FA Yuletide Writing Prize — Shortlisted Story
Theme: Dark Yuletide
Year: 2025/2026
Author: Ibiapuye Tom Oruwari

December 20

At six in the morning, Mom sat back from her laptop, face buried in her hands. She had been staring at the cursor on the screen. Actually, one moment she was clicking gift links, and the next she saw an invitation from her nephew, Abiye. 

Mom’s expression was upsetting, really. Over the years, she told a slew of stories about her birth town, Abonnema — citizens drifting in and out of neighbours’ houses, sharing food and drinks. Meet-cutes on boats off the island. A society where, even in dark moments, families still sat in bed, huddled together in the glow of the TV screen. So, why was she telling herself not to go? 

“It’s a gift, and we’re going,” I ended the discussion and packed our bags for the road. 

December 22. 

The island was bubbling with festive colours of green and red. It seemed like everyone was coming down here. 

We pulled over. 

Mom tapped on Abiye’s front door. The silence giving way to murmurs behind the closed door, we looked at each other while the door creaked open. As Abiye ushered us in, we met an uncle, Lindsey, standing tall and agile. Mom muttered, “Oh, no.” And I figured she was avoiding this exact gathering. 

“Look at this!” — so much a welcome from Uncle Lindsey. 

Uh? They had set up a feathery tree garbed in a glittering array of ribbons, bows, and rainbow-coloured lightbulbs. 

“Once again, it’s called a Christmas tree.” Abiye scowled. 

“It looks all fake and wrong,” Uncle Lindsey said. 

“Could you do any better?” 

Uncle Lindsey went to a corner and heaved a huge freshly fallen tree into the living room, scattering leaves across the floor. 

“But- but- my living room!” 

“Special tree,” Uncle Lindsey patted the timber. “Earned from my sweat.” “You’ve gotta be kidding.” Abiye’s voice cranked up in volume. “Dead leaves and dirt — what’s special?” 

Mom dropped her bag with a thud. “Alright boys. Why don’t we take a vote?” Heads nodded. Three against one. 

Uncle Lindsey went out for a few bevvies soon after. Abiye, with joy, took out the mass of leaves. 

“It has always been like this,” Mom said. “The competition. At least now it’s not about wealth.” 

The first faltering steps to a family reunion, I thought, believing the holiday quibbling would end, as all things do. 

Without a sense of family, the ornamental tree stood hollow, all too frail, enough to come crashing down. 

Mom left for her room. 

I, too, left for my room. 

Four hours later. In the afternoon sunlight, in the little clearing of Abiye’s tree garden, a so-chic so-elegant backyard, we sat round a table of crystal white glass. Mom poured herself a glass of wine, then a milky sweet tea for me. Abiye swirled his wine as if in thought. “I’m playing Okolo Krukru tomorrow.” “What’s that?” I asked. 

“A masquerade.” Mom’s dour-thinned lips were a shade of disgust. “A shark masquerade.” Abiye leaned in my direction. 

My face lit up. “I heard Kalabari masquerades are based on mythology.” “Water spirits mostly.” He dropped his glass cup. 

“Can I watch?” I asked. 

Mom laughed so hard she sobbed. No words necessary. She wouldn’t let me go, but I was a grown lady. With the intense stare between her and me, Mom pushed away from the table and left. 

I whispered, although mispronounced. “Furo-wari, obiobele.” Kalabari words I learnt in case family dinners were going south. It meant ‘Family, smile.’ Something like ‘Enough with the brooding eyes, the house is filled with smiles,’ but nothing ever went as rehearsed. 

“I’m heading to the cemetery,” Abiye said, getting off his seat. 

“Why?” 

“It’s a ritual to invoke the spirits. By daybreak, we wade the mangroves, deep into the rivers.” 

“Now this is exciting!” I stood. 

“Yeah. You got Google Maps, right?” He drifted around the table and brought his phone close to my face. “The southern coast of the western island. There’s a bridge. Wait there tomorrow morning.” 

I nodded. He broke into a stroll while Mom returned. She and I sat on opposite sides of the table, with a long, silent stare. 

“Well?” 

“Well, what?” I drank in slow sips. 

“What are you playing at?” 

Still looking straight at her, I only recognised her eyes. 

“I’m learning my culture,” I said. 

“Don’t play that card.” Mom tutted. Then, her eyes flicked away. “Well, Abiye is a good boy. They are all good people honestly.” 

“Why are you so against this reunion?” I asked. 

“Christmas celebration here—” a dramatic pause followed. She faced me. “It does things to people. The pressure to show off wealth.” 

“Oh, my God!” I rolled my eyes. 

“Playing Okolo Krukru pays so much. But one is also playing with dark forces.” I leaned in her direction. “Please tell.” 

“The steel, the mirror…” Mom whispered to herself, then took a mouthful of wine. “The shark is a war god rising from the sea. He once claimed dominion over this grand island.” 

“Oh, another myth.” I sighed. 

“Go if you must. But be careful.” 

December 23. 

I left the house and walked south of the western island, to a bridge linking to the main island. 

Chilly morning air. Loud cheers from the large audience. No cars. Just vendor trucks serving. 

With the aid of binoculars, I bore witness to the entry of the masquerade bound thickly in George wrappers. The end of his costume, assuming that was Abiye, trailed behind him, adorned with a froth of black lace. Then, slick, black bales of hay braided down his back. 

Swinging his bulging tail of fabric, the masquerade drew himself up tall, with a shark made from excellent woodcraft strapped firmly to his shoulder. He wore that shark all through the day, leaping and dancing to the rhythm of the drums. He also held a pair of thin, long blades with sharp, curved tips. 

Gazing from the high bridge, at the sea, I saw the masquerade thrust his blades deep into the water as the boat approached land. The sea erupted, and the wave hit the coast, a stream of air sending chills down my spine. 

The small crowd beside me dropped to their knees, lips singing praise, crying out to Okolo Krukru. Everyone else smiled, some fizzing with excitement. His eyes drew upward, and somehow he held the exact blades he had thrown earlier. How? This time, one blade sliced through the air. The masquerade’s dark-coal stare pierced my soul, my heart beating, my chest rising and falling, similarly to the feverish rhythm of the drums. 

The blade spun across the bridge and sliced into my shoulder. Painless, blood seeping through, cold to the touch. 

The masquerade leapt all the way up to the bridge and stood, towering over me, and drew out his blade. 

I couldn’t utter a word. 

“You have been blessed by the war god,” a woman said, her voice heavy with admiration. 

I walked backwards. The masquerade stepped closer. Then, an arm patted my shoulder before pulling me hard to a man’s chest. 

“Leave her alone.” The voice was Uncle Lindsey’s. 

The masquerade heaved and shuffled off to the crowd, its fabrics floating with a breeze of elegance and grace. They swallowed him up and drifted away with him like a school of sardines, leaving Uncle Lindsey and me alone at the bridge. “Your mother will be furious,” Uncle Lindsey said. 

“What will happen to me?” I asked. 

“Let’s get you cleaned up first.” He led me to the sea’s mouth and ripped off the fabric around my shoulder. Wiping off the blood, a black print of a shark’s tail was tattooed on that spot. 

December 24. 

Dining table set with a white linen tablecloth and a cheerful flowerpot. Lighting made with candles. Champagne fizzing out of a bottle, glasses clicked. A toast. Bubbling swells and frothing in my mouth, the fruity tang of perfection. 

“I wanna apologise—” Mom stood, everyone else still in their seats. “For how I’ve been acting. And I pray 2026 makes our family stronger.” 

We raised our cups and took another sip. 

Within a split second, the wind howled around me, and it took quite some time to process the situation — everyone moving in slow motion and their voice incomprehensible. Then, white clouds escaped from my lips, while little sparks of different colours rained down from a huge shark spiraling above. “Daughter.” A faint voice. 

“Daughter!” Mom snapped her fingers and brought me back to reality.

“Uh? Sorry.” I shook my head. 

“Are you gonna sing that special song of yours?” Mom asked. 

“Oh, Mom. I don’t wanna steal the spotlight.” I smiled and swirled my drink. “Please do,” Abiye said, draped in a gown of pure white. 

Uncle Lindsey nodded. 

I stood up, beaming. In the end, this Christmas experience was a chuckle-worthy good time. I sang. Everyone sang along, except the apparition behind the window opposite me.

What have I gotten myself into?