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𝐶𝒉𝑟𝑖𝑠𝑡𝑚𝑎𝑠 𝑖𝑠 𝑎 𝑠𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑜𝑛 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑜𝑛𝑙𝑦 𝑜𝑓 𝑟𝑒𝑗𝑜𝑖𝑐𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝑜𝑓 𝑟𝑒𝑓𝑙𝑒𝑐𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛. – 𝑾𝒊𝒏𝒔𝒕𝒐𝒏 𝑪𝒉𝒖𝒓𝒄𝒉𝒊𝒍𝒍.

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Every Christmas, without fail, we would pay a visit to Grandma. She lived all the way in the village, a literal three-hour drive from our house and more with traffic, but it was the highlight of my holiday. As a child, I’d literally fly out of the car immediately we got there, rushing into her arms, then running through the house in hopes of getting to the backyard where the chickens were kept, while my mother kept screaming at me to calm down and remove my slippers. This year, though, I was an adult. It made things different, but my age wasn’t the only thing that had changed through the years.

My parents still stopped at the mall to buy things that we’d need while we were away. My dad was a wine enthusiast, and when I was younger, it was thrilling to watch him sort and pick through wines and talk to little me who was way too young to understand why champagne was the best for celebrations, but we’d still need red wine because it had an awesome taste. Now that I knew he had a dreadful drinking habit, I never went with him into the wine aisle; I only followed him judgmentally with my eyes as he walked somewhat shamefully through it.

My younger sister and I tried to help my mum remember important things and add them to the cart. I sang along to “Joy to the World” as it played through the mall, while my mother and sister fought like they had done every Christmas since Eniola had become a teenager.

“But mummy, don’t you think it’d be better to have chocolates this year?” Eniola piped up cheerfully, “We can eat them, we can share them with our cousins, everyone will be happy.”

“Eniola, e ma yomi lenu jare. We don’t need them,” my mother retorted.

“But it’d be nice to change things up a bit,” Eniola said stubbornly as she picked up the Dairy Milk; my mother slapped her hand, and she abruptly dropped it. I could feel the eyes of everyone in our aisle on us.

“Ti m ba fun e nigbati!” my mother snapped at her, “It’s not me you’re going to disgrace in public with your rubbish attitude. Honestly, I don’t blame you. It’s your daddy and your sister…”

I had long learned to tune her out when she became like this. I don’t really know what happened to my mother, but it was like every Christmas, she became more irritable, sadder, and a lot older. The worry lines were etched in her face like ancient markings in wood, and she always walked with her shoulder slouched and a deeply etched frown like she was being forced to go through life. I think it started the year that my dad’s cousins started making comments about her, her cooking, her outfits, her aging, the behavior of me and Eniola. Now she was so self-conscious and uptight and it was only when we were around Grandma that we had some relief.

I wanted to pacify Eniola so she wouldn’t get herself killed, so I said, “Maybe we can bake a cake when we get to Grandma’s?”

She smiled at me, and I thought the incident was behind us. But when we finally wrapped up our shopping, and I was busy pulling a trolley full of Christmas stuff towards the car, my mother reached out and gave Eniola a loud, hot slap.

“Every time your mouth will just be moving cho, cho, cho, cho,” she said as we reached the car. “Always ungrateful, always talking without thinking. Just like that your useless father.”

Upon hearing the slap, the “useless father” in question got out of the driver’s seat.

“Ah ahn, Ayoola!” he said to my mother. “What happened now?”

“Better shut up there!” my mother yelled. “When you were supposed to be there for them, training them so that they wouldn’t spoil, you were busy inhaling wine! Now you want to interfere, what nonsense.”

My father said nothing and got back into the car. He was ashamed, no doubt, and I low-key felt bad for him. But then my mother sent me a glare that was telling me to put the things in the boot of the car, so I did just that.

Carols filled the car, but no one, absolutely no one sang along. It made the trip longer somehow because I remember growing up, singing along to carols was a way to pass the time. Once my parents noticed that we were getting bored or Eniola and I had started fighting, they’d put in a CD, and peace would instantly return. I was eighteen now, and I knew every single Christmas hymn by heart and the sequence in which they played.

I reached out to squeeze Eniola’s shoulder encouragingly to let her know I had her back. She smiled at me sadly, letting me know she appreciated the gesture.

"Do you know which hymn is Grandma’s favorite?” Eniola asked.

I thought about it for a while before replying, “Hark the Herald Angels Sing. I think she likes it best when it’s playing on the piano. She says it’s a way of announcing, ‘December is for Jesus losers.”

Eniola laughed, “She didn’t say it like that.”

I laughed too, then sighed. The last time I had enjoyed singing with Grandma was when I was thirteen. By the next year, all our relatives had divided their attentions and backhanded comments between me and my mother. Grandma became stricter too; she didn’t like me wearing makeup, heels that were too high, or using my headphones. My parents always made me conform to everything she said instead of speaking up. Now, whenever the hymns play, I just sit in a corner of her living room, singing to myself.

“Are you good, Pipe?” my sister asked me. I nodded quietly. I was anything but good, but I didn’t really feel like talking about it. I listened to the sweet, calming Christmas hymns until I fell asleep.

A loud “Ekaaro sir oh” woke me up and let me know that we had reached the village. I rubbed my eyes as the car rolled along, tilting this way and that because of the bad roads. My father had often said the governor did absolutely nothing in obvious, while my mother laughed, joking that he was one of my father’s townsmen since they were from the same state. I could see through the window that the residents of the town were also getting ready for Christmas. Some had adorned their shops with bright yellow lights, some had green and red ribbons, others had Christmas trees, while some more had a mixture of both. The car kept on moving and going along; it was like we were quarantined from the joy and laughter that everyone else was experiencing.

Eventually, we reached the dusty road that led to our destination. We drove on until we got to the entrance, and then my dad parked. No one had to tell us to get down; we did so quietly and moodily as we proceeded inside the area.

Every year since I became a teen, I wondered if Grandma was ever really happy to see me. I wondered right now, as I tried to avoid muddy patches and keep up with the rest of my family. I’d been so rebellious and annoying when I was younger, and she seemed not to understand what was going on; she didn’t know how best to handle it. She’d slip five thousand into my hand on every visit, and she always made her signature amala every single year. Except this year, I guess.

My parents and sister were already at Grandma’s “residence” where she had been laid to rest earlier this year. It was bleak, unlike the rest of the town, devoid of life, having absolutely no décor, not even the slightest twinkling of a Christmas light. My family took turns talking to my grandmother—her headstone anyway, and I willed myself not to cry.

“Mummy, I’m sorry,” my father began tearfully, “I messed up when you were alive, I messed everything up. I was the son you were proud of, your light, your joy and instead of me holding on to all that, I threw it all away. The alcohol meant nothing to me mama, and I should’ve stopped when you said so. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

He covered his face to contain his sobs and walked back towards the rest of us. And for the first time in a long time, my mother hugged him and held him while he cried. Out of all of this, she was the one holding herself together best. Her eyes were filled to the brim with tears, but not a single tear had dropped. Eniola, on the other hand, was crying freely, her face soaked with tears. But her tears were innocent, they were tears of a child who simply missed her grandmother, tears of a child who had no regrets. Just by looking at my mother’s eyes, I could tell that they held years and years of regret and words left unsaid. Unfortunately, it seemed like it would always remain that way.

I walked forward and stood in front of my grandmother’s grave. She’d been like me when she was alive: dark-skinned, alluring eyes, a small stature, and a pretty smile. Even old age hadn’t been able to take away her smile, the one she’d flash at me whenever I ran into her arms. The tears began to fall from my eyes as I pulled a paper out of my pocket. I began to read my poem, willing myself not to shake and break down.

Merry Christmas
To everyone who is here
And everyone who isn’t
A special person, not a lover
But a woman who deserves much more than just my gratitude

Merry Christmas to you, Grandma, I hope the angels play "Hark the Herald Angels Sing" the way you liked.

What happened to us,
I really don’t know.
What could’ve happened if we stopped to talk, if we sang but one more song together,
I really don’t know.
But I know that I miss you, I miss you more than anything else.
More than anything else, anyone else, I’ve ever lost.
I’d skip a thousand Christmases if it meant you were at your house,
Waiting for me to run into your arms again.

Do I even deserve to mourn you?
The way I treated you.
I mean, I willingly let everything we had fall apart.
Do you think of me in heaven? Do you look down on us?
Do you miss us? Do you miss me?
Does the thought of me crying every night make you burst into tears?

I know it was your time. You lived a good life.
I understand that seasons must change and that heaven is your real home.
But I wish I hadn’t been such a coward, you know?
I wish I had spoken up.
I wish I had reconciled, I wish I had tried.
I wish I had spoken to you, with you.
I wish I hadn’t shut you out.

It was so easy when we were all in the moment,
To ignore the fire we’d all lit, the one that’s currently burning
Our relationships and bonds to pieces.
And now it’s too late to salvage anything.
Ashes are all that remain.
I love you grandma, I really hope you know that
Merry Christmas to you, once more.

© Oreoluwa .A. Odusote.
Truewriter2020