Where and When Did Everything Happen?

I was twenty-three when I killed my uncle. It was about two months after my father’s death. We weren’t overly rich, but we were very comfortable—until my father developed a kidney issue. His illness was so severe that a huge part of us knew he probably wouldn’t survive it. It was bad—so bad that we spent everything we had on him, but despite our efforts, he didn’t survive.

When he died, I felt a strange sense of relief because I was certain that death was a better alternative to the pain he had endured. His death didn’t shock me as much as it was expected to; it felt like I had mourned him long before he finally passed away.

What Happened After His Death?

We all thought the only thing left was to mourn and restructure as a family. But then my dad’s family members showed up. Some of them had visited occasionally while he was sick, but that was it. After his death, they came in droves, treating my mother, my siblings, and me with unimaginable cruelty.

They made my mother shave off her hair and held us hostage in our own home. They forced my mother to drink the water used to wash my father’s corpse. It was horrible. These people were callous and mean. Even now, remembering everything is a very painful experience.

I hated that my father died and left us so vulnerable to the world. Family members who could never speak to us disrespectfully while my father was alive suddenly had the audacity to treat us like filth—as if we were nobodies, as if we were some how responsible for his death. It wasn’t even as if they cared about him; they just wanted to assert dominance.

I don’t think I can ever forgive what happened. Even when I try, I cannot forget. How do you forgive something you cannot forget?

After all the horrible things they did to my mother and me, my uncle had the audacity to propose to her. This filled me with so much hate that I confronted him. I shouted, “If you claim my mother killed my father, why then do you want to marry her? Aren’t you afraid of marrying a killer?”

That confrontation shifted the narrative from “my mother killed my father” to“I killed him.” They starved my siblings and me. We were so trapped in our own home that no one could reach us, and we couldn’t reach anyone.

One day, overwhelmed by rage and desperation, I decided to poison my uncle. I found some rat poison hidden in the house and put it in his beer when no one was watching. That’s how he died.

How Did They Trace the Act to You?

They didn’t—at first. But my grandmother invited a juju man before the burial. He performed some rituals over my uncle’s body, and out of fear of being struck dead by thunder, I confessed. That confession landed me in prison.

How About Your Mother and Siblings?

After my uncle’s death, the truth about what was happening started to come to light. People who tried to check on us—either in person or by phone—were told by my father’s family that we were busy with widowhood rites.

Eventually, my mother’s siblings stepped in. They took her and my siblings abroad after I was sentenced. They vowed never to return to Nigeria, and they’re still based abroad.

How Did It Feel to Be Pardoned?

To be honest, I had given up on everything. Nothing made sense to me anymore. Every time my mother visited and urged me to have faith, I would spiral into anger and despair. I genuinely don’t believe God exists. If He did, why would He allow a good man like my father to come from such a terrible family? Why would He let my father die and allow my mother, my siblings, and me to suffer so much? Was He powerless? Being in prison was my worst nightmare, and when I got pardoned, I almost wished I hadn’t been. I would have preferred to be dead. That would have been far better.

That’s all I have to say.