The Widow Who Buried Her Children Alive – Part 2: “They Still Breathe Beneath the Soil” After Amobi’s screamless terror, her parents found her curled on the floor, eyes wide, fingers digging into her own throat as if trying to claw the words out. She never spoke again. And yet—her silence screamed louder than words. Her father, Chief Odili, once a brave man who had hunted leopards and walked unshaken into shrines, stood at the window that night, watching the widow’s compound. He didn’t sleep. Because the next morning, one of the mounds had collapsed. Only six remained. But no one said a word. Except for Papa Ejike, the village drunk, who stumbled past Mama Ekene’s gate muttering, “Witch bury children like yam tubers… but yam no stay quiet forever.” That night, Papa Ejike vanished. And in the morning, the seventh mound returned—newly packed, smoother than before. That same week, Amobi’s mother noticed something terrifying. Her daughter—mute, trembling—had started drawing. On every surface. In the sand. On the walls. With charcoal. With her fingers. She drew children with hollow eyes. Thin, earth-colored limbs. Crawling in shadows. Reaching from under mounds. Always whispering something. And always, always calling someone: “Mama.” But worst of all—she drew one image over and over: Mama Ekene, her head split open like a gourd, and seven small arms crawling out of her skull. The elders finally gathered. They went to Mama Ekene’s hut at dawn, knocking gently—too gently. No one answered. The hut smelled of roasted herbs and wet grave soil. Inside, they found her seated cross-legged in front of the mounds, eyes shut, lips whispering something in a tongue older than the village. They didn’t dare touch her. But Elder Nwachukwu, bold with age, spat on the floor and said, “Let them dig.” Three strong men brought spades. When they struck the first mound—it bled. Not water. Not mud. Blood. Warm, dark, fresh. And from beneath the soil came a child’s cry—hoarse, muffled, wrong. Then another. And another. Until all the mounds began to tremble, cracking like broken eggshells. That’s when Mama Ekene opened her eyes—glassy, glowing with a light that wasn’t light at all. “You fools,” she said softly. “They were sleeping. I told them stories. I fed them from my breath. I kept them from the hunger in the forest. And now…” Now, the mounds broke open. And what came out were not children. Not anymore. Their bodies were twisted by death and nurtured by something far older than sorrow. Bones jutted where skin should be. Eyes blinked in places where there were no faces. And all seven turned toward the elders with blank expressions… then smiled. Because they were not rising to live again. They were rising to bury others. Mama Ekene wept. Not out of fear. Out of joy. “They’re awake,” she whispered. “They’re finally awake.” And Amobi, from her window, still drawing with bloodied fingers, smiled as well. Because she’d seen what would happen next. Umuokoro village would become one giant mound. And under it, Mama would tell stories forever.