CHAPTER 28 – THIS FAMILY CALLED MINE: COLOUR US UP

© Opeyemi Akintunde
As Inspired by the LIVING WORD

“Ha! Never… God forbid!” my father exclaimed. I watched him storm out of the shrine-like room in haste. His face bore a look of fear and defiance, like a man clinging to the last strands of his humanity.

It felt good… reassuring… knowing my father had some resistance in him. That there was a time he chose not to stain his hands with blood. But that goodness didn’t last.

Another screen lit up in the white room.

My stepmother.

She was seated in the art gallery, her back to my father who stood frozen in the doorway. She was heavily pregnant. Her voice was cold and sharp, like a knife slicing through bread.

“It’s either I abort the pregnancy or give the child up for adoption,” she said.

“What?” my father asked in disbelief.

“There are wealthy people who’ll pay handsomely for a baby. Especially a boy.” Her tone was deliberate. Cruel.

“You can’t do that to me!” my father shouted.

“Then do something about your poverty, Stephen!” she snapped. “You want a son, but you’re too afraid to do what it takes. Keep painting poverty if that suits you. But don’t count me or this child as yours.”

“I don’t want to stain my hands with blood,” he muttered.

“Then forget you ever had a son.”

She picked up her bag and walked out, slamming the door behind her. I could see the tension in my father’s shoulders. He looked like a man being pulled apart by wild horses. Torn between desperation and dignity.

Then the screen changed again.

It was darker now. A different room. Same shrine. Same herbalist.

“I’m ready,” my father said quietly. His eyes were hollow. Dead.

“How do I go about it?”

The herbalist grinned, revealing brown, decayed teeth.

“You’ll need to visit the Slaughter Men,” he said casually. “Buy blood from them.”

“Slaughter men?” my father asked, his voice trembling.

“Yes. That’s what they do. Slaughter people. Not animals. People. And they sell the blood. You don’t need to know where it comes from. Just pay and wash your hands daily with the blood. That’s all.”

My heart stopped.

So the movies were right. There were truly people who thrived on the blood of the innocent.

My father stood still for a moment.

“Do you have a number?” he asked, barely above a whisper.

The herbalist handed him a paper.

“And one more thing,” the herbalist added with a smirk.

He turned slowly as if knowing the next words would destroy something in him.

“We will also need menstrual blood from your daughters.”

My world collapsed in that moment.

“No!” my father shouted.

But the herbalist continued, undeterred.

“Your wealth must be rooted in future strength. The menstrual blood of your daughters carries their reproductive glory…future wealth, fruitfulness, favour. You need to tie that down, so your wealth doesn’t end too soon.”

“I can’t do that. They are just girls!”

“And that’s why it must be them. You already have a son on the way. Let him inherit. The girls can marry rich men. That’s what women are for.” The herbalist shrugged.

My father looked up in torment.

Suddenly, my stepmother appeared beside him. She wasn’t shocked. She didn’t flinch.

“He’s right,” she said softly. “The girls will be fine. They’re not your future. Our son is.”

My father sat down.

My knees gave way beneath me.

I screamed as I fell back from the screen, the pain so intense, I felt betrayed by our father, I felt like my stomach was being ripped open.

Back in the physical world, I felt arms holding me.

Voices echoing.

But I couldn’t come out of the vision.

The truth was still unfolding.

And what I was about to see next… would shake me to my bones.

To be continued…
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