Family Secret: My Killer Mom Murdered My Father

By the time I was in JSS, I knew my father was “a goat on heat,” my mother’s words.

It’s a wonder to me how he never fathered any children but me. And it is also a wonder to me why my mother stayed.

Two weeks before my father’s fatal heart attack, there had been an explosive fight. But try as I would, I could not make sense of what they were fighting about. Not many words were spoken. My mother just wailed, and then screamed at my father to get out of the house. And to my surprise, Deb wouldn’t do the normal eavesdropping and investigation with me, she just lay on her side of the bed, moody and quiet and asked that I leave her alone.

My father left the house for a couple of days, during which my grandmother came to be with us for about a week. I tried to eavesdrop on her and my mother’s conversation to figure out what was happening, but all I heard was my mother’s disbelief at how low my father had sunk. She never really mentioned his crime, only how shocked  and angry she was.

The day my grandmother was leaving to go back to my grandfather, I was home sick from school. And I overheard her tell my mother, “Give the dosage exactly as I’ve instructed you, and do not fight him, the herbs will do the work smoothly.”

I didn’t think much of it, my grandfather was a very popular herbalist, so I had heard such dosage instructions before.

A few days after my grandmother left, my father came back home. To my surprise, my mother was quite nice to him. She was playful and friendly, she had none of her aloofness that usually accompanied their fights. She served him his food and even poured him his gin, something she hated. She hated when my father drank alcohol because he became loud and belligerent, but she poured him his akpeteshie. In fact she went to a nearby bar to buy the akpeteshie herself to serve him.

And she sternly warned Deb and I not to touch the green bottle containing the akpeteshie. Neither were we supposed to touch any of the glasses the alcohol was served in. I thought it strange because we had always been allowed to get the bottle and glasses for my dad, but we obeyed anyway.

Then one Saturday morning, my father clutched his chest and fell to the ground.

They took him to the hospital, my mother and some neighbors.

When my mother came home from the hospital, the first thing she did was pour out the contents of my father’s akpeteshie bottle, break the bottle and the glasses, tie the broken glass in a plastic bag and walk to the dumpster herself to dispose of it. 

My father did not return home. He stayed in a coma for a few days and died. 

That was about fifteen years ago.

A few months ago, Deb and I were talking when she asked if I knew what had happened that day when our parents fought and she had been uninterested in eavesdropping. I did not know.

So Deb filled me in. Our father, my father had forced himself on her that afternoon. So when my mother returned home from work, Deb told her.

I was shocked to my bones. But I also began to put two and two together. My mother’s hurt and anger. My grandmother’s instruction to give the right dosage. Then my mother’s unexplained pleasantness to my father. The food she served and the alcohol she lovingly poured him. Mom’s stern warning for me and Deb to steer clear of the alcohol and serving glasses. And how careful she had been about disposing the little and glasses.

I looked at Deb and said, “I think mom poisoned dad with Grandma’s help, she killed him for what he did.”

Deb said, “I wouldn’t put it past grandma,” and when I pried further, she refused to explain what she meant by that statement.

“Go talk to Mama,” was all Deb offered.

So I went and talked to my mother. I laid all my theory out, and I let her know I knew what my father had done to Deb, and how despicable I thought it was. But I needed to know, “Mom are you a killer mom? Did you put something in Dad’s gin? Did you kill him?”

She looked me up and down and said, “I wish a person could die twice, so that you would ask me if I killed him again after he died the first time. You are as dumb as your father. Get out of my face.” 

She neither denied nor confirmed it, which firmed my suspicion. If she didn’t do it,she would have vehemently denied it. I think she did it.I have a killer for a mom. My mom killed my father.

She smiled in his face, served him food, and killed him.

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