FA Yuletide Writing Prize — Shortlisted Story
Theme: Dark Yuletide
Year: 2025/2026
Author: Precious Chidinma Osuagwu

Chisimdi stares out the window from the third floor of a three-storey building in Upper Iweka. Her view is the busy Onitsha road, congested with cars and people as early as 9 a.m. The song, We Wish You a Merry Christmas, carried by the Harmattan breeze to where she sits, depresses her as she recalls Christmas in 2014 — the one that opened the door to nightmares. She wishes to forget, but her brain, having a will of its own, recollects. In fragments, 25th December, 2014 starts to fall into place until she can see clearly Igbu-Oko village and her family house swelling under the hot afternoon sun…. 

If a man carrying a wheelbarrow overflowing with Christmas things and blasting a familiar Christmas song hadn’t passed by, Chisimdi wouldn’t have known it was the 25th. It was quiet where she lay entangled in wrappers soaked with her sweat, except for the ticking of the clock. She’d slept, woken up, slept, and woken up again when her mother shuffled in and out of the room. And she didn’t know when her eyelids closed again. Determined not to sleep again, she adjusted the curtains and blocked off the rays, wondering why the sun in December was usually hotter. 

Polu polu polu! The horn of another passing Christmas trolley filled her ears. She leaned against the wall, thinking. She’d have opted to spend the holiday away from home and the pangs of hunger, but no, she chose to be with her family. As if it’d be the last Christmas she’d ever do with them. During school days, she lived in the boarding house, grateful for the escape it brought her. She didn’t have to bother about what to eat, as she was doing now. Everything back there was paid for. If she were extremely hungry, she’d trade doing school work for her classmates, for their own share of food.

Here, there was nothing like that. They were as helpless as their mother. Chisimdi sighed. If she had the power, she could relieve them of all their sufferings and send her siblings to school, too. They wouldn’t have to wait for her to get out before they could get in. 

Christmas was one of those seasons when she wished things were a bit different. She dragged herself up and out of the room, and met Soma, her younger sister, who was very busy fanning herself with a book and peeling a pawpaw enthusiastically. The sun didn’t help matters at all as it poured down mercilessly onto the veranda. Chisimdi observed the girl through her lashes. 

“Merry Christmas,” Soma said, with a smirk. Chisimdi hissed. There was nothing “merry” about that day. 

“The sun is too hot,” she said to Soma, who burst out laughing. Soma shrugged, slicing the pawpaw into halves, and then, into thinner lengths on a plastic tray. 

“It’s making me crave ice cream and rice,” Chisimdi said. 

Soma made a face. “Ice cream and rice kwa? What are those?” Soma said, chuckling. Chisimdi remembered the good old days when they all looked forward to celebrating Christmas. She’d swear that Soma herself couldn’t deny that those days were still ingrained in her memory. They’d have a frightened chicken waiting to be killed by Christmas evening. That was a very long time ago. Not that it was something to throw a tantrum about now, but that nostalgic feeling of Christmas and chicken and rice left her ruffled.

Last Christmas was similar to this one, but much worse. They’d soaked garri, mixed with some floating hard kernels that ached the teeth when chewed, instead of juicy pawpaws, which Soma now cut. There was an improvement this year, but Chisimdi had this dreadful feeling that it was all the same shades of poverty. 

Pawpaw was good; it indicated that there was something nice lurking around the corner. From garri to pawpaw and what? Maybe chicken, a decent meal, who knew? 

Who knows tomorrow? That was Soma’s mantra. It was supposed to keep everyone’s hopes alive, but it aggravated the situation. They literally knew what tomorrow held. Tomorrow, they wouldn’t have what to eat or money to go to school. It made them sleep angry. On a few fortunate nights before bedtime, they ate rice. That helped their moods, and they slept a bit contented and lighthearted. The times they had bland beans for dinner (and they mostly did), their moods were messed up. 

Soma ate two slices at once. It looked appetizing, but Chisimdi wasn’t a fan. Soma still offered one to her. “It’s delicious,” she said, her eyes bright, convincing, “like ice cream.” 

“Inukwa m!” Chisimdi laughed. The shared laughter and jokes made it easier to forget their sufferings. But just when she laughed too much, her abdomen got twisted in a painful knot of obvious hunger. 

“Shebi I said join me yesterday, let’s crack palm kernels, you refused,” Soma said in between bouts of laughter.

“It’s not it. It’s not hunger.” Chisimdi shook her head. She didn’t eat the bland beans with them; she hated drinking garri, and she hated eating dried palm kernels because they were not friendly to her throat. How could she not begin to develop an ulcer? 

Chisimdi met her mother and brother, Uche, in the backyard. Uche was behind the zinc-walled kitchen, chopping firewood with a machete. His backbone jutted out, and when he turned to greet Chisimdi, his clavicles protruded underneath his chin. 

“Well done o! I greet you, sir!” She exaggerated, and Uche beamed with smiles. 

“Mumsy,” she called out to her forlorn mother, who was fanning the fire and adjusting the sticks inside the kitchen. A pot filled with water sat on the tripod.  

“Have you finished sleeping?” her mother said, accusatorily. The last thing Chisimdi wanted to do was argue with her mother, who had been terribly bitter throughout last week and this week. Yesterday, the woman was ratted out by their neighbour, who sold foodstuffs, because she owed some debts. She also didn’t want to give her palm oil on credit anymore, which implied that they’d be eating more of white beans. Her mother went ahead to tell her her ordeals that morning, saying that she borrowed some cups of rice and ingredients from Nwanyi Ofoka so that they could at least eat something different this Christmas. That was fair. And brave of her because at this point, everyone knew Chisimdi’s mother as a debtor, so they never wanted to sell to her. But Nwanyi Ofoka was a woman from their kindred who considered them as family. 

Chisimdi’s eyes brightened at the news. “Yes,” her mother said, and further explained that they would pluck some vegetables growing in the front yard to make a stew. 

Chisimdi hugged her. “Mummy, it’ll be all right. Things will get better than this,” she said. “For now, let’s be thankful. Rice and stew today is great, Mum! And you’re a great cook! No matter how small the ingredients are, you always manage to make something nice.” 

“Whatever happens today, know that I love you all,” her mother promptly said and turned back to her fire. Chisimdi stared at her, briefly confused. 

“Whatever happens today? Are we going to ShopRite?” 

“Don’t worry about it.” She waved her hand. Chisimdi forgot about it. 

As they sat around the dining table to eat together as a family for the first time in years, Chisimdi was excited and also slightly embarrassed because they’d be looking into each other’s faces and eating, like in the movies. Nothing else came to mind as to why they had to sit like this to eat. Everyone was happy, hopeful for a better future. From here onwards, there’d be brighter Christmases. 

Before they began to eat, they held hands, and her mother led the prayer while they chorused “Amen.” Then she ended it with, “Today, we’ll find the rest of our souls deserve. Amen.” And they all began to eat, hungrily. Uche finished his first and rushed to the toilet. Halfway through eating, Soma complained about her stomach. Chisimdi, having eaten a few bites, grabbed her stomach as she felt her intestines twisting. The pain was just too much to be an ulcer.

It was when Soma and her mother dropped to the floor writhing that she realized that something was wrong with the food. When she tried to stand, she felt a jab in her stomach that sent her sprawling. Her eyes widened on seeing Soma, convulsing, her mouth full of white liquid and red traces of blood. She wanted to scream, but the sound was caught up midway. She clutched her stomach weakly and, gradually, was absorbed into a long, dreamless sleep. *** 

Chisimdi wipes her tears with her fingers. She yanks off some tissue paper from the drawer and begins to ransack the files in the lower compartment. She finds what she’s looking for — an old newspaper with the headline in bold letters: MOTHER KILLS CHILDREN, COMMITS SUICIDE. 

She fiddles with it and cries some more.