My son was three years old, and his laughter used to arrive before he did. You could hear him from a distance—barefoot, dusty, chasing shadows, calling other children by names only he understood.
He was strong, healthy, and restless in the way only a child untouched by fear can be.
Every evening, he slept exhausted, his small chest rising and falling in perfect rhythm. Life was ordinary, and we trusted that ordinariness.
Then came the coin.
It was a dull five-shilling piece, scratched and dirty, lying near the roadside where children played.
He picked it up innocently and ran home, holding it high like a trophy. I remember teasing him, telling him he was now rich.
I washed his hands and placed the coin on the table, never imagining it carried more than metal and dust. That night, my son cried in his sleep.
By morning, he had a fever that refused to break.
At first, we were calm. Children fall sick; that is life. We went to the clinic, got medicine, and returned home. But the fever grew worse. His appetite vanished.
He stopped responding to jokes. His eyes, once full of curiosity, became heavy and distant, as though he was slowly withdrawing from the world we shared.
Within days, he could no longer walk properly. His legs trembled. His body weakened as if something was draining him from within.
We rushed him to the hospital.
Doctors examined him thoroughly. Blood tests were done again and again. Scans followed. We waited anxiously for answers that never came.
Each time, the verdict was the same: all results were normal. No infection. No virus. No explanation. Yet our child continued to fade before our eyes.
One night in the ward, I watched him stare blankly at the ceiling, his lips moving silently, as if speaking to someone invisible.
Fear settled deep in my chest. This was no ordinary illness. Something was terribly wrong.
Days turned into weeks. Hospital corridors became familiar. Nurses changed shifts, seasons shifted, but my son did not improve.
He cried uncontrollably at night and screamed at the sound of voices we could not hear. Sometimes, he laughed suddenly, at nothing. Other times, he shook violently, clutching his stomach in pain.
The doctors finally admitted what we already feared. “Medically,” one said softly, “we have reached our limits.”
That was when my wife remembered the coin.
She said it quietly, her voice trembling. “He fell sick the same day he picked it up.”
Her words unlocked something we had been avoiding.
An elderly uncle came to visit after hearing of our desperation. He listened without interrupting, then asked one question: “Have you angered your ancestors?”
He explained that some objects are not abandoned by accident. Some are placed, forgotten, waiting.
According to him, the coin had been part of an old ancestral offering that was never completed. When my child picked it up, the spirit attached itself to the nearest bloodline—him.
With no other options left, we sought a traditional healer.
The healer lived far from town, deep in a quiet place where time seemed slower. He took one look at my son and closed his eyes. He said the spirit was not evil, but furious—ignored for generations, awakened by innocent hands.
That night, a ritual was performed under the open sky. The healer spoke names of ancestors we barely remembered. Drums beat slowly, then faster, echoing through the darkness. Herbs burned.
The smell was sharp and overwhelming. My son screamed louder than I had ever heard him scream. His small body arched violently, his voice hoarse with terror.
I nearly stopped the ritual out of fear.
Then suddenly, he vomited violently, collapsing into stillness.
The healer lifted the five-shilling coin, now blackened, and threw it into the fire. Flames flared high, crackling as if something unseen was fighting to escape. The healer whispered final words and declared the spirit released.
Silence followed.
That night, my son slept peacefully. No fever. No crying. Just deep, calm sleep.
By morning, he asked for food.
Tears streamed down our faces as we watched life slowly return to him. Each hour brought improvement. Within days, he was standing.
TO CALL: CLICKHERE
TO TEXT: CLICKHERE
TO WHATSAPP: CLICKHERE
Within a week, he was laughing again. The darkness that had followed him vanished as suddenly as it came.
Doctors could not explain it. We stopped seeking explanations.
Today, my son runs freely once more. But I will never forget how close we came to losing him. That five-shilling coin taught us a painful truth: not all dangers are visible, and not all healing comes from medicine.
Some forces sleep quietly, waiting. And sometimes, they wake through the most innocent touch.