chapter 7: miracle

24 6 9

by mirabelivie1

by mirabelivie1

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A family meeting was called at the old face-me-and-face-you house where we used to live. It was supposed to be a gathering for reconciliation, but it quickly turned into something else entirely. My dad’s family was all there, their faces a mix of anger, judgment, and quiet whispers. My mom was summoned, and her heart must have sunk the moment she realized what it was all about.

She was accused of infidelity.

My aunt—the same one my mom trusted and called her best friend—stood as the loudest voice against her. She claimed to have seen my mom visiting men’s houses and following men around. There was no proof, no evidence, just words—words that my dad had already been fed for months, if not years. My mom’s pleas fell on deaf ears.

I remember her coming home that evening, her eyes swollen from tears, clutching the phone as she tried to call my dad. “You know me,” she cried over the line. “You know I’ve never been with any man but you!” But my dad was quiet, distant. He didn’t defend her. Those poisonous words from his sister had rooted themselves in his heart, and no amount of pleading could change his mind.

My mom cried endlessly, tears becoming her constant companion. She grew thin, her once vibrant face shadowed with despair. The woman who had carried so much strength for our family now seemed so fragile, almost broken. Every day, she fasted and prayed, her faith her only anchor.

But the accusations wouldn’t stop. My aunt pushed harder, demanding my mom prove her innocence. And then came the final blow: they insisted she go to the evil bush.

The evil bush was a place steeped in fear and superstition. It was where people were forced to swear before supposed spirits, risking death if they lied. My mom was a devout Christian who didn’t believe in such ungodly practices. She knew her truth, and she knew her God, but the pressure was relentless. Her innocence was being questioned, her dignity stripped away.

And so, just to silence her accusers and protect her name, she agreed to go.
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My mom went with them to the evil bush. The house felt eerily silent after she left. It was just us—her children—waiting, fearing, praying. I remember sitting in a corner, tears streaming down my face as I whispered prayers, begging God to protect her. I was old enough to understand the danger of what she was walking into. The stories I had heard about the rituals, the spirits, and the consequences of those oaths filled my mind with dread.

When my mom returned that evening, she looked exhausted but strangely calm. She had done it—she had proven her innocence. She told us how she went with a clean heart, confident that God would fight for her. Even the native doctor conducting the ritual confirmed her innocence. He told them, plainly, that my mom had done no wrong.

But instead of the relief or apology she deserved, there was silence. My aunt and the others pretended not to hear. Their faces betrayed no shame, no acknowledgment of their false accusations. My mom swore that night—she swore that those who had accused her unjustly would never know peace.

Yet, despite everything, my dad remained distant. He still treated her with suspicion, his love now clouded by doubt. My mom, weary but determined, continued to plead with him. “I have done everything to prove my innocence,” she said. “What more do you want?”

But my dad said little, his silence cutting deeper than words. Unknown to my mom, his wariness wasn’t only because of the accusations. There was a darkness buried in his heart, a truth he kept hidden—his own guilt, his own betrayal.

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