The Witch Cried Last Night, and a Child Died This Morning.

A witch cried yesterday, and a child died today. Who doesn't know that the witch who cried yesterday is the one who killed the child.I have heard this saying many times, especially in Yoruba stories told by older people. It carries a familiar way of thinking: something happens at night, something terrible follows in the morning, and people quickly connect the two. The cry becomes a sign. The death becomes the proof. And before anyone asks what really happened, someone has already been named. But there is something about this saying that has always made me pause.To understand what I mean, let me take you to a Yoruba village. There was an elderly woman in the village named Aina. But hardly anyone called her by her name anymore. The villagers had given her another name: Ìyá Dúdú, meaning “The Dark Mother.” She had no husband, no children, and lived alone for years in a small house at the edge of the village. She walked with a stick and was hardly seen during the day. But at night, she sometimes sat outside her house, cooking with firewood or simply staring into the darkness. The children were afraid of her. Their mothers warned them not to take anything from her, not to eat in her house, not to follow her after sunset, and not even to greet her at night. Nobody could properly explain why.Perhaps that was the problem.People had already written a story about Ìyá Dúdú without ever asking her to tell her own. Then came that Friday night.A group of boys had just finished playing football. One of them, Kunle, kicked the ball too far on his way home, sending it rolling towards Ìyá Dúdú's compound.He followed it. There she was, sitting beside a small fire with a blackened pot over it.Kunle stopped. <blockquote>“Mama Aina?”</blockquote>She looked at him.He bent down to pick up the ball, but as he kicked it back towards the road, it struck the leg of her pot. The pot tilted, and some of its contents spilled onto the ground. <blockquote>“Mama, Emabinu”</blockquote>Kunle grabbed his ball and ran home at top speed.By the time he got there, he was still breathing heavily. His mother asked what had happened, and he told her about the woman, the fire, and how his ball had knocked over her pot.<blockquote>“Don't go near that woman again,” his mother warned him.</blockquote> Kunle nodded and went to bed.He had no idea that it would be his last night.Around midnight, his mother heard a strange sound coming from his room. She rushes in and discovers him struggling.<blockquote>“Mummy, my stomach is paining me.”</blockquote>She gave him some water and rubbed his stomach, hoping it would settle. Kunle eventually fell asleep again. But before sunrise, he started vomiting.His mother rushed to his room.“Kunle!”He could barely respond. She screamed for help, and neighbours quickly gathered around the house. Someone sent for the nurse. Another person started praying. But before the morning fully broke, Kunle was dead. The village went quiet.Then Mama Adeola whispered,<blockquote>“Wasn't Kunle with Ìyá Dúdú last night?”</blockquote> Mama Sade nodded.<blockquote>“Yes, Mama. He told his mother he accidentally kicked his ball into her pot.”</blockquote> Tolu, who had been with Kunle earlier, added,<blockquote>“I saw him there too. She was sitting beside the fire.”</blockquote> Mama Adeola shook her head.<blockquote>“Hmm… I knew there was something about that woman.”</blockquote> Then someone whispered,<blockquote>"She killed him.”</blockquote> And just like that, suspicion became certainty. Nobody stopped to ask what had happened to Kunle's body. Nobody asked whether he had been sick, whether he had complained of anything before going to bed, or whether there could be another explanation.They had already found their answer. The old woman at the edge of the village had become the easiest person to blame.In many traditional Yoruba communities, the world was not understood as only what the eyes could see. The physical and spiritual were often woven together. A strange dream could carry meaning. An unusual sickness could raise spiritual questions. A disturbing cry in the night could become a warning. I understand that worldview. I don't think our ancestors were simply foolish. They were trying to make sense of a complicated world with the knowledge available to them. Even today, someone can take a sick child to the hospital during the day and still pray against spiritual attack at night. For many people, faith and medicine are not enemies. But personally, I do not believe that a person becomes responsible for a death simply because they cried at night, sat beside a fire, or happened to be seen doing something unusual before a tragedy. I need evidence.Something happening before another thing does not automatically mean it caused it. Tobi could have died from malaria, an infection, malnutrition, an undiagnosed medical condition, or another natural cause nobody noticed in time. It could even have been something medicine had not yet discovered. Sometimes, the honest answer is simply, "We don't know." I know that answer is difficult.Death is difficult to accept, especially when it comes suddenly to a young child. No parent ever wants to lose a child at a tender age. A child can be playing in the evening and be gone before morning. In that kind of pain, “we don't know what happened” can feel unbearable. Blaming someone can feel easier.So the village looked for a face.And Aina was an easy face to choose. Her loneliness became suspicious. Her childlessness became suspicious. Her silence became suspicious. Her midnight fire became suspicious. Everything about her was pulled into the story.But look closely at what had happened. The village did not discover a witch that morning. It discovered a story that fitted its fear. That is the part I keep returning to.Perhaps someone will ask, <blockquote>“But what if spiritual forces really exist?”</blockquote>I cannot claim to know everything about the universe. But uncertainty should make us more careful, not more certain.If we believe in the spiritual, let us still ask questions about the physical. If someone is sick, let us seek treatment. If a child dies, let us investigate. If we suspect someone, let us demand evidence. And if we do not know, let us have the courage to say we do not know. Because there is another tragedy that can come after death.The first is losing the child.The second is destroying the life of an innocent person because we needed someone to blame. Maybe that is why this old Yoruba saying means something different to me now. <blockquote>“Àjé ké lánàá, ọmọ kú lónìí. Tani ò mọ̀ pé àjé àná ló pa ọmọ jẹ?”</blockquote>Yes, the witch may have cried yesterday.And yes, the child may have died today. But between those two events lies a question we must never be too afraid to ask:What actually happened? Because sometimes, the greatest danger is not the mystery we cannot explain.It is the explanation we create too quickly. Note: That’s my take. What’s yours?Tell me what you think in the comments. And if you enjoyed this story, check out my other stories and don’t forget to drop a tip. ❤️

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