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Oma turned to look at her last son lying on the bed. She no longer tried to hide the tears. It was obvious what would happen next. She already knew he was going to die. There was no need trying to be brave anymore.
The village herbalist had said the gods were angry with her, but she knew that was wrong. It had started two months ago when those two missionary nurses had died. She had been the one taking care of their daily needs which ranged from getting them water from the stream, laundry, and other menial jobs, including selecting rice and garri before cooking, they were always filled with rat stool. Then they had fallen sick. She had helped them as much as she could until they died.
She had first noticed the symptoms in her husband. The fever, the vomiting, chest pain and then he eventually started losing his hearing. Exactly twenty days later he had died. Then her first son had followed and now it was her last son.
Her son coughed and she reached for the herbal mixture she knew reduced the discomfort. Using a spoon, she fed him and when he looked a little settled, she stood to start a fire. It was already getting dark outside. Her own throat felt dry and she could also feel the signs of fever coming.
Just as she was about to strike the stone for the fire. She heard a gasp and turned scared of what she would see. There, her son lay silent. She dropped the stones, rushed to him and let out a scream. It was finally over. Her whole family was gone. Maybe it was the gods that were really angry with her, maybe the sickness had come from the nurses or from their food. She did not care anymore.
She went into the kitchen and picked up the poison they usually used for rats. Poured it into a cup, diluted it and finished the whole cup. It was better this way, she thought as she staggered to lie close to her son.
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