Sarah died from insecticide, but what truly killed her was us.

Reflection on a tragedy that reveals the weight of our customs, beliefs, and silences.

A young Congolese woman, Sarah, took her own life. She swallowed insecticide.

The reason? Her boyfriend (or husband) had impregnated another girl and chosen to bride-price her with his family. Sarah left behind a child, a daughter.

The story went viral on TikTok in the DRC. But instead of compassion, insults and blame poured down:

“Why die for a man?”

“She abandoned her daughter!”

“What weakness!”

“She’s stupid.”

“We get cheated on, do we die?!”

Or the phrase that sums up indifference: “Men will be men.”

Yet, this tragedy says a lot about our society. A woman dies, and instead of questioning what killed her, she is judged. So, step by step, let’s look at how we get here.

a. Bride price as a social weapon

In the DRC, giving bride price to a woman is not just about formalizing a relationship. It’s a public act, social recognition, a way of saying: this woman deserves to be honored and integrated, a real accomplished woman. It’s the Holy Grail. The status that distinguishes those who “have succeeded” from the others.

Some women, including me, do not buy into this logic. I don’t believe a woman must marry or have children to be recognized as human and worthy. Every individual matters, period. But it would be hypocritical to deny the power of this ideology in our lives.

We’ve been fed stories of the prince charming, becoming part of his family, taking his name, being soulmates, the happy motherhood. We were taught to wait for this moment as the ultimate validation. We see and hear how some pray for marriage. The comments we heard growing up: “What will you do with your husband?”, “A woman should be like this.”

But what happens when things don’t follow this scenario? When Sarah’s man chose to bride-price another woman, it wasn’t just an intimate betrayal: it was a social humiliation. A public rejection. A sentence.

b. Blaming women, impunity for men
Yet, it’s not him who is accused. Him? He is silenced, excused. Her? She is judged. That’s the patriarchal rule: the man acts, the woman endures. The man chooses, the woman suffers. And if she refuses, if she breaks down, she’s the one at fault.

We say: “Men will always be men,” as if their irresponsibility is a law of nature, as if they are born that way, it’s innate. But why must women, even in their vulnerability, always bear the full weight of the fault? Why when another person makes a mistake do women question themselves?

We blame the light for burning itself… while someone was playing with the switch.

We blame the tree for falling while someone was cutting it down.

c. And the little girl she leaves behind?
Many are outraged: “How could she leave her daughter?”

Yes, it’s tragic. But asking the question as an accusation misses the point: no one should have to bear such great pain that they cannot see a future with their child. Just imagine how much she was in a pain, a pain that can consume your soul? What makes the pain so unbearable? How and why do we get there?

Instead of asking “Why did Sarah do this?”, let’s ask: “What is it in our society that makes this act conceivable?”

Sarah’s suicide says a lot about us, as Africans, as Congolese, as human beings.

d. Sarah as a mirror
Sarah is not an isolated case. She is a mirror of hundreds of women humiliated, devalued, rendered invisible.

She is not given the benefit of the doubt: mental health, stress, loneliness, silent illnesses? All this disappears behind one reading: she failed to endure.

And if she had stayed alive, what would she have gained? Perhaps the “title” of a married woman, honored in front of families, church, society. But at what cost? From chronic distress, how many illnesses would she have developed? Would she have had to take blood pressure meds to stay calm? Who she could have confided in

Meanwhile, he, her partner, would have continued to be protected by society, customs (or tradition), beliefs. Protected by us, who perpetuate this system.

So yes, there is an elephant in the room. And as long as we don’t name it, we remain accomplices.

e. And mental health?

Women’s mental health is often relegated to the background, as if their social role should be limited to enduring and bearing. What Sarah experienced is not just a romantic betrayal: it’s a psychological breakdown in a context where women have few resources and even less recognition for their distress. Public humiliation, rejection, and feeling worthless outside a man’s gaze are invisible violences that weaken mental balance.

Instead of support and listening, women like Sarah face moral judgment, guilt, and silence.

This accumulation of pressure and injustice creates fertile ground for despair and illness. Congolese society (and far beyond) still struggles to recognize that mental health is not a luxury but a matter of survival.

For Sarah, the romantic betrayal was the breaking point. Learning that the man she trusted impregnated another woman and officially bride-priced her was a direct blow to her self-esteem, in a society that still measures a woman’s worth by her relationship to a man. This humiliation, combined with the weight of customs, isolation, and guilt, turned despair into extreme loneliness. In this context, Sarah’s suicide cannot be understood as an isolated individual choice: it reflects a society that fails to protect and support those who suffer.

Conclusion: What killed Sarah

What killed Sarah was not only the pain of betrayal. It was an entire society that protects men’s faults and blames women for not knowing how to suffer in silence.

By continuing to protect some and condemn others, we slowly kill those who find no way out.

We are accomplices. And if we don’t dare to reflect, change, and break this cycle, other Sarahs will follow.

As individuals, it is false to believe we owe nothing, to be egocentric and individualistic.

We owe each other respect, safety, and consideration.