,” she said, recovering with that same long smile. “Your mother’s medicine.”

I didn’t smile back.

At night, I started having nightmares. In them, Esther would stand over my mother’s bed with a black plastic bag, pouring white powder into her water. I would wake up sweating, heart pounding.

Then my baby brother arrived.

Mummy went into labor on a Thursday evening. Papa was in Lagos. helped flag down a taxi and went with us to the hospital. She was surprisingly calm and helpful. The nurses even praised her.

My brother was named Samuel. A beautiful, chubby boy with full cheeks and a loud cry. Mummy was overjoyed. For the first time in months, she looked truly happy.

But Esther’s smile never changed.

—

The real terror began when Samuel was three weeks old.

Mummy’s breast milk was not enough. The doctor recommended formula. Every night,  was the one who prepared the baby’s bottle.

One evening, I came downstairs for water and froze again at the kitchen entrance.

Esther stood at the wooden table, exactly as in that terrible memory that still haunts me. She held a black plastic bag — the same kind we used for rubbish. She was pouring a fine white powder into Samuel’s feeding bottle. Not the formula powder. Something else. Something from that black bag.

She poured slowly, carefully, making sure every grain went in. Then she added hot water, shook the bottle, and tasted a drop on her finger.

She smiled.

That same smile.

I stepped back quietly and ran to my room. My hands were shaking. I wanted to tell Mummy, but she was exhausted, breastfeeding and recovering. Papa was still away. Who would believe a ten-year-old boy?

So I started my own investigation.

I began searching Esther’s small room behind the kitchen when she went to the market. Under her mattress, I found strange things: old dry leaves tied with red thread, a small calabash with dark powder, and a notebook with names written inside. One name was circled many times — “Adeola.”

My mother’s maiden name.

My fear turned into cold dread.

Two days later, Samuel fell seriously ill.

He started vomiting after every feed. His tiny body grew hot with fever. He cried weakly, no longer the strong boy who used to kick his legs happily.

Mummy was beside herself. We rushed him to the hospital. The doctor said it looked like poisoning — something in his system that shouldn’t be there.

Esther cried with us at the hospital. Real tears. She held Mummy’s hand and prayed loudly in Yoruba. But when no one was watching, I caught her looking at the baby with something like satisfaction.

That night, back at home, I confronted her.

I waited until Mummy had finally fallen asleep from exhaustion. I walked into the kitchen where Esther was washing plates.

“Why are you doing this?” I asked, my voice small but steady.

She turned around slowly. That smile again. But this time, there was no pretense.

“Doing what, Daniel?”

“You put something in my brother’s milk. I saw you. And in Mummy’s water too.”

For a moment, her eyes went completely blank. Then she laughed — that soft, terrifying laugh.

“You are just a small boy with big eyes,” she whispered. “You see too much.”

She stepped closer. I could smell her cheap perfume mixed with something earthy, like grave soil.

“Your mother took something that belonged to me,” she said quietly. “A man. My man. Before she married your father. She ruined my life. Now I will ruin hers.”