Story for tonight: I served my Mother-in-Law the same “special pepper soup” she has been cooking for me for three years. Watching her choke on her own secret ingredient was the most satisfying moment of my life.
They say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. But in my house, the way to a woman’s womb was apparently through poison.
My name is Amara. I have been married to Jason for four years. Jason is the only son of a very wealthy, very traditional family.
For four years, we have been trying for a baby.
I have done everything. I checked my tubes. I checked my ovulation. I drank nasty herbal teas. I went to prayer mountains where pastors poured olive oil on my head until I couldn’t see.
Every month, the result was negative.
Every month, I cried myself to sleep while Jason comforted me. “It’s okay, babe. God’s time is the best.”
His mother, Mama Gloria, moved in with us “to help.”
She was a sweet old woman. Every evening, she insisted on cooking my dinner.
“You work too hard at the bank,” she would say. “Let Mama cook for you. You need strength to carry my grandson.”
She made a specific Catfish Pepper Soup that was spicy, aromatic, and delicious. She watched me eat every spoonful with a smile.
“Eat, my daughter. It is good for the body.”
Last week, I came home early because I had a splitting headache. The house was quiet.
I walked toward the kitchen to get water. I heard the sound of grinding. Kpom. Kpom. Kpom.
I peeked through the crack in the door.
Mama Gloria was standing over her mortar and pestle. She was grinding white tablets into a fine powder.
I watched as she scooped the powder into the pot of Pepper Soup bubbling on the stove.
My heart hammered. Was she drugging me? Was she trying to kill me?
I waited until she went to the bathroom. I ran into the kitchen, scooped a sample of the soup into a small container, and hid it in my purse.
Then I went back to work.
I took the sample to a friend who works in a toxicology lab. I paid for an expedited test.
The results came back yesterday.
It wasn’t poison. It wasn’t juju.
It was Mifepristone and Misoprostol.
High-dosage abortion pills and heavy contraceptives.
For three years.
Every time I managed to conceive, she was flushing it out of my system before I even knew I was pregnant. She wasn’t feeding me; she was sterilizing me.
But why?
I went home and searched her room while she was at the market. I found a letter in her Bible. It was from a lawyer.
“Dear Mrs. Williams, as per the grandfather’s will, Jason only inherits the Oil and Gas shares if he marries a woman from the ‘Royal Lineage’ of the village. If he has a child with a ‘stranger’ (that’s me), the inheritance goes to charity.”
I sat on the floor and laughed.
It wasn’t about love. It was about money. And Jason?
I checked his phone logs. He bought the pills.
He knew. He was hugging me while I cried over negative tests, knowing he was the one ensuring they stayed negative so he could keep his trust fund.
So, tonight was Sunday Dinner.
Mama Gloria made her soup. She set the table.
“Come and eat, my daughter,” she called out.
But while she was in the bathroom washing her hands, I switched the bowls.
I gave her the bowl she spiked for me. And I gave Jason a bowl I had spiked with a triple dose of laxatives I bought at the pharmacy.
We sat down.
“This is delicious, Mama,” I said, watching her eat.
She smiled. “Yes, very fresh fish.”
She ate the whole thing. She ate the pills she meant for my womb.
When they finished, I turned on the TV.
“I have a movie for us to watch,” I said.
I pressed play.
It was the video I recorded on my phone of her grinding the pills.
The spoon dropped from Mama Gloria’s hand.
Jason froze.
“What is this?” Jason stammered.
“That,” I pointed to the screen, “is why I’m leaving. And that,” I pointed to Mama’s empty bowl, “is why you should probably call an ambulance, Mama. I don’t know what those pills do to an old woman with high blood pressure, but good luck.”
I grabbed my packed bags and walked to the door.
Behind me, Jason was clutching his stomach as the laxatives kicked in, and Mama Gloria was gasping for air, realizing she had swallowed her own wickedness.
I am currently in a cab to the airport.
I’m not just leaving the marriage. I’m sending that video to the Family Lawyer.
Let’s see if they get to keep that inheritance now.
Do you think I was too harsh serving her the food? Or was it poetic justice? 🥣
Story By Jerry Smith
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