RED SAND IN MY BABY’S HAIR
Every time my mother bathed my baby, red sand fell from the child’s hair.
Fine grains. Rust-colored. Too uniform to be dirt, too deliberate to be random. They slid down my daughter’s scalp, gathered briefly at the nape of her neck, then spiraled into the drain as if they already knew the way.
My mother laughed.
Not loudly. Not nervously. Just a small, quick sound—too quick.
“Children play everywhere,” she said. “You worry too much.”
I wanted to believe her.
I needed to believe her.
We live in a two-bedroom apartment in Ikorodu, where the paint peels in thin curls and the walls sweat during the afternoon heat. At night, the generator across the street fights for dominance with a neighbor’s old radio, both of them insisting they deserve to be heard. Life here is loud, crowded, imperfect—but familiar. Normal.
I was washing dishes when my mother called from the bathroom.
“Sola, bring me a towel.”
I grabbed one and stepped inside.
That was the first time I truly saw the red sand.
It was sliding down my daughter’s head in tiny streams, clinging briefly to her ears and collarbone before disappearing into the drain. My baby’s eyes were closed, her body relaxed, her breathing steady. She didn’t cry. She didn’t flinch.
As if she had done this before.
My mother smiled instantly, like the reaction had already been rehearsed.
“She rubs her head on the floor when she sleeps,” she said. “Children do strange things.”
I nodded.
I didn’t ask another question.
Because I was exhausted.
Because childbirth still sat heavy inside my bones.
And because questioning your mother-in-law when you have just given birth feels like inviting trouble you do not have the strength to survive.
My name is Sola.
I am twenty-seven years old.
This is my first child.
My first love.
My first time being a mother.
Before I became pregnant, my husband Mola had already begun coming home late. After I gave birth, he started coming home less.
These days, his phone sleeps outside on the balcony, and every explanation he offers is clean, prepared, and hollow. My mother-in-law used to call me every morning with warmth. Now she speaks as if she is doing me a favor by answering at all.
Then she moved in “to help.”
Everyone praised her devotion.
Church women called her a strong woman.
She wore the role easily.
Every evening, she bathed my baby.
She hummed hymns softly.
Her movements were slow and gentle, almost ceremonial.
Her wrapper was always dry, even when the bathroom floor was soaked.
Two days later, the red sand returned.
This time, it clung stubbornly to my daughter’s ears and neck, as if it did not want to leave.
I asked again—carefully.
My mother’s face hardened.
“You are becoming ungrateful, Sola,” she said.
“You are searching for meaning where there is none.”
“You should remember what I endured raising my son alone.”
Her words landed exactly where guilt lives.
And I fell silent.
That night, sleep avoided me.
The fan pushed hot air around the room while my baby breathed softly beside me, the scent of milk still clinging to her clothes. Around midnight, I heard my mother’s voice from the living room.
Not her phone voice.
Her real voice.
Low. Measured. Controlled.
“The child is responding well,” she said.
“Seven days will be enough.”
“Once the ritual is complete, no one will notice anything.”
I stayed still.
My heart thundered.
I pretended to sleep.
In the morning, Mola sent a voice note.
He said he wouldn’t be coming home for a while. Work was complicated. I should listen to my mother and rest.
When my mother came to take my baby for her bath, I noticed red stains on the towel before water touched my child’s hair.
And for the first time since giving birth—
My arms refused to let go of my baby.
My mother looked at me.
Her eyes darkened, but her voice remained gentle.
“Give her to me, Sola.”
I stepped back.
For the first time, I understood that the red sand did not come from where my baby played.
It came from somewhere older.
Deeper.
And carefully planned.
Day One
The sand appeared only after my mother touched my child.
That was when I began counting.
I watched how my mother washed her hands before the bath—three times. I watched how she murmured words I didn’t recognize while rubbing oil onto my daughter’s scalp. I watched how she always began at the crown of the head.
The sand followed.
Never before.
Never after.
That night, I searched the bathroom. I checked the tiles, the shelves, the drain. Nothing.
When I confronted her, she smiled with patience sharpened into a weapon.
“You are tired,” she said. “Rest.”
Day Two
The sand was thicker.
I tried bathing my baby myself.
No sand.
When my mother tried again that evening, I stood beside her.
The sand returned immediately.
My baby whimpered for the first time.
My mother’s humming did not stop.
Day Three
I found a small clay bowl hidden in the guest room wardrobe.
Inside: red sand, dried herbs, and something that looked disturbingly like ground bone.
My hands shook as I returned it to its place.
When I asked my mother what it was, she slapped me.
Not hard.
Just enough to remind me where I stood.
“You will not interfere,” she said.
That night, I locked my bedroom door.
She did not knock.
She simply waited.
Day Four
My baby developed a faint red mark behind her ear.
My mother said it was heat rash.
I knew better.
I called Mola.
His phone was off.
Day Five
The red sand appeared even before the bath.
In the crib.
On my baby’s pillow.
In the folds of her clothes.
I heard chanting at dawn.
Low. Rhythmic.
When I opened the door, my mother stood alone in the living room, eyes closed, hands raised.
“Almost done,” she whispered.
Day Six
I packed a bag.
Clothes. Documents. My baby.
As I reached the door, my mother spoke behind me.
“You cannot leave,” she said calmly.
“The child is already marked.”
I turned.
Her face was unrecognizable.
Not angry.
Not cruel.
Certain.
Day Seven
The sand fell freely now.
My baby cried.
For the first time, my mother’s hymns broke.
I screamed.
Neighbors came.
The ritual broke.
After
The sand stopped.
My mother left that night.
No goodbye.
Mola never returned.
Sometimes, I still find red grains in the drain.
And sometimes, my baby wakes crying, staring at the ceiling as if listening to someone else speak.
This is my story.
Read it.
Share it.
Because some rituals only succeed in silence.
And some children are saved only when silence is broken.
