A man with a cutlass drags a girl into the lobby of ‘Mercy’. Our Lady of Malevolent Mercy. It is a hospital, so a nurse wants the man to drop the cutlass. There is anger in his hand, and he will not drop it. The hand. This last resort. They came here to remove a child from a child's belly. Ask the man, he will extract the truth along with it. The walls of the surgical ward disobeying this thirst for truth. Abortion is against the will of God, and they could wait, this man, this family. It is not God who put the baby inside the belly. Surely, someone else must answer for the blood. Surely, someone else must answer this will of God. “Child, who is it?” The mother weeps as anaesthesia enters the girl's arm. “Child who is it?” The walls speak. The girl cannot breathe and the family needs answers, so they ask the doctor to converse with her tongue. Scalpel & scissors should be enough for this demand. After the mucosa, muscles give way to the audible opening. A whisper of a name. It is coming out. It is twisting. It is squealing. It is a string of letters morphing between shapes. It is a truth that does not want to reveal itself. The forceps quiver as the doctor drops the tongue baby into a tray. They watch as the dentist carries the tray to the Neonatal Truth Incubation Chamber and drops it. The family follows. Under the white light the mangled thing uncoils as it transforms into an image of two men - brothers. Then into: Aboa bi bɛka wo a na ofiri wo ntoma mu. The father is a twin, so he must understand. His body cannot hold this betrayal in lineage. He raises his hands and the blade trembles. What’s left is a brother already past mercy.