Mami Wata

The night turns to liquid akin to the silence that overflows in the room. Mami Wata comes, slow With her shadow gliding through the moonlight haze. Children wrap up in the sheets, but feel the chill of her presence the icy breath on their necks, footsteps dragging sorrows. In the darkness, dread permeates, in the manner of an undetected illness, while Mami Wata herself waits, her aura shrouded in terror and nightmares. The clock strikes the hour of fears, and the echo of her steps turns into screams, which the quivering child knows, like a cursed lullaby.