The Last Prayer of TOLANI ADEYEMI Episode 2

PART 2

THE CHILD WHO NEVER SLEPT

My mother says I was a strange baby.

I didn’t cry when I was born. I didn’t scream or gasp like other children. I just opened my eyes and stared at the ceiling, calm… curious… as if I was remembering something.

The nurses were uncomfortable around me.

One of them whispered, “This child is too alert.”

My mother smiled and said, “She’s just intelligent.”

But at night, when the lights were off and the house was quiet, my mother would sit beside my crib and watch me like she was guarding a door that must never open.

She never let anyone babysit me.

Never.

I am seven years old now.

My name is Morẹ́nikẹ́.

We live in a small, quiet town far away from Lagos. No estates. No guards. Just a bungalow, a mango tree, and neighbors who mind their business.

By day, my mother is normal.

She laughs. She cooks. She prays very loudly. She calls God names like “Defender” and “Shield.” She takes me to school and kisses my forehead before I enter the gate.

But at night…

At night, my mother locks my bedroom door from the outside.

She says it’s because I sleepwalk.

She lies.

I don’t sleepwalk.

I wake up.

Every night at exactly 3:00 AM, my eyes snap open.

I don’t know how I know the time. I just do. My body knows. Like hunger.

My stomach burns.

Not the kind of hunger food can satisfy.

Something deeper.

Something old.

From behind my locked door, I hear my mother moving around the house. I hear her dragging chairs, pouring salt across doorways, whispering prayers that sound more like warnings.

Sometimes she cries.

Sometimes she says my name over and over like a plea.

“Morẹ́nikẹ́… please.”

I don’t answer.

Because I can hear it too.

The scratching.

It started last year.

At first, I thought it was rats.

Then I thought it was geckos.

But geckos don’t whisper.

And they don’t call your name.

“Morẹ́…”

“Morẹ́…”

It comes from inside the walls. From the ceiling. From behind mirrors. A voice that sounds like dry leaves rubbing together.

A voice that knows me.

A voice that calls me “child.”

The first time I left my room, I didn’t open the door.

I climbed.

I don’t remember deciding to do it.

My hands just… stuck.

My fingers pressed against the wall, and the wall accepted me.

I crawled up like it was normal.

Like I had done it before.

I watched my mother from the ceiling fan.

She was kneeling in the living room, crying, clutching a Bible with shaking hands.

I felt nothing.

No love.

No fear.

Just disappointment.

She looked smaller than I remembered.

Weaker.

I dropped silently behind her.

She turned.

And screamed.

That night, she told me the truth.

Everything.

About VGC.

About Kunle.

About Mama Kunle.

About the hunger.

About the deal she thought she had broken.

She showed me scars on her back. She showed me old videos she kept on a hidden phone. She showed me her nightmares.

“I stopped it,” she said desperately. “I ended it with your father. You’re free. You’re normal.”

She held my face and searched my eyes.

“Tell me you’re normal.”

I wanted to.

I really did.

But behind her, on the wall, something moved.

A shadow peeled itself off the paint.

Long.

Crooked.

Smiling.

I felt my tongue stretch in my mouth.

“Mother,” I said carefully.

“Why do you think ending a covenant means it dies?”

Her face went empty.

Behind her, the shadow pressed closer, merging with my body like a memory returning home.

I felt taller.

Older.

Hungry.

Now, every night, my mother locks herself in her room instead.

She thinks salt can stop blood.

She thinks prayer can erase inheritance.

She is wrong.

I am not Mama Kunle.

I am better.

I don’t need soup anymore.

I don’t need goats.

I don’t need witnesses.

I need continuation.

Tonight, my mother forgot one window.

Just one.

I am sitting on the ceiling above her bed, watching her sleep.

Her womb carried me.

Now it will feed me.

After that…

I will look for houses with big kitchens.

And women who think love can save them.

TBC...