The Price of Envy: A Mother’s Miracle and a Friend’s Malice

The chilling whisper cut through the rustling leaves of the deep forest: “I have to be fast before the baby’s mom finds me.” The man, known locally only as “The Madman,” his face obscured by the grime of a life spent scavenging, gripped the shovel and plunged it into the soft earth. The sound of displaced soil was a heavy, dull thump, a prelude to a terrible finality. Near his feet, inside a rough burlap sack, a tiny, muffled cry persisted—the desperate sound of a life fighting for air.

Meanwhile, just a few miles away, bathed in the gentle warmth of the afternoon sun, the baby’s mother, Grace, was oblivious to the horror unfolding. She stood outside her modest home, locked in conversation with her neighbor and closest confidante, Njideka. Grace’s mind was at ease, lulled by the simple joy of motherhood. She believed her son, little John, the miracle child of her tenth year of marriage, was still sleeping peacefully inside the house. UNKNOWN TO HER, Little John was just a few inches from his grave.

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How It Started: A Shared Silence and a Sudden Shout

For ten long years, Grace and her husband had navigated the quiet heartbreak of childlessness. The passing of seasons was marked not by milestones, but by the crushing weight of monthly disappointment. Her neighbor and close friend, Njideka, mirrored her pain. Njideka, too, was barren, a common, cruel fate that had woven their lives together in a bond of silent, shared suffering. They were each other’s confidantes, shoulders to cry on, and sources of mutual, exhausted encouragement.

But in the tenth year of Grace’s marriage, the universe—or perhaps a benevolent God—intervened. Grace became pregnant.

The news spread through the neighborhood like wildfire, a seismic event that shook the community out of its decade-long sympathy. Joy was an insufficient word for the explosion of happiness that followed. Her husband, who had worn the burden of their shared fate with quiet dignity, suddenly transformed. He danced around like a new boy, unable to contain the giddy, intoxicating prospect of fatherhood. Women flocked to their home, their hands placed over Grace’s swelling belly, offering prayers and congratulations. The entire community was swept up in the beautiful, redemptive energy of the miracle.

Everyone was happy… EXCEPT NJIDEKA.

She played the part of the devoted friend with flawless precision. She acted happy. She hugged Grace, a hug that felt a little too tight, a little too long. She laughed with her, a sound that cracked slightly at the edges. But inside her heart, a corrosive, dark fire was burning. It was the fire of envy, a blinding, consuming rage directed at the very woman she called her sister.

How can she be pregnant and I am still barren? After all we suffered together?

Jealousy, insidious and relentless, grew inside her like a virulent poison, choking out the last vestiges of friendship and empathy. Njideka viewed Grace’s blessing not as a miracle, but as a personal betrayal, a cosmic slight that highlighted her own continued emptiness.

The Plan: A Friend’s Wicked Bargain

Months bled into the final, agonizing weeks, and Grace finally gave birth to a healthy, beautiful baby boy. Little John was the perfect picture of innocent vitality, a bright light that illuminated Grace’s world and cast Njideka’s heart into complete darkness. The darkness wasn’t just sadness; it was a space where logic died and malice thrived.

Njideka planned something terrible, something so cold and calculating that no one would ever imagine coming from a friend.

She sought out a figure known only as The Madman. He was an outcast, a rough-looking man whose life revolved around collecting rusted irons and old tins, earning just enough cash to survive in the shadows. He was seen, but never truly looked at—the perfect ghost for a monstrous task. Njideka approached him secretly, whispering her wicked plan into his ear, sealing the pact with a bundle of cash. The amount—fifty thousand naira—was a fortune to The Madman, and a trivial price for Njideka to erase the painful symbol of her friend’s good fortune.

The Afternoon That Changed Everything

The stage for the tragedy was set on one hot, languid afternoon. Grace, content and exhausted from the demands of new motherhood, finished breastfeeding her baby. She placed little John gently on the small bed in the center of the room, watching his eyelids flutter until he fell asleep peacefully, his chest rising and falling in rhythmic perfection.

The silence was a gift, and Grace decided to use the quiet moment to spread the clothes she had just washed in the backyard. She made a fateful, momentary lapse in judgment: she left the door open, planning to return in just a few seconds. What mother, surrounded by friendly neighbors, would fear for a sleeping baby in the middle of the day?

At that exact moment, The Madman walked into the compound. He was performing his routine charade, wandering with his large, empty burlap sack, pretending to pick up rusted irons. People saw him but paid no attention; he was a harmless fixture of the neighborhood’s backdrop, always moving around collecting scraps.

He moved with a sinister, slow deliberation. He slipped quietly into Grace’s room. The room was dark and cool, the air still thick with the scent of milk and sleep. He saw the sleeping baby, lifted him carefully—a horrifying tenderness in his rough hands—and pushed the small body inside the big sack he was carrying.

Just as he reached the door to leave, Grace was returning from the backyard, her arms full of wet clothes. Their eyes met across the threshold.

“Good afternoon, madam,” he greeted, his voice strangely calm, playing the part of the harmless scavenger.

Grace smiled back innocently, her mind already on the warmth of her sleeping son. “Good afternoon.”

But before she could step into the room, Njideka materialized as if summoned by an evil deity.

“Grace! My sister!” she called loudly, her voice bright, almost frantic, blocking her path with a wall of forced excitement. “Come, come, let me tell you something!”

Njideka was relentless. She held Grace’s arm, pulling her away from the door. She kept talking, weaving a net of unnecessary stories, feigning laughter, asking pointless questions—anything and everything just to give The Madman enough time to disappear with the baby. The crucial seconds Grace had planned to spend checking on John were stolen by the one person she trusted implicitly.

When she finally felt it was enough, when the silence from the compound signaled the Madman’s successful escape, Njideka smiled to herself, an evil, triumphant smile, and walked back into her own room, the picture of contentment.

The Despair and the Devil’s Whisper

Grace finally entered her room—and the world stopped.

The small bed was empty. The peaceful rhythm she expected was replaced by a deafening silence. Her heart dropped into her stomach, cold and heavy. Her hands began to shake uncontrollably. She searched frantically under the bed, behind the chair, outside the door, her eyes scanning every corner in a rising panic. Nothing.

Tears burst out of her eyes, hot and blinding. “My baby! My baby!! Where is my baby?!” she screamed, the sound ripping through the quiet afternoon air, a primal cry of maternal terror.

Neighbors gathered, their initial curiosity quickly morphing into shock and dismay. The commotion brought Grace’s husband rushing home. When he saw the empty bed and the distraught woman, his fear turned to a blinding rage.

“You are careless!” he shouted, pushing her out of the room, the pain of ten years of waiting exploding in a cruel, single act. “The child we got after ten years—lost in one day! Don’t come back until you find him!”

Abandoned by her husband, scorned by her neighbors, and consumed by her own guilt, Grace cried until her voice was raw and her legs were weak. The miracle was gone.

Inside her room, basking in the glow of her wicked success, Njideka dialed The Madman.

“Make sure you bury the b@by alive tonight in the garden,” she whispered coldly, devoid of human feeling. “Grace can’t have a baby when I am still barren.” The instruction was clear, the payment for the ultimate, irreversible betrayal.

The Madman, driven by the promise of the cash, carried the crying baby deep into the forest where the shadows were long and no one would see him commit the unspeakable act. He found a secluded spot, dropped the sack next to an ancient, gnarled root, picked up a shovel, and began to dig.

The Prayer and The Final Shovel Strike

Grace, desperate and broken, sought refuge in the only place she felt any hope remained. She went to the church. She fell on her knees before the altar, her body racked by sobs, crying like a wounded animal. “God, please… don’t let my baby d!e. Don’t let my enemies win. Don’t let them mock your daughter,” she pleaded, her faith the last fragile thread holding her to sanity.

Deep in the forest, The Madman continued his grim labor, the shovel rising and falling with mechanical efficiency. He ignored the faint, heartbreaking cry emanating from the sack, ignored the image of the mother’s pain, focused only on the promise of the fifty thousand naira that would soon be his.

“I have to be fast before someone sees me,” he muttered, his breathing heavy as he fought against the hard, clay-rich earth. He was digging John’s grave, a small, dark hole that would soon silence the innocent life forever.

But little did he know… God never forsakes the tears of a mother in pain. An unseen force was already in motion, weaving a thread of hope through the fabric of Njideka’s malice.

The Madman paused, wiping sweat from his brow. The hole was deep enough. He reached for the sack, the final act of his horrible task imminent. The baby’s crying was weak now, muffled, a tiny protest against the inevitable.

Don’t think someone is harmless because they appear dirty, some of them are de@dlier than you can think.

The Question That Haunts

The forest was silent again, save for the Madman’s ragged breathing. He looked down at the hole, then at the sack, and back up at the darkening sky, a flicker of something—maybe guilt, maybe just fear—crossing his eyes. He lifted the sack, ready to drop it into the pit.

Did Grace make a mistake leaving the door open? A fatal, forgivable mistake of a tired, trusting mother in a community she thought was safe. But the real mistake was trusting the friend whose heart was as barren as her womb once was.

DO YOU THINK GRACE MADE A MISTAKE LEAVING THE DOOR OPEN?

To be continued… SAVE THIS POST TO BE NOTIFIED ONCE THE NEXT EPISODE IS UPLOADED.