🌑 THE BREASTFEEDING RIDDLE & THE GRAVEYARD VIGIL: The Uncanny Descent of Precious Nduka – Why Did She Trade Mother’s Milk for Midnight Cemetery Breeze?

(Mgbeodichinma Catherine Nduka STARS – Episode 1: The First Unseen Step)

The newborn’s cry was the sound of pure, helpless hunger, yet the one person equipped to silence it—the mother who had carried the child for nine long months—remained strangely, stubbornly distant. Precious had just given birth, but she refused to breastfeed her newborn baby. It was an act of biological defiance, an unnatural rejection that cast the first, chilling shadow over their otherwise joyful household.

Her mother-in-law, Madam Ade, a woman steeped in the traditions of motherhood, was the first to sense the coldness. “Why won’t you feed the baby?” she asked gently one morning, her voice laced with puzzled concern. Precious, the beautiful, new mother, offered only a ghost of a smile and an empty excuse. “I’m just tired,” she whispered. But Madam Ade knew exhaustion was temporary; this refusal felt like a rigid, dangerous decree.

Femi, Precious’s husband, noticed the escalating pattern too, watching his wife with growing unease. Every time he brought the tiny infant to her, she found a way to deflect, a shield of flimsy excuses. “I’ll feed the baby later,” she would say, or, “The baby is not hungry now.” He tried to reason with her, appealing to instinct and necessity, but Precious remained firm, her gaze unnervingly calm. Something about her refusal made Femi deeply uneasy, a knot of suspicion tightening in his gut, but he feared pushing her—and perhaps pushing her secret—into the open.

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The Unreadable Eyes and the Bizarre Confession

The real mystery, however, began when the sun went down. Then came the nights. Precious started leaving the house after everyone had gone to bed. Femi’s sleep became a thin, watchful thing. He noticed the quiet ritual: she would carefully pick up the baby, swaddled and silent, and tiptoe out the door, her movements soft, meticulous, and entirely secretive.

When he finally cornered her, his voice a strained whisper in the dark hallway, her answer was devastating in its quiet absurdity. “I’m taking the baby to the cemetery,” she said softly. “Just to collect breeze. The baby needs fresh air.”

Femi’s heart raced the first time he heard that. “The cemetery? At night?” he whispered, shocked. The image was grotesque: a new mother and her vulnerable infant seeking solace among the dead. Precious only smiled, her eyes calm and chillingly unreadable. “It’s nothing, Femi. Don’t worry. I know what I’m doing.” The lack of fear in her voice was more frightening than any outright admission of terror.

For several agonizing nights, he tried to force himself to trust her, telling himself she was suffering from postnatal strangeness, seeking some bizarre remedy. But curiosity gnawed at him, turning quickly into corrosive suspicion. Why would a mother, capable of nurturing life, seek the company of death for her child?

The Silent Trail of Fear

Finally, one night, the internal struggle became unbearable. He decided he could wait no longer. Femi quietly slipped out, trailing her, allowing the dense, protective shadows of the neighborhood to swallow him whole. He watched as she moved silently through the dark streets, carrying the baby close to her chest. Her steps were soft, careful, and strangely purposeful—a walk not of a tired woman, but of a devoted pilgrim. She didn’t speak, didn’t look around much—except for small, sharp glances over her shoulder, as though she was ensuring her pact with the night remained unseen.

Femi’s heart pounded against his ribs, keeping time with his fearful steps. The cemetery came into view, a looming fortress against the pale moonlight, its iron gates black against the dim sky. Precious slipped inside as if she belonged there, passing through the wrought iron as easily as passing through a bedroom door.

She walked slowly between the ancient, silent graves, holding the baby close, stopping occasionally. She wasn’t praying or mourning; she was looking around, as though she was expecting something—or someone.

Femi froze behind a thick tree trunk, the rough bark cold against his cheek, confusion and pure, primal fear mixing into a paralyzing cocktail. What was she doing? What sinister transaction required his child to be present in this dark, silent place?

He took a careful, agonizing step forward, needing to shatter the distance and gain a clearer view of her solitary vigil—and then he saw something that made his blood run cold.

To be continued…