My name is Clara, and to the world, I am a vegetable. A tragic victim of a car accident that left me paralyzed from head to toe, unable to speak, blink, or even cry. The doctors told my family that my brain was mush, that I couldn’t feel or hear anything. They were wrong. I hear everything. I feel every pinch. And most painful of all, I see the face of the devil every day.
The devil is my husband, Femi.
The accident wasn’t an accident. I was awake when the brake lines snapped. I saw Femi’s car behind me, flashing his lights, watching me tumble off the bridge. He did it to inherit my father’s estate. But because God does not sleep, I survived. Now, Femi punishes me by keeping me alive in this prison of flesh.
“She can’t hear you, baby. She is just a piece of furniture now,” Femi told her the day he brought her home.
Her name is Tola. To the neighbors and church members, she is the “saintly nurse” Femi hired to take care of his invalid wife. To me, she is the witch who destroyed my marriage. She moved into my bedroom, wearing my clothes, using my creams, and sleeping in my bed while I lay on a medical cot in the corner, staring at the ceiling.
But that is not the wahala. The real heartbreak is my children. story by jerry smith
Junior is seven. Sade is five. Every day, Tola drags them into my room. “Say hello to your vegetable mother,” she sneers. When Femi is at work, the act drops. She feeds them leftover garri while she eats fried rice and chicken in front of them. She locks them in the pantry when they cry.
Yesterday, Sade came to my bedside, her small face swollen from crying. “Mummy, please wake up,” she whispered, holding my stiff hand. “Aunty Tola beat me because I asked for water.”
I tried to scream. I tried to tear the ceiling down. But my body remained stone cold. Inside, my spirit was roaring like a lion, but outside, I was silent.
Then, things went from bad to disastrous.
Last night, Femi and Tola sat by my bed, drinking my expensive wine. They thought I was gone.
“The insurance money is taking too long,” Femi grumbled, looking at me with disgust. “The doctor said she might live for another ten years like this. I cannot wait that long, Tola. I want to buy that property in Banana Island.”
Tola smiled, a wicked curve of red lips. “Don’t worry, honey. I have a plan. Tomorrow night, we will stage a gas explosion. A tragic domestic accident. You will be out with friends. I will leave the gas open in the kitchen and light a candle near the curtains before I run out to ‘buy milk.’ The whole house goes boom. Clara and the brats will be ashes. We start fresh.”
Femi kissed her. “You are a genius.”
My heart stopped. They were going to roast my children alive.
Panic is a powerful drug. As they laughed, a surge of adrenaline, hot and electric, shot through my paralyzed nerves. It started in my shoulder, traveled down my arm, and settled in my right hand.
My pinky finger twitched.
I focused all my energy, praying to every God in heaven. Move. Move.
My index finger curled.
I had regained movement in one hand. Just one hand.
Tonight is the night. Femi has already left for his “alibi” meeting. Tola is downstairs in the kitchen; I can hear the hissing sound of gas being turned on. She is coming upstairs to plant the candle.
My children are in the room with me, playing on the floor, unaware that death is floating in the air.
Tola just walked in. She placed her phone on the bedside table next to my hand—carelessly—and turned her back to open the window for “ventilation” so the fire spreads faster.
The phone is unlocked. The emergency dialer is one tap away.
But here is the kasala:
If I grab the phone and dial 911, Tola will see me move. She is stronger than me. She will know I am recovering. She might strangle me right there before the police arrive, and my children will still be in danger.
If I signal my son, Junior, to run, he might make noise and alert Tola, who will lock the doors and burn us all sooner.
The gas smell is getting stronger. Tola is about lighting the match.
What should Clara do?
Grab the phone and dial the police, hoping they pick up and hear the struggle before Tola kills her?
This suspense is choking me! What is the best move? Drop your comment now!
Clara could smell the heavy gas in the air, the scent of death hanging around the room. Her heart felt like it wanted to leap out of her chest, but she knew she had to stay calm. One part of her body—her right hand—had regained mobility, and that was all the hope she had left. She could not scream, could not run, but she still had her mind, her spirit, and her unconditional love for her children. In that moment, Clara realized that if she did not act, everything would be consumed by fire.
She held her breath, focusing all her strength into her trembling fingers, slowly nudging the phone closer to her. Bit by bit, millimeter by millimeter, as if meditating in the midst of a life-or-death battle. She watched Tola, who was busily preparing the “flames of fate.” Tola had her back turned, unsuspecting. She completely believed Clara to be a “mindless vegetable,” incapable of resistance. That belief was Clara’s advantage.
“Just a little more…” Clara whispered to herself. Her fingers touched the emergency numbers. If the call went through, someone could arrive in time. But the risk was immense: if Tola saw her move, she might react violently, instantly. Clara closed her eyes, listening to Tola’s steady breathing, listening to the soft breaths of her children, listening to the hiss of the leaking gas. Everything seemed to slow down. She felt as if time itself had stopped.
She decided to break the task into smaller steps. She gently nudged Junior’s arm. The boy understood immediately. Without words, without even a glance, he crawled quietly toward the bedroom door. Tola was still unaware. Clara silently pressed “9-1-1” on the phone. The faint beep resonated in the silence, and in her heart, a tiny spark of hope appeared for the first time in months of being trapped in a motionless body.
As Junior opened the door, the faint knock signaled to the police waiting outside—those who had already been alerted by Clara’s emergency call. Tola turned around, just realizing, but it was too late. The police stormed in, restraining her and Femi before they could react. Clara no longer had the strength to cry out, but inside, she felt liberation. Her children clung to her, sobbing, while Clara smiled—finally, after months, she felt the warmth of freedom.
The following weeks were long, spent in hospital recovery and legal investigation. Clara became the center of a widely publicized case. People could not believe that someone deemed “vegetative” could have such unbreakable willpower. Doctors who had once assumed her brain was “mush” publicly apologized to Clara’s family, and her story became a powerful reminder that no one—regardless of physical limitations—is without value or sensation.
Femi and Tola were heavily sentenced, not only for their cruel actions toward Clara but also for their plot to murder her children. Justice had finally been served, but Clara knew the emotional wounds would linger. Yet through it all, she discovered a strength within herself that she had never known existed. Clara learned to communicate through her eyes, her hand movements, and assistive technology, gradually regaining control of her body. Each day was a small victory, but a significant one.
One afternoon, Clara sat by the window, watching Sade and Junior play in the garden. Sunlight fell on their hair, streaming into her heart, reminding her of why she had to live. She smiled through tears: no one could ever harm her family again. A mother’s love, courage, and patience had transformed a prison into a symbol of hope and survival.
Clara’s story was no longer just about physical survival—it was proof that the human spirit could transcend all bodily limits. Though her body was still constrained, her soul and heart were freer than ever. She began keeping a journal, sharing her story with the world, becoming a symbol of resilience and faith in oneself. People read and cried, and from those tears, waves of awareness and empathy spread. Clara, once thought to be “vegetative,” had become a living, powerful voice that could not be silenced.
Through everything, Clara learned an important lesson: true power does not always lie in the body or physical strength. Sometimes, the greatest power is in spirit, determination, and love. She had lived to prove it. Every day, when she looked into her children’s eyes, she reminded herself: no matter how confined she was, no one could take away her dignity, her faith, or her right to live and love.
In the end, Clara was no longer the “mindless vegetable” in the room. She was a survivor, a mother, a warrior, a testament to the extraordinary power of human will. She had once been a victim, but now, she was a storyteller—telling of triumph of the spirit, of justice, and of love that no one could ever destroy. In darkness, she had found light. In pain, she had found hope. And in silence, she found the loudest voice of all: the voice of life itself.