This story is culled from the “Zikoko Daily Short Story Series”, a weekly series exclusive to the Zikoko Daily Newsletter. Subscribe here to receive the newsletter in your inbox every day and get more stories like this, as well as a round-up of our best articles, inside gist and quizzes.
This is Stella’s story, as told to Boluwatife
The day my husband died, I lost my son, too.
It happened fast, before I even understood what grief meant.
My husband, Patrick, and I had woken up on the same bed that morning, and we’d done our usual morning routine: devotion and a quick breakfast of tea and bread before he left the house for work, while I took our seven-year-old son, Joseph, to school.
It was a normal morning. No sign to warn me that I’d get a call four hours later from the good Samaritan who’d taken my husband to the hospital when he noticed a crowd around a bleeding man on the floor. Apparently, the okada my husband took had been thrown off the road by a trailer, and while the okada rider survived, my husband lay on the floor, slowly slipping away.
Before I got to the hospital, my husband was already dead.
While I was still in shock, people were already moving in and out of the house. I remember sitting on the floor in the sitting room, holding my wrapper tight, when someone asked, “Where’s Joseph?”
At first, I thought he was with one of the neighbours’ children. My neighbour had picked him up from school while I tried not to die from pain. But evening came, and I still didn’t hear his voice; something inside me dropped.
My husband’s mum and cousin had come to the house that afternoon because he was buried on the same day. I called my husband’s cousin, and her response confirmed my suspicions.
“Mama has carried him. In our family, we don’t leave our children outside. You will remarry one day. We can’t leave our brother’s only child with you.”
I thought she was joking. I laughed a little, waiting for her to say, “I’m joking.” But she didn’t.
That was the moment I realised my child was gone. They’d stolen him right from under my nose.
***
When I first met Patrick, I thought love could fix anything.
We met during our NYSC year. He was quiet and gentle, and he cared for me in a way no one ever had. When I met his mother, I didn’t need anyone to tell me that she didn’t like me. It was obvious in her body language. But I brushed it off.
I thought, “It’s fine. Once she sees how much we love each other, she’ll come around.”
She never did.
She said I wasn’t “her type of wife.” I was from a different tribe, and my parents were late. But Patrick didn’t care, and I took that as proof of destiny.
We stubbornly got married. Patrick’s mother frowned throughout our wedding day, but I didn’t let it get to me. I told myself our love would be enough.
For a while, it was. We had Joseph, and Patrick worked hard. But love doesn’t buy diapers. It doesn’t stop a mother-in-law from believing you’ve “stolen” her son.
And when Patrick died suddenly, all that love turned to dust. I thought my life was over.
If only I had known my troubles were just beginning.
***
It took me almost three long, humiliating months to get my son back.
At first, I tried talking to my mother-in-law. She refused to pick my calls. Then I went to the family house with one of Patrick’s uncles, but she didn’t let us enter her compound.
“He’s my son’s child,” she said through the gate. “We’ll take care of him. Don’t worry. Just go and live your life.”
How do you tell a mother that she should comfortably leave her child with you? What kind of care did she want to give my child that I couldn’t? Why couldn’t I even see him?
There was no kind of begging I didn’t do. I told her I didn’t intend to keep her grandchild away from her. I even suggested letting him live with her for the holidays. Instead, she told me I didn’t have a job and was unfit to provide for the child. She even told me to “go and marry another man and have another child”.
That was the day I decided to go to the police.
It turned into a mess. The officers followed me to the village, and things got loud. One of Patrick’s cousins tried to stop them and ended up in a cell overnight. It was shameful for everyone, but I didn’t care anymore. I just wanted my son.
When they finally brought Joseph out, he ran to me. He said, “Mummy, are you coming to take me home?”
I said yes, even though I didn’t know what “home” meant anymore without Patrick.
Mama shouted as we left, “Don’t ever bring him back here!”
At the time, I didn’t realise how serious those words were, or how much I would come to regret my actions later.
***
Getting Joseph back felt like a victory, but it came with scars I didn’t expect.
My relationship with Patrick’s family was finished. Nobody spoke to me again. The cousin who spent a night in jail still won’t answer my calls. Mama blocked my number completely. I couldn’t even ask them for help, not for school fees or advice.
At first, I thought I’d figure it out. I still had some savings from when I quit my job a year ago to focus on my family. All I needed to do was find a job before my savings finished.
Finding a new job wasn’t as easy as I expected. It seemed like my master’s degree and years of experience didn’t matter in the job market. I eventually settled for a job at a pharmacy. I just needed to survive.
My new job came with long work hours, and my neighbour, Aunty Rose, helped me pick Joseph up from school sometimes.
Then Aunty Rose travelled, and everything started falling apart. I took permission to leave work early far too many times. My boss said, “Madam, I understand, but business is business.” That was it.
It’s been almost two years since my husband died. I’ve tried different other jobs, and have now turned to selling thrift clothes online, but it still feels like everything is working against me. Without support from anyone, it’s hard to juggle survival and child care. I sometimes skip meals so Joseph can eat.
Sometimes, when I watch him sleep, I wonder if I didn’t make a mistake in how I handled the situation.
I reached out to Patrick’s family again recently, to try to mend things. I didn’t expect the response I got.
***
When I started a family with my late husband, I thought it was my opportunity to get what I never had.
Growing up orphaned with no siblings was incredibly lonely, and I dreamed of finally having family ties when I got married.
I think that’s why I still tried to make peace with Patrick’s family even after all they’d done to me. I called them recently. Patrick’s uncle first, then his younger sister and cousins. No one picked up.
I even sent a text to Mama, just saying “Good evening, ma” so it wouldn’t sound like I was begging. She read it and didn’t reply.
I expected insults or even warnings never to call again. But I didn’t expect silence. Even if I were the worst person on earth, at least Joseph is their blood.
I guess I can’t blame them. I embarrassed the whole family that day with the police. To them, I crossed a line that can’t be uncrossed. Maybe they think I’m ungrateful. Maybe they’re right.
Joseph has been asking questions lately. “Mummy, why don’t we visit Grandma?” “Why doesn’t Aunty call me again?” I tell him Grandma is busy, that everyone is just far away. But sometimes he looks at me like he knows I’m lying.
At night, when the house is quiet, I find myself scrolling through old pictures; birthdays, weddings and family functions — even Patrick’s funeral. Everyone was there then. Now it’s just me.
***
Sometimes I still dream about Patrick.
In those dreams, he’s alive, sitting at the edge of the bed, telling me everything will be okay. And for a few seconds after I wake up, I almost believe it.
If he were here, I know things would be different. He always had a way of calming his mother, of making people listen. Maybe Joseph would still have both sides of his family. Maybe I wouldn’t be this tired and broke all the time.
But he’s gone, and all I have is this small boy who looks more like him every day. Sometimes, when Joseph laughs, it feels like Patrick is still somewhere close, reminding me why I fought so hard in the first place.
Still, there are nights I lie awake wondering if I made the right choice; if love and pride blinded me to what was best for him. I can’t ask for help anymore, and I can’t turn back time.
So I keep going, one day after another. Because that’s all I can do now — hold on to the child I fought for, and hope it’s enough.
*Names have been changed to protect the subject’s identity.
