Poet/Author ● Samuel Adeshimisola

WHEN DEATH FINALLY KNOCKS

They say Death comes like a thief, but honestly, most of us leave the door unlocked.

We grow tired of the noise, 

The constant knocking of days on our heads.

Maybe it’s not stealing, 

Maybe it's a collection of overdue silence.

Even stars, those proud torches, burn out without writing goodbye notes.

We mourn as if we’ll never follow, but we’re all in the same queue,

Some with faster tickets, some still lost in the lobby.

The living talk about legacy, as if Death takes notes.

But I suspect he doesn’t care, he just collects what’s due.

Some say he’s tall, cloaked, faceless.

I think he just wears whatever fits the hour.

I imagine Death wears plain shoes, 

The kind that don’t squeak in hallways.

Maybe carries a book titled Endings for Beginners, dog-eared at everyone’s favorite page.

People say Life flashes before your eyes, 

Perhaps that’s Death showing you the trailer, 

To remind you the movie wasn’t so bad before it rolls the credits.

I’ve never feared him much, the quiet man with patient eyes.

He doesn’t chase; he waits. 

Like a bus driver on a slow Thursday.

We panic about timing, but he’s never late, never early, just calmly punctual —

The only constant in a universe of excuses.

He hates dramatics, prefers calm entries.

You don’t need to rehearse a goodbye, 

He’s heard them all, 

Even the clever ones.

Offer him a chair, not a reason.

He isn’t here for debate, only for punctuation. 

You may want to ask why now?

He won’t answer.

Not because he’s cruel, but because the question itself has expired.

Remember: he’s not fond of small talk.

Don’t ask about Heaven’s seating plan, 

Or whether hell has Wi-Fi.

He’ll only raise an eyebrow — metaphorically.

Instead, ask him about silence.

He’ll tell you it hums softly, like a fridge in an empty house;

Constant, familiar, strangely comforting.

He doesn’t take everyone the same way.

Some go like whispers leaving a room, 

Some go like alarms that won’t stop ringing, 

Either way, the sound fades.

You might think you’ll fight him, grab the doorframe, plead for more time.

But you’ll find yourself laughing mid-struggle, realizing you never knew the rules anyway.

Because what is Life if not a borrowed hour?

A rented suit, slightly too big, 

That we wear until he comes knocking with the tailor’s calm smile.

I like to think he’s merciful, offering sleep to the restless, 

A clean slate to the overthinkers, 

A full stop to run-on sentences.

Life, on the other hand, is the noisy roommate, leaving dishes in the sink, 

Refusing to lower the music.

So when Death extends his hand, take it.

Politely, curiously.

He may not say a word, 

But his silence will make sense at last.

So when Death finally knocks, 

Maybe I’ll pour him tea, 

Laugh about how long it took, 

And ask if he takes sugar.