FA Yuletide Writing Prize — Shortlisted Story
Theme: Dark Yuletide
Year: 2025/2026
Author: Ademiju Omotomiwa Boluwatife

Thud. Thud. Thud.

A steady pounding, rhythmic even, not from the ilyu or indyer. Those were from times passed. The duty had now been delegated to our hearts. 

Aside from my heart, the only other sounds were those of crickets and the rustling of leaves. The adults were mostly gone, and the children were not spared. Some were snatched by death, and others by the fear of death. 

Festive December, an oxymoron. Each family had tales of loss, while some had none to tell. The dead cannot speak.

December had no merriment. It was a time of fear and a time to remember the multitudes lost to death, not from outbreaks of disease but at the hands of men. Once upon a time, our  prayers had been a bountiful harvest, and our fears were pests. Our prayers and fears shifted.  We prayed not to be prey. 

Farms passed down through generations were abandoned, and years of toil were lost. 

I allowed my mind to wander; reality was too painful a thing. The safety I craved lay a few years back, a time when noise was good, silence was peace, and strangers invoked no sense of  danger. 

A time when I was moved by vanity and my reflection in the mirror brought a smile to my  face. My mother often said I lived up to my name, Maseh. 

December used to be a period where our population doubled in size. The bulk of the addition  was family members of villagers who came to spend the holiday. It was easy to spot those from the city by their clothes, their pace, their requests, their style, their speech, especially  the way they butchered our mother tongue. Teaching the visitors our way of life and things

basic to us filled me with pride and filled them with awe. The fascination was not one-sided.  They also had interesting stories to tell from the city. It was a time of the year where I got to  travel without taking a step, basking in the experiences of others and stealing them for my  dreams. During our tale exchange, life beyond our little village felt daunting. 

Life in the village was simple. It was humble, peaceful, and held not too many  surprises. Life involved continuing the family business, which more often than not was  farming, and starting a family. 

I grossly underestimated just how good we had it.

Our panic started with the rumours of attacks on neighbouring villages. Our community  heads gathered us for meetings. Don’t stay out late, lock your doors, go to the farm with  someone. Those were the instructions given. Those instructions were short-lived, and with  time, they changed. Don’t go to the farm. Life was more important than crops.

When the horrors we feared came, no one needed any instructions. Fathers ran, hoping their children found an escape, too. Family bonds were tested. The race was one without preparation or destination, fueled solely by adrenaline and a desire to live. Don’t be caught, don’t die echoed in my head as I ran. The first drive was surprisingly more significant than the latter; the horrors of what our attackers offered were far scarier than death, and death was plentiful. 

After the first attack, most of the villagers who survived came back in hope  that it was a one-time strike. We consoled ourselves in the fallacy that the attack wouldn’t repeat itself.

We dug many graves for those killed twice; their bodies had met a second death at the hands of birds, flies, and decay. No honour in death and none after. Faces were rotten, and the identifying factor of the dead were the clothes they had on them, that is, for those whose  clothes had not been stripped. 

We used wheelbarrows and shovels to pack the remains of the dead. Those who had no  relatives or could not be identified were piled together and buried without names. We sang no  songs. It was not a celebration of life but a display of the cruelty of mankind. That alone was  not the sole reason for our muted lips; deep down, we feared our attackers would return. 

Those of us who remained treaded carefully, stripped of our humanity, our ability to grieve stifled. The muted tears hooked our throats, and when our airways were blocked, cough was our disguise. 

After days of fear, we carried on with living. The living must live, even if joyless. 

As expected and contrary to our delusions, our village had more attacks. Our land became a  ghostland, a land of no footprints. Though a few people survived, none dared to set foot back  in our village, which now offered only grief and death. 

Today, I lay covered in many wrappers. The cold is harsh, but life has been harsher.  My lips are broken in multiple patches, but that is minor; it could have been my guts. Our village has never felt this cold. There was once hot soup, fire, people, laughter, and joy to warm us. 

The wrappers I have on belong to my mother; she too is clothed in even more wrappers.  She is susceptible to cold, and as she ages, we take more precautions during Harmattan. It is up to me to keep her warm now.

During the good old days, acquiring new wrappers was a favourite pastime of my mother. I  remember the way her eyes lit up when she draped herself in new wrappers. The wrappers, which had spent most of their time in a box, finally had the opportunity to show themselves during the festivities.

The wrappers were not the only thing that showed themselves. My mother turned heads at the  village square when she burst into dance steps, giving the younglings a run for their money. When  she danced, she was in her element. Watching her made me long for visuals of her younger  days, when she was full of life and vitality. Younger mother would have been a sight to  behold. 

My father was a lucky man. Though I have no recollection of him, all I know of him are the  tales my mother recounted. He died when I was very young.

My mother is the reason I still remain in the village, though I have had countless reasons not to. 

My mother is the string to my feet, the reason I am grounded. I cannot leave her behind,  not after years of being her shadow. We only have each other. 

I rub my hands vigorously in an attempt to get blood to flow to them. I stand. Standing on cold, calloused feet is painful, but pain is proof of life. I dust the sand on my body and  squat down. With my index finger, which has regained its mobility, I write in the sand: 

Mnena Akombo 

2nd June 1976–25th December 2023