The night mama seyi knocked on death's door

‎The Night Mama Seyi Knocked on Death's Door

‎

‎The night Mama Seyi knocked

‎on Death's door

‎was the night she watched

‎her last and only son

‎go six feet beneath the ground.

‎

‎She only sighed.

‎

‎A heavy, familiar sigh—

‎the kind I had heard

‎eight times in a row,

‎each time another child

‎was lowered into the earth.

‎

‎She refused to pour the sand

‎over Seyi's grave.

‎Instead, she turned

‎and walked straight into her room.

‎

‎The strangers wondered

‎why she hadn't shed a tear.

‎

‎But I knew.

‎

‎Mama Seyi's heart

‎had been shattered so many times

‎that even tears

‎were beyond its control.

‎

‎And you know villagers—

‎they gossip

‎as though their lives depended on it.

‎

‎They whispered about her

‎when she passed by.

‎They called her heartless.

‎They wondered if a mother

‎could truly watch

‎eight children disappear

‎beneath the earth

‎and still have dry eyes.

‎

‎Mama Seyi stopped explaining herself

‎after the fifth child was gone.

‎

‎"What will be, will be,"

‎she would always say

‎as she passed through the yards,

‎

‎while her drunkard husband

‎did nothing

‎but add more weight

‎to the sorrow already sitting

‎on her shoulders.

‎

‎So, she decided

‎to take matters

‎into her own hands.

‎

‎The night before she left—

‎to wherever only the gods knew—

‎she hung the pictures

‎of all eight children

‎on her doorstep.

‎

‎Then she cried.

‎

‎Not the quiet kind of crying

‎that asks to be comforted.

‎

‎She cried

‎like a woman

‎who had finally run out

‎of places to put her grief.

‎

‎And the next morning,

‎

‎Mama Seyi was gone.

‎

‎No traces.

‎

‎No footprints.

‎

‎Not even a piece of cloth

‎left behind.

‎

‎Only a note

‎we found beneath

‎the pictures of her children.

‎

‎It read:

‎

‎"I'm going to ask Death myself why."

‎