The Pepper Soup That Ate the God

The Pepper Soup That Ate the God

They call me Madam Soft Life on Instagram.

Perfect wigs. Designer bags. Champagne dinners. A mansion in Asaba so big the echo answers you back. My husband, Chief Odogwu, is a transporter with fleets of trailers and a name that opens doors.

People envy me.

They don’t know the truth.

They don’t know that for three years, I never shared a bed with my husband.

They don’t know that inside our ₦150 million mansion, there was one room I was forbidden to enter.

“If you ever open that door, you will die instantly,” Odogwu told me on our wedding night.

“That is where I pray for my business.”

I laughed it off then. Money has a way of silencing fear. I wore diamonds and obeyed.

But obedience has an expiry date.

Every Friday night, my husband started a strange ritual. He would come home with a crate of raw eggs and a live chicken, carry them into the Secret Room, and lock the door.

Two hours later, he would come out drenched in sweat.

The chicken always vanished.

No feathers.

No bones.

Nothing.

I started dreaming of tight coils and hissing sounds. I woke up every night sweating. That room began to breathe inside my head.

Then God or whatever watches foolish women gave me a chance.

Last Tuesday, Odogwu rushed out for a meeting and forgot his keys on the dining table.

Among them was the key.

My hands shook as I picked it up. I prayed Psalm 23 with a voice that trembled like candlelight in wind.

I opened the door.

I didn’t see a shrine.

I didn’t see a Bible.

I saw a golden cage.

Inside it was a gigantic python, thick like a NEPA pole, coiled on a red velvet rug. Its skin shone like oil. The room smelled of iron and old blood.

All around the cage were my pictures.

Wedding photos.

Birthday photos.

Pictures from my Instagram page.

The snake’s eyes were fixed on my face.

In that moment, fear died in me.

The spirit of my grandmother who once chased armed men out of her farm stood up inside my chest.

So this was the business partner.

This was the thing swallowing chickens.

This was what had been staring at my picture… waiting.

I didn’t scream.

I went to the kitchen.

I took the biggest knife in the house.

When I returned, the python was sluggish, heavy with whatever power it had eaten. I opened the cage and didn’t give it time to wake up.

One strike.

Then another.

The head rolled.

The room went silent like a generator switched off suddenly.

I dragged the body to the kitchen. I cleaned it with lemon and salt. I cooked pepper soup hot, unforgiving, rich with scent leaf and uziza. The aroma filled the entire estate.

That evening, Odogwu walked in, tired and hungry.

“Babe, something smells amazing,” he said.

I smiled sweetly. “I cooked something special.”

He ate like a king. Cleaned the plate. Licked his fingers.

“Nneka,” he said, chewing slowly, “what meat is this? It’s very soft.”

I poured myself wine and looked him in the eye.

“It’s from the Secret Room,” I said calmly.

“Your business partner.”

The spoon fell.

He grabbed his throat. His eyes rolled. His legs fused together like melted wax. He collapsed and began to twist on the marble floor.

Then the sound came.

“Hssssssss”

By the time I locked the doors, he was no longer a man.

He slithered.

His tongue flickered.

His mouth could no longer speak lies.

I didn’t scream.

I recorded everything.

When the neighbors broke in, they found a snake where a powerful man used to be and a woman sitting calmly on the sofa, glass of wine in hand.

The police said it was madness.

The pastors said it was mystery.

The village elders said nothing.

The mansion was sold. The money disappeared. My Instagram page went silent.

Today, I live quietly in a smaller house, selling fabrics. I sleep peacefully. No dreams. No hissing.

And if there is one thing I have learned, it is this:

If a man tells you never to enter a room,

enter it.

Better to lose soft life

than to be the next sacrifice.

The End.