The Last Supper
The evening was warm, the scent of roasted plantains and pepper soup filling the air as Joseph Okafor set the dinner table for his family. His wife, Ada, hummed softly in the kitchen, stirring a steaming pot of jollof rice. Their children—eight-year-old Chuka and six-year-old Amara—giggled excitedly, their little hands arranging plates and spoons with childish enthusiasm.
“Tonight, we feast!” Joseph declared playfully, his voice full of joy. It was a special evening, a family dinner celebrating Ada’s promotion at work. Everything was perfect—or so it seemed.
As Ada lifted the pot of soup from the stove, she noticed a strange movement inside. A small, pale creature—lifeless—floated amidst the bubbling broth. A wall gecko.
Her breath hitched. Her heart pounded against her ribs.
“Joseph!” she called, her voice laced with panic.
He hurried into the kitchen, his brows furrowing as he followed her pointing finger. The reptile’s limp body, barely distinguishable among the vegetables and chunks of meat, sent a shiver down his spine.
“How did it get in there?” he whispered, his mind racing. Ada’s hands trembled as she ladled the gecko out, its body bloated from the heat.
“I… I didn’t see it when I was cooking,” she murmured. “Should we throw the soup away?”
Joseph hesitated, glancing at the pot. They had prepared so much food, and wasting it felt like a sin. “It’s just a gecko,” he reasoned. “It must have fallen in after the cooking started. The heat probably killed any germs.”
Reluctantly, Ada nodded, her unease lingering but softened by his reassurance. After all, they had grown up hearing stories of geckos being harmless creatures.
The family sat down to eat, laughter filling the room as they indulged in the delicious meal. The rice was perfectly seasoned, the soup rich with spices. Even little Amara, who was usually picky, devoured her plate with delight.
But as the night deepened, joy turned to horror.
Joseph woke first, his stomach twisting in violent knots. A cold sweat covered his body as nausea overwhelmed him. He barely made it to the bathroom before vomiting. Moments later, Ada clutched her stomach, her face contorted in agony. From their room, the children’s cries of distress pierced the air.
One by one, they collapsed.
The neighbors found them in the morning, their bodies sprawled across the floor, eyes frozen in agony. The untouched plates, now cold and meaningless, bore silent witness to their suffering. The pot of soup, still on the stove, carried the invisible poison that had sealed their fate.
Doctors later confirmed it: food poisoning caused by the wall gecko. The reptile’s toxins had seeped into their meal, undetectable but deadly.
What had begun as a joyous evening had ended in unspeakable tragedy.
The house stood eerily silent now, the walls holding echoes of laughter that would never return. The tale of the Okafors became a grim warning, whispered across town—of caution, of unseen dangers, and of a single moment that could change everything forever.
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