The Cry and the Curse
“Sometimes, childhood ends not with age—but with a scream.”
Five-year-old Yaqoob squatted barefoot in the dirt, shaping clay into tiny animals and huts. The summer sun beat down on his back, but he didn’t mind. This was his favorite time—when the worries of the world melted into the warm mud beneath his fingers.
Suddenly, a sharp cry pierced the air.
“Yaqoob! Come home!”
It was his mother’s voice. But something was wrong. Her voice cracked, heavy with panic.
Yaqoob froze. His mother never called him during playtime. He looked up and saw her—barefoot, her scarf loose and slipping, her hands flailing in the air. She was crying, rushing toward the neighbors, banging on doors.
He dropped his clay toys and bolted toward the house.
“Maa?” he called, his little legs kicking up clouds of dust.
As he reached the doorway, he saw his older sisters huddled together, their faces soaked in tears.
“What happened?” he asked, breathless.
No one answered.
His mother returned moments later, eyes wide and red, breathe ragged.
“Stay with your sisters,” she gasped. “Take care of your father. I have to find someone.”
Then she was gone again.
Yaqoob didn’t listen.
He followed at a distance, peeking from behind walls as she went house to house. He watched her beg and plead, her voice cracking like dry leaves. Nobody came.
After some time, she returned, slower now, almost floating like a ghost.
Back home, she went straight to the room where his father lay.
Yaqoob tried to follow.
“Let me see Abba!” he begged.
His sister stepped in front of him, shaking her head. “Not now.”
He turned away and crept to the window. There, he found a small crack and pressed his ear against it. Inside, he could hear only faint murmurs.
His mother’s voice trembled. His father’s was barely audible.
Then, a sentence came clearly, floating on the air like a cold wind:
“For the worst time.”
Yaqoob’s eyebrows furrowed. What did that mean?
And then—
A violent cough. A gurgling sound. A splash.
Blood.
His mother’s scream rang through the walls.
“NO! NO! Don’t leave us like this!”
Yaqoob’s legs buckled beneath him. His small body collapsed into the dirt.
Inside that room, his father died.
Outside it, something inside Yaqoob died too.
A soft breeze rustled the trees. Clay animals lay forgotten in the sun. And in the shadow of his home, a boy sat trembling—no longer just a child, but a witness to grief too large for his tiny heart to hold.
