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23/03/2026

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23/03/2026

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23/03/2026

Page 6

Being the monster is a lonely vocation. I watched Dayo grow to fear the sound of my footsteps. I watched the light fade from his eyes whenever I entered the room, replaced by a wary, animalistic caution. It tore me apart, but I leaned into the role. I practiced my sneers in the cracked mirror of my bedroom. I learned how to sharpen my voice until it cut. I needed the village to watch me. I needed them to be so focused on my "bad behavior" that they would notice if anything happened to Dayo. I thought that if the whole world was looking at us. Abeni wouldn't dare complete her work. I was a fool to think that a mother’s hunger could be sated by the presence of witnesses. She was more patient than I was, and far more cunning in her silence

22/03/2026

My discovery of the truth had been an accident of timing. One afternoon, while Abeni was at the market, I had ventured into the forbidden crawlspace beneath her floorboards, looking for a lost marble. What I found was a charnel house of intention. There were bowls filled with congealed, blackened fluids, bones etched with Dayo’s name in a script that seemed to writhe when I looked at it, and a calendar marked with the phases of the moon. The final date, the "Great Harvest of the Soul," was circled in a red that smelled of old copper. I realized then that my mother was not just a stern woman; she was a vessel for something ancient and hungry. My "cruelty" became my only weapon. If I could make Dayo hate me, if I could keep him confined, if I could make him "soiled" or "broken" in the eyes of the spirits she served, perhaps they wouldn't want him. I became the villain to save the victim.

22/03/2026

Page 4

The breaking point—literally—was the balcony. Our house has a small, precarious ledge on the second floor where the wood has rotted from years of neglect. I saw Dayo leaning over it, laughing at a butterfly, while Abeni stood behind him, her hands hovering just inches from his shoulder blades, her lips moving in a silent, rhythmic chant. I didn't think. I didn't have time to explain. I lunged at him, shoving him sideways with all my strength. We both tumbled, but Dayo fell worse, his leg snapping like a dry twig upon impact with the stone courtyard. I stood above him, looking down with a face I forced to stay cruel, while the neighbors rushed in to help. "He pushed him!" they cried. "Kedar tried to kill his own brother!" I let them believe it. A broken leg meant Dayo couldn't leave his bed. A broken leg meant he was safe from the rituals that required a mobile, vibrant soul. For three weeks, he was mine to protect.

22/03/2026

20/03/2026

Page 3

To the world, I was a jealous shadow, determined to eclipse my younger brother’s joy. When Dayo was invited to the harvest festival in the neighboring village, I spilled a bucket of foul, muddy water over his only set of fine clothes just as he was walking out the door. He wept, and my father slapped me across the face, calling me a spiteful wretch. They didn't know that Abeni had spent the morning whispering to the birds about a "cleansing fire" that would happen at the festival, a sacrifice to ensure the rains came. I couldn't let him go. Another time, I faked a violent, coughing illness, forcing Dayo to stay home and nurse me instead of going to the creek with his friends. The neighbors sighed, pitying the "good son" burdened by the "sickly, manipulative" one. They didn't see the shadow-things Abeni had been gathering by the water's edge that very morning.

20/03/2026

page 2

The history of my "evil" is well-documented in the annals of neighborhood gossip. They remember the screams from two summers ago when I fought Dayo over the evening chores. I had pinned him to the floor, my fingers bruising his wrists, snarling words that sounded like pure malice to anyone listening through the thin walls. They didn't see what I saw: the way our mother, Abeni, stood in the kitchen doorway, her eyes glazed with a rhythmic, pulsing intensity, her hand gripping a heavy iron pot she intended to bring down on the back of his head because he had forgotten to wash the lentils. I started that fight to make him flee the room. They only saw the bruises I gave him. Later, they found me standing over Dayo’s bed in the middle of the night, a kitchen knife clutched in my white-knuckled grip. Dayo had woken up and shrieked. I didn't tell them I had found a strange, woven effigy made of his hair tucked beneath his pillow, and I was trying to cut the curse away before it took root.