On Christmas Morn
On Christmas morn, you wake up to the sweet smell of broiling ukodo, but you do not want any of it. You feel like you’d choke on the meal if you had so much as a bite. The night before, your mother had gone to the Christmas Eve mass to celebrate with members of her parish. You did not go, not because you were not interested, but because you would still have to attend Mass the next day—to celebrate the gift of the birth of the Lord—and you would rather not spend three to four hours in church only to return the next morning to sing God’s praises for the same reason. A reason you no longer even believe.
On Christmas morn, your mother knocks on your door, asks you what you are still doing in bed. You don’t flinch as she chides you.
“Do you want us to be late for Mass, Enoho? Get up and take your bath,” she says.
Still saying nothing, you pull yourself up from the bed reluctantly like a child forced to go to school on a cold morning, draw open the curtains, and breathe the dry harmattan air ushering in the day. Your nostrils itch, and you feel an uneasiness in your stomach. You run to your washbowl and gag, but you do not puke.
What your mother does not know is that you do not wish to be part of the festivities. Not since last Christmas. You now hate the sight of Christmas trees, its music—Mariah Carey on every other speaker and your mother’s Boney M’s Christmas album—and its decorations. What your mother does not know is that the season that was once your favourite time of the year has failed to bring you good tidings. What your mother does not know is that you can no longer breathe. That you want to die.
You met Seunayo four Easters ago at the Lagos International Airport. Two months after you ended things with Richard, who you had caught in bed with Aisha, your hijabi flatmate who acted like a saint on most days. You had recently completed your master’s program in London and were returning home. Seunayo, from Greece, on a baecation that ushered him back to the single life. He had hit you, rather slightly, with his trolley, and you had turned to hiss and cuss at whoever or whatever had touched you when he quickly apologised.
“I’m so sorry, ma’am,” he said.
That disarmed you, and he was attractive—tall, sturdy, firm arms, beautiful eyes. So, you kept all your expletives to yourself.
“It’s fine. Just watch where you are going for someone else’s sake.”
He nodded. You took a closer look at him. He was pale and sweating a bit too much for the air-conditioned hall.
“Are you okay? You look sick.”
“I’m . . . I . . . I’m fine, not to worry.” He did not sound fine.
It’s okay, you can tell me. I’m a doctor,” you said.
“I’m diabetic,” he replied.
“Okay, let’s get you seated. Do you have a glucose gel or tablet anywhere close?”
He nodded. You sighed in relief. You held his hands and led him to a seat, letting him catch his breath. He pointed to his backpack, and you quickly unzipped it to find the glucose gel. You tore it open, and he sucked on the sachet hungrily. You waited a few minutes for it to kick in.
“Are you alright now?” you asked.
He nodded. “Much better”
“Great,” you said.
“Thank you so much. I’m grateful,” he said. “My name is Seunayo. You are?”
“Enoho.”
“May I call you sometime? Just to say thank you for today.”
You smiled, reached for his iPhone, and punched in your number.
He called you two months later.
You met up for drinks at a fancy restaurant in Kofo Abayomi. You told him it took him long enough to say that thank you. He laughed, a very sweet laugh, and apologised.
There was something about the way he looked at you. About how his eyes crinkled at the sides when he smiled at you. About how he smelt like a fine blend of burned coffee beans and cherry. There was something about him that made you interested in a second date.
On your second date, he told you about his girlfriend of four years. How he had proposed to her on their last trip to Santorini before she confessed to being in love with someone else. It broke him, he said, and he needed to get his head in the right space. You felt sorry for him, especially because you could relate to betrayal. He told you about the first time he met her, how he chased her and asked her to be his woman. How he knew the moment he met her that he wanted to spend his life with her, and how the finality of a relationship he was certain would end in marriage had come.
“Her loss,” you said rather confidently between small bites of smoked tilapia. You had not met this woman, and you had only known him for two dates, yet, it was her loss. Just like you knew it was Richard’s loss that he could not keep it in his pants.
“I like you, Enoho,” he said. “A lot.”
You smiled.
“I like you too, Seunayo, but I don’t think we are ready for a relationship. Not with you being recently broken up.”
“And after a while?” he asked.
You took a sip out of your glass of wine.
“Maybe,” you said. “You can ask me on a third date then.”
And after another six months of long calls, texts, and friendly visits, you went on a third date—a stage play at Terra Kulture. You laughed so loud at the comic scenes and cried your eyes out at the sad scenes. He watched as you let out every giggle, every scoff, every sniffle. And after the play, he held your hands and pulled you into an embrace.
“I might just be in love with you, Enoho.”
You looked into his eyes, inviting him for a kiss. He took the invite, tilted your head and kissed you passionately. You felt something. Not butterflies. Something stronger.
That year, you spent your first Christmas together. You loved how he introduced you to spending Christmas eve watching the moon and naming stars while munching down a box of Christmas cupcakes. On Christmas morn, you made ukodo, hot and broiling like your mother makes it. He loved it, relishing every spoonful, chewing on the yams and unripe plantains and letting the soup’s heat soothe his throat.
After the meal, he said to you, “You’ll be making this for all Christmases of the rest of our lives.”
You smiled, reminded of the love of your mum and your dad. It was their tradition. Making ukodo on Christmas morning and eating together right before Mass. And now, you were living that tradition with the person you loved. He was different from all the men you had loved. He knew how to love your body with his hands, your mind with his words, and your spirit with his prayers.
Your second Christmas together, you began a new tradition. To visit your mum together. It was also the first Christmas season you went to crossover night together to usher you both into the New Year. You held hands, praying for your future and for the strength to continue loving each other. And when you returned, you made love all through the night on the first day of the New Year, him worshipping your body, his tongue in between your legs, your hands caressing his body, your bodies plunged into each other’s, heaving and breathing as you became one. And in the morning, you shared a breakfast of steaming ukodo.
Your third Christmas was different. The week leading up to Christmas had been awkward. First, it was you dropping your most expensive vase—the one your aunty had sent you from Dubai— and shattering it to pieces. Second was the eerie dream you had, where you felt like you were drowning underwater and begging for help. Third, a tightness had built in your chest, and it would not go away. You had not seen Seunayo the entire week. He had been stressed at work as he had a lot to cover before the end of the year. You planned to make him feel better on Christmas Eve. You even had new traditions for that Christmas—pyjamas photos and making eggnogs together. So, you did not tell him about the tightness in your chest so as not to worry him. You checked your blood pressure and ran a couple of tests. You were clinically fine. The tightness lightened.
On Christmas Eve, you drove to his place in the morning to birth your new tradition. You had gone to pick up the ornaments and decorations for your photographs and the two beautiful matching pyjamas you had ordered for yourself and him. As you got to the house, the feeling in your chest returned. It was tighter. You had to see another doctor, you thought. You took short deep breaths and unlocked the door. You never knocked at his place. You always used your key. When you opened the door, you knew why that tightness had been sitting in your chest.
There he was. Sprawled on the floor. Breathless. You felt cold. The bags which held your ornaments and pyjamas dropped to the ground. You yelled his name. No response. You ran to him and shook him. Nothing. You checked his pulse. Chest compressions. Insulin. Nothing.
You struggled to breathe. You clutched your chest, trying to stop your heart from exploding as it fought to leave your chest. And then, you collapsed to the ground, wailing.
That was last Christmas.
And so, when your mother comes to call you on Christmas morn, and you catch a whiff of the ukodo, you wish to die. You feel a coldness all over you.
You finish your bath and clothe yourself in white for mass; your mother enters your room and sees the pain in your eyes. She holds you and tells you that the traditions you and Seunayo made together are going nowhere. She holds your face in her palms, kisses your forehead, and tells you, “Enoho, Seunayo loved you. It’s important that you remember that.”
At those words, you break into tears, your body shuddering, you choking amidst heavy sobs, catarrh dripping down your nose. The tightness you felt in your chest last Christmas returns, and you cry. Your mother holds you tight until you feel some ease in your chest.
“We do not have to go for Mass today,” she says.
You sniff loudly and sigh.
“Thank you, Mummy.”
She nods because she does not know what else to say or do to make you feel better.
“It may not get better, Enoho, him being gone, but you will get better.”
You take a few minutes to collect your thoughts. You see his face, the tiny crinkles by his eyes when he smiles at you, his arms outstretched towards you. Softly but clearly, you hear him say the words, “I love you, Enoho.”
Your heart breaks.
“Merry Christmas, Mummy. Want to play some Boney M and make eggnogs?”
Read Mami Water by the same author.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Ufuoma Bakporhe is a fiction writer, novelist and developing screenwriter from Nigeria. She is the author of Lettars From An Imbecile (2014). Her works have appeared on or are forthcoming on The Kalahari Review, African Writer, Punocracy, Mbari Place, The Shallow Tales Review, Jalada Africa, and Imbiza Journal, JAY Lit and elsewhere. She is the winner of the 2019 Awele Creative Trust Award.
Featured Photo: Erin Mckenna
