A Naija Christmas

FEHINTOLA

Tuesday 26 November 2024.

“Wait, Ray, you’re taking the writing gig? Don’t tell me you’re not going home to spend Christmas with your family!” Rose —my colleague exclaimed lowly, slinging her bag over her shoulder as she prepared to leave. I glanced up from my laptop and turned to her, a small smile plastered on my face.

“Rose, I’m Nigerian. Christmas back home is just… chaos wrapped in tinsel. Besides, we’ve got bigger problems in Nigeria than Christmas carols.”

“Nigerians are not that Holiday-Oriented,” I added, Her jaw dropped in exaggerated disbelief, staring at me in amusement that there’s actually a place in the world where Christmas isn’t sacred. I smirked, turning back to my laptop, my fingers hovering over the keys.

“Let me put it this way—if I go home and my visa doesn’t get renewed, my enemies will laugh at me. And trust me, Rose, I can’t let my village people win.”

She chuckled, shaking her head as if I’d just told her the most ridiculous thing she’d ever heard.

“Fair enough. Still, Ray, don’t work yourself into the ground, okay?”

“I’ll try,” I replied, offering her a small, knowing smile.

“Merry Christmas and Happy New Year in advance!” she called out as she reached the door.

“And the same to you,” I said, watching as she waved over her shoulder and disappeared into the hallway, the door closing with a gentle thud behind her.

The office fell silent again. I leaned back in my chair, staring at the blinking cursor on the screen. Another Christmas away from home. This is actually my fifth year away from home and honestly there was nothing to miss at home.

I’ve always spent Christmas alone in my apartment, either curled up in bed asleep or writing as usual, but maybe this time wouldn’t be so bad. My fiancée invited me to spend the holidays with his family.

The loud blare of my phone pulled me out of my thoughts. I tore my gaze from the glowing screen of my laptop, glancing reluctantly at the caller ID. Mr. Bankole.

I sighed. My father. What could he possibly want now? Slowly, I picked up the phone and swiped to answer.

“Hi, Daddy. Good afternoon, sir,” I greeted, keeping my tone as neutral and respectful as possible.

“Fehintola,” he began, skipping all formalities as usual. Back in Lagos, everyone called me Fehintola. But here in New York, where Americans butchered its pronunciation so effortlessly, I’d decided it was easier to go by my middle name, Racheal. Or just Ray.

“You’re coming home for Christmas, right? We have important matters to discuss.” He continued.

“What’s so important that we can’t discuss it over the phone, Daddy?” I asked, already suspecting his intentions. This wasn’t the first time we’d danced around this topic, and we both knew exactly how it would end. Since I got here he hasn’t persisted me about coming home, Christmas or not, until two months ago.

“It’s not a matter for the phone,” he replied sternly.

“I’m commanding you as your father to come home! Bring your fiancé with you—it’s high time we met him physically. That’s the least respect you can show us as your parents!”

I clenched my jaw, gripping the phone tighter. I knew his game. This wasn’t about respect or even meeting my fiancée. He wanted me back in Lagos, where he could corner me, rope me into staying, and bury me under his plans for my life.

“Daddy, you can’t just command me to come home,” I said evenly.

“I’m not the twenty year old that left your house, I’m an adult now. Jeff and I already have plans for the holidays. I’m sorry, but we won’t be able to come home this year. Maybe next time.”

The line went quiet for a moment, but I could practically hear the anger simmering on the other end.

“Fehintola,” he said finally, his voice sharp and obviously pissed.

“At this juncture, you’ll have to make a choice. Quit that child’s play you call writing children’s books, come back home, and join the family business—or stay there in Los Angeles and consider yourself cut off from this family.”

His words struck like a slap. But instead of anger, all I felt was a familiar ache—a reminder of the gap that had always existed between us. A reminder that no matter how I tried, I could never measure up to the perfect image they had in their head of my older brother, if he hadn’t gone missing. I let out a bitter laugh, the kind that barely reached my throat.

“When was I ever a member of this family, Daddy?” I asked, my voice low but steady.

Once again the line fell silent.

“Omo yi! Since you left for that America Oti wà bàjẹ́!” (This Child, since you left for America, you’ve become spoilt!) he snorted.

“You already know my answer,” I continued ignoring his words, swallowing the lump in my throat.

“I’m sorry, but I have to go now. I’m busy.”

Without waiting for a reply, I pulled the phone away from my ear and ended the call.

I stared at my phone for a moment longer before tossing it onto the desk. My Father is a wealthy man back in Nigeria, we lived in the most luxurious estate in Nigeria, he owned chains of businesses. I was one of the ten percent of Nigerian children who was lucky enough to live in luxury because of their parents money. Maybe that’s why they think I owe them my life and I don’t get to chose my path and live my life myself.

My phone buzzed again, pulling me out of my spiraling thoughts. I sighed, already rolling my eyes as I reached for it. What now?

But as soon as I saw the sender’s name, the frustration melted away, replaced by a smile so wide it felt like it might split my face in two. Jeff.

-Hi baby. I just got to your apartment, but you’re apparently not at home. I know you’ll be late from work, but I’ll wait for you till you get back. I love you.-

I stared at the words for a moment, my chest warming in a way that pushed all the heaviness of the day to the background, he just knows the right moments to say certain things to me.

“I no go marry Oyinbo ke? We die here!” I muttered under my breath, chuckling to myself. Quickly, I typed a reply:

-Okay baby. I’ll text you once I’m done. Love you too.-

As I hit send, my eyes drifted back to my laptop screen. The blinking cursor mocked me, I have a truckload of deadlines to meet. My father’s words from earlier echoed in my mind, making it even harder to focus. On a second thought, maybe I didn’t need to. Not today.

I let out a long breath and started shutting down my laptop. Whatever this work was, it could wait. Right now, I needed to be somewhere else—anywhere else that didn’t remind me of the conversation that had left me feeling so small and drained.

Home. With Jeff.

Thirty Five minutes Later.

Home.

I pressed my hand against the keypad, typing in my passcode. The soft click of the lock disengaging welcomed me home, and I pushed the door open.

Stepping inside, I scanned the living room. Empty. My brows knitted together. Jeff had said he’d wait for me—so where was he?

“Babe?” I called out, my voice echoing faintly in the stillness.

No response.

I dropped my bag on the couch and started toward my room, but nothing in this world prepared me for what I saw when I pushed the door open.

There he was.

Jeff. My Jeff.

Tangled with another woman.

On my bed.

My breath caught, suspended somewhere between a gasp and a choke. Time seemed to stutter as I took in the scene before me. Her hands roamed his back, her legs wrapped around his waist like she had every right to be there. His lips—those same lips that had whispered “I love you” about an hour ago—were pressed hungrily against hers.

My chest tightened, a scream finding its way up my throat, but nothing came out.

For a moment, I forgot how to move, how to think, how to breathe. I just stood there, frozen, watching the life I thought I had built, shatter into a million pieces.

Finally, I found my voice, though it was jagged and weak.

“Jeff?”