Creative Writing: Christmas Day

Christmas morning was lovely. The gentle harmattan breeze swayed the trees, mingling with the aroma of chicken stew wafting up from kitchens in the neighbourhood.Voices were rising and falling. “Ekeresimesi oma nu o! Merry Christmas!” They chanted in high spirits. Christmas jingles blared from the radio. From the bedroom, Chiaka overheard the voices of women chatting with her mother-in-law.

“Is Kemji up, yet?” they asked almost simultaneously.

“No,” Adaku replied.

“Please, wake him; tell him we are here for our share of the goodies he gave out yesterday,” one said, jokingly.

“I know your sons came home with some goodies too,” Adaku teased them .

Chiaka eavesdropped. The visitors seemed to be engrossed with only Kemji. None spoke without mentioning

At the entrance, she stumbled on Uzoma’s glowering eyes. It was quite unusual for him to stare at her with such hate. Anxious for what might be the cause, she asked, “Papa, did you send for me?”

“Yes, how come you deny me the portion of meat that is due to me?”

Chiaka raised quizzical eyebrows, her eyes wandered from angry Uzoma, to the rice, and the melon sauce ― chicken Indiana, and back to him. “I … I don’t understand.”

“You slaughtered a fowl, with which you cooked this soup, did you not?”

“I did.”

“Where are the thighs ― or has it none?”

“They are in the pot.”

“What about the gizzard? I want it on my plate now, osiso!”

A tense pause.

“I … the gizzard, I … dished it out to Kemji,” she was stumbling over her uncoordinated words. Uzoma’s eyeballs rolled in their sockets like they did whenever he was furious. His rightful portion of meat had been given to his son.

“Is Kemji blind?” he asked.

“It’s simply my fault, Papa,” she said in defense of her husband. “I thought you would like the other fleshy parts.”

“Of course, I did. Don’t you have traditions where you come from? Do you give to children what belong to their fathers?”

She was speechless.

“I ask you!” Uzoma bellowed at her, making her