Mayok Media

Category: Motherhood

  • Sisyphus in Heaven: Revolt, Eternity, and the Divine Dilemma

    Mary Mba (Ph.D)

    The Conversation

    Last night, my son Ude and I found ourselves in a spirited conversation about immortality. His philosophy class had just discussed Socrates—calmly facing his death, curious rather than afraid. Would it be oblivion? Or a new life? We paused, weighing the gravity of those possibilities. But then our conversation took a turn: toward eternity. Toward heaven. Toward hell. Toward Sisyphus.

    I told him I found beauty in Camus’ vision—that we must imagine Sisyphus happy. Not because he has found meaning in the absurd task of rolling a boulder uphill forever, but because he chooses to embrace it anyway. That, I told my son, is my rebellion too.

    Death as Curiosity

    Socrates saw death not as a tragedy, but as the ultimate question mark. He imagined it as either the most peaceful sleep or a doorway to another kind of existence. His serenity came from detachment—but mine comes from immersion.

    I am not afraid of death because I refuse to let fear dictate how I live. I want to live boldly, consciously, even when I am broke, tired, or uncertain.

    The Joy in the Revolt – Camus and Sisyphus

    In The Myth of Sisyphus, Camus gives us a man condemned by the gods to push a boulder up a hill forever. But Camus flips the script: “The struggle itself toward the heights is enough to fill a man’s heart.” The absurd does not break us—it offers us the chance to revolt.

    Sisyphus is not a symbol of despair but of joyful defiance. His refusal to succumb to hopelessness is a model for all of us navigating the daily weight of survival in an existence that often appears meaningless.

    What is the meaning of life when it’s filled with suffering, repetition, and banality? Should we still be happy living it? But isn’t that what heaven—or hell—might feel like too?

    What If Sisyphus Went to Heaven?

    Here’s where my son and I diverged. He believes that in eternity, God will grant us divine knowledge. I asked—then what? If we all possess divine wisdom, are we truly equal, or does a hierarchy still linger? Will we know in full or only in part? Will questions remain? Will desires?

    Would some still long for drama, for choice, for something more than the endless praise of the one who sits on the throne? Will we still have free will?

    Sisyphus exercised his free will—and was punished for it. His revolt stopped people from dying, disrupting the cycle of life. In the cosmos of order, rebellion is often mistaken for chaos.

    In Revelation, the heavenly realm is filled with creatures covered in eyes, day and night proclaiming, “Holy, holy, holy.” It is an eternity of glory—but also of eternal surveillance, eternal memory, and eternal praise.

    And what happens when we remember pain? Earthly joys? Desires unmet? Might eternity itself begin to unravel under the weight of our memory?

    Jared M. August asks a similar question in his theological reflection: “What shall we remember?” He proposes that Revelation depicts the believer’s memory as preserved in eternity, reinforcing the importance of memory in all its forms—not just joy, but also pain, longing, and identity (The Gospel Coalition).

    Memory, Worship Fatigue, and Monotony. Is Heaven another Absurd Existence?

    Revelation promises that “they will serve him day and night in his temple” (Rev. 7:15). But what if service becomes suffocating?

    If we cannot imagine Sisyphus happy in his earthly absurdity, how can we prepare ourselves to embrace eternity? What if, like Sisyphus, a soul wakes up one eternal morning and says, “There must be more than this”?

    What if rebellion in eternity is not born of pride—but of boredom?
    What would happen to diversity, to desire, to difference?

    Maybe eternity, like the boulder, is heavy. Maybe the truest revolt is to find joy—even there.

    My Own Rebellion

    I told my son that I am Sisyphus already. I rise each day under the weight of bills, deadlines, longing, and fatigue. And still—I revolt.

    I choose life. I choose joy.
    Not because my situation is easy, but because my refusal to give up is sacred.

    I am not waiting for eternity to be handed to me.
    I am making eternity now, each moment I resist despair.
    I do not look forward to a heaven or hell as a place—
    But I live them as states of being. One cannot exist without the other.

    Questions for Eternity

    So I ask:

    What if Sisyphus reached heaven and still found the boulder there?
    Would he kneel in eternal worship, or would he smile, pick it up, and roll again—just because he could?

    Can we imagine an eternity that includes rebellion,
    Not as sin,
    But as spirit?

  • My Ethiopian Brother

    (For Abera)

    He came quietly,

    not like thunder

    but like spring rain.

    One moment we were strangers

    at the African Student Association meeting,

    the next—

    he was on the floor

    building towers of blocks

    with my children,

    laughing like he’d known them forever.

    He never asked if I needed help.

    He simply showed up.

    When the injury struck,

    and word spread like wind through our small community,

    Abera was there.

    Trash bins emptied.

    Toys sorted into corners.

    Tiny socks folded by a pair of hands

    too young to carry the weight he chose to lift.

    He swept not just my floors,

    but the sorrow gathering in my heart.

    He played with the children

    like they were sacred,

    never an inconvenience.

    He called me Big Sister,

    and I trusted him with the title.

    Because he earned it.

    On the day I delivered,

    he became the village.

    Took the children to school,

    dressed them in joy for picture day,

    brought them to the hospital

    to meet their baby brother

    as if ushering in royalty.

    Even after healing,

    he stayed—

    a constant presence

    until graduation carried him

    back to Ethiopia.

    Now, he’s a doctor—

    a healer in name

    as he always was in spirit.

    And though an ocean stretches between us,

    I tell his story like scripture

    to every Ethiopian student I meet.

    I say,

    “There was once a young man named Abera,

    whose kindness held my house together

    when I could not.”

    And they smile,

    because they recognize his name—

    and somehow,

    his spirit, too.

  • Nne Ọha (Mother of Many)

    (For my sister-in-law, my sister by choice)

    They wonder if it’s her
    who shares my blood
    instead of my brother.

    And I smile,
    because they aren’t wrong.

    We met
    when she was just a girl
    falling into love with my brother—
    young, soft-spoken,
    eyes full of promise.

    I opened my door to her,
    not knowing I was also opening my heart
    to a forever kind of sister.

    We’ve never quarreled.
    Not once.
    Because we love with awareness—
    with deep respect,
    gentle honesty,
    and the kind of peace
    that needs no proof.

    When my brother says,
    “Go to her,”
    she never asks,
    “Why?”
    She simply packs her bag,
    boards the plane,
    and steps into my chaos
    like she belongs there.

    Because she does.

    My children call her aunty,
    but what they mean is home.

    She’s braided their joy
    into everyday moments—
    read bedtime stories,
    kissed bruised foreheads,
    taken them trick-or-treating
    while I scribbled chapters
    that would shape our future.

    And when she gave birth,
    I was there—
    not as guest,
    not as friend,
    but as the one who held her hand
    and held her child
    like he was mine too
    because he is

    We’ve danced in hospital waiting rooms,
    watched over my brother as he healed,
    shared kitchens,
    shared laughter,
    shared purpose.

    She keeps me tethered
    to the taste of Nigeria—
    soup steaming in warm bowls,
    stories from home pouring like palm wine
    into this new life of mine.

    She is sweetness wrapped in strength,
    kindness anchored in quiet resolve.

    She is not just a sister-in-law.
    She is Nne Ọha—
    mother of many,
    beloved by all,
    the woman whose heart
    has made my journey
    infinitely lighter.

    • Mary Mba (Ph.D.)