She Refused to Bury Her Mother — But When She Died, No One Buried Her | African Tales

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💔 The Price of Denial: She Refused to Bury Her Mother — But When She Died, No One Buried Her

 

They say when a child rejects the one who gave them life, even the heavens will reject that child. And in the village of Ezyama, those words became a chilling reality.

That morning, when her mother passed away, she coldly said, “She doesn’t deserve to be buried by me.” Then she turned away, leaving strangers to gather the body of the woman who gave her life. No candle, no tears, nothing but silence.

Years went by until the day she died. The entire village of Ezyama fell still. No one cried. No one came to mourn. Only the wind whispered through the old house, the same house that once echoed with a forgotten mother’s lullaby.

The Mother Who Smiles Through the Mud

 

The early morning wind drifted over the shanty rooftops of Makoko, where murky waters mirrored the first rays of sunlight. Wooden houses stood on shaky stilts, and children’s laughter echoed from weathered canoes. In the corner of the market, a thin woman stirred dying charcoal embers.

That woman was Mama Ngozi, known throughout the market as “the mother who smiles through the mud.” She owned nothing but her calloused hands, a faded dress, and a heart vast as the Lagos Lagoon. Every morning, long before dawn, she rose to light her fire, preparing charcoal to sell.

In a smoky corner of their shack, little Ebele studied at a rickety wooden table. “Keep studying, my child,” her mother said softly. “One day you’ll leave this place. You’ll wear new shoes. People will call you madam.” Mama Ngozi believed in Ebele. It was the only wealth she had.

Years later, that dream came true. Ebele won a scholarship to study in Lagos, later landing a job at a major company. The day she left, Mama Ngozi sold her old wedding ring, the last memory of her late husband, and stood by the doorway, slipping a few crumpled Naira notes into her daughter’s palm. “Always remember you are your mother’s daughter.”

 

The Stain on Memory

 

The city of Lagos dazzled before Ebele’s eyes. Towering glass buildings, chic cafes, gleaming cars, and people who spoke English like they’d never known the scent of smoke or sweat. At first, she was shy to say she came from Makoko. Then she learned silence, and then she learned to lie.

“My family’s in London,” she smiled when colleagues asked. “My mother passed away long ago.”

Her words were light as air, yet they stabbed deep into the heart of the woman who still stood in the market every day, smiling at her daughter’s photo pinned to the wall.

When Ebele was promoted, she bought an apartment in Victoria Island, changed her accent, her walk, even her name. The poor mother from Makoko became just a stain on memory, something she hid like dirt on a white dress.

One day, Mama Ngozi took a bus to Lagos. She wore her old cotton blouse, carrying a small gift bag filled with homemade coconut candies. She wanted to see her daughter.

But when she stepped into the bright, polished lobby of the company, the security guard blocked her way. “I’m looking for Miss Ebele. My daughter,” she said, eyes gleaming with innocent joy.

The guard chuckled. “There’s no one like that here, old woman. Go away.”

Mama Ngozi froze. Upstairs, Ebele was in a meeting. Through the glass window, she caught a glimpse of someone standing in the rain below. For a second, her heart trembled. A flash of memory: gray hair, rough hands, a voice calling Ebele, my child. But she shook her head. “No,” she whispered. “That can’t be. I don’t have a mother.”

That evening, Mama Ngozi sat by the company gate until night fell, then slowly made her way back to the bus stop. “It’s all right,” she murmured. “My child must be busy. I’ll come again another day.” She never knew that another day would never come.

In the darkness, Mama Ngozi whispered, “Lord, please keep my child safe, even if she no longer needs her mother.”

 

The Call That Was Denied

 

Rain had been falling since dawn, filling the air with a lonely, suffocating sound. Inside the old wooden house, Mama Ngozi lay still, fragile, as if she had only drifted into a light nap.

Her neighbor, Mrs. Eniru, rushed in, trembling, as her hand touched the cold wrist. “Oh, Mama, why did you leave without saying goodbye?”

Mrs. Eniru picked up an old cell phone and dialed Ebele’s number. “Hello, child. Your mother’s gone. It’s raining hard. Come home, my dear. Come see her one last time.”

On the other end, the sounds of city life filled the line: music, clinking glasses, the laughter of young people in Lagos.

Ebele listened silently, then spoke slowly, each word cold as steel. “That woman is not my mother. I have no poor mother like that.”

Mrs. Eniru’s voice trembled. “Ebele, what are you saying? Your mother gave up her whole life for you.”

Ebele cut her off sharply, her tone ruthless. “She doesn’t deserve to be buried by me. If you care so much, you take care of her.”

Click. The call ended.

 

The Earth Closes Itself

 

In Makoko, the rain fell harder. People gathered around Mama Ngozi’s shack, their voices hushed. “Her daughter’s rich now, but never came back.”

There was no coffin, no candles. Only a few neighbors gently wrapped her frail body in a worn white sheet. Her face still carried a faint smile—the smile she kept even through poverty, rejection, and heartbreak.

They laid her on a wooden plank and carried her by canoe to the village cemetery. The waves lapped gently against the boat as if the earth itself sighed in mourning.

They buried her in a barren patch behind the graveyard. No tombstone, no name, just a wild flower marking the spot. Mrs. Eniru sprinkled the last handful of earth and whispered, “Rest well, my friend. Someday your child will understand.”

Far away in her luxury apartment, Ebele watched the evening news. The weather report flashed: Heavy rains flood the entire Makoko district. But through the noise of music and laughter, she thought she heard the faint clink of a metal spoon against a pot, a fragile sound of memory. Tears fell anyway. “No, she deserved it. She was weak.”

A week later, someone placed a small wooden cross over Mama Ngozi’s grave. No name, just a line scrolled in chalk: “The mother who forgave.”

 

The Full Circle

 

Five years passed. Ebele had risen to become the CEO of a major fashion empire. Headlines praised her as a symbol of Nigerian female power. But behind the flawless smile, a quiet darkness was growing.

The illness arrived one morning, uninvited. The doctor called her into a private office. “We found a rare tumor. It will be very difficult to treat.”

Money could not buy time. Three months later, she was bedridden, her body thin, her hair falling in handfuls. Friends and colleagues slowly disappeared. The hospital room was a sea of white silence.

Every night at midnight, she began to hear it: The soft clink-clink of a spoon against a pot. The faint smell of thin porridge drifted through the air, warm, smoky, and familiar.

“Mother, why are you still here? Haven’t you forgiven me yet?”

In her dream, she stood once again in the old kitchen of Makoko. Her mother was there, stirring the pot. “It’s all right, my child. I was never angry. You just need to come home.”

She jolted awake, still whispering, “Mama! I’m scared.”

The next morning, the doctor said gently, “Your body is shutting down. Is there anyone we can call? Family?”

Ebele smiled faintly. “No one. I once had a mother. But I buried her with my own words.”

 

The Earth Remembers

 

The skies over Lagos broke open. Rain battered the city as Ebele looked out from her bed, whispering, “Mama, I want to come home.” The hospital followed procedure. An envelope was sent to Ezyama village: Notification of death citizen Ebele Ngozi.

Days passed. No one came to claim her. Eventually, the body was transferred to a cemetery on the outskirts of the city. The gravedigger sighed. “When you deny the one who gave you life, even the earth will deny you.”

No procession, no music. The coffin was plain wood, no name. The gravedigger and two workers lowered the coffin in silence. They dug the grave next to a small tree. “There was once a poor woman who died in the rain,” the gravedigger murmured. “No one came for her either.”

Beneath a small tree, he saw an old white cloth, faded and frayed—the same kind once used to wrap Mama Ngozi. “Strange,” he murmured. “Mother and daughter. Finally, side by side.”

Evening fell. The final light of dusk fell on two graves, one old, one new. No one noticed as a soft wind drifted through, brushing the wild flower by Mama Ngozi’s grave. A single petal floated down, landing gently on the fresh mound of soil covering Ebele.

From afar, Mrs. Eniru passed by. She saw the two graves beside each other. She placed a small flower between them and whispered, “My dear sister, she’s home at last. Too late, but at least the earth let mother and daughter meet again.”

They whispered that whenever someone wept for their mother, a small light would flicker at those graves, as if Mama Ngozi’s spirit still cooked porridge, waiting for her child to come home.

Never be ashamed of the one who gave you life. Because it was those muddy, weary hands that once washed your childhood clean. True wealth isn’t in cars or titles. It’s in gratitude.

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