~ SEVENTY-FIVE ~

~ SEVENTY-FIVE ~
Christmas at the Orjiakor mansion in Lagos was different this year.
Very different.

It was the first Christmas they were spending without Chief Felix Orjiakor, and even though it had been months since his burial, the air still hung heavy with an invisible weight. The loss wasn’t spoken about loudly anymore — it was buried under layers of laughter, food, and festive preparations — but it was there. Always there. A hollow ache in the walls, a subtle stillness in the halls he used to stride through, commanding every gaze, every ear.

This year was also different because, by tradition, they were meant to travel to the family estate in Anambra for the holidays, to spend two weeks in the village surrounded by cousins, uncles, and well-meaning busybodies. But no one had the heart for that now. No grand convoy, no noisy village procession. Instead, Uncle Adolfus — Chief Felix’s younger brother — had insisted they all gather in Lagos.

And so, they did.

The Orjiakor mansion had come alive in a way it hadn’t in years.
The large white villa, trimmed with red and gold lights, buzzed with the energy of a dozen voices layered over each other.
Inside the marble-floored halls and rich, oak-paneled sitting rooms, people moved like colorful ribbons of life — housekeepers carrying trays of small chops, gardeners arranging fresh poinsettias by the grand staircase, children’s laughter echoing faintly from upstairs.

The visitors had poured in too: neighbors stopping by with hampers and smiles, old family friends coming to pay holiday respects, even church members arriving unannounced just to "greet mummy."

Lady Angela Orjiakor — the formidable matriarch herself — moved through the house like a general surveying her troops.
Dressed in an elegant emerald-green kaftan that glittered under the chandelier lights, she smiled politely at the guests but there was a sharpness in her eyes, like glass polished too smooth.
She missed her husband terribly.
But today, she wore her mask of grace — for her children, for her guests, for herself.

"Chef Uzo, please, not too much pepper in the jollof rice this time," she called lightly as she passed the kitchen, her voice cutting through the clatter of pots.

"Yes ma!" came the enthusiastic reply.

From the parlor, peals of laughter floated — Uncle Adolfus, a large man with a booming voice, was telling one of his infamous tales, gesturing animatedly.
His wife, Aunty Amara, perched gracefully beside him, occasionally laughing and rolling her eyes at his exaggerations. Their kids, Collins — a lanky boy with a mischievous grin — and Adaugo, sweet but sharp-tongued, flitted between the adults and the dessert table like restless birds.

Obinze, Obinna’s older brother, had returned from Abuja, bringing along his girlfriend, Amira — a soft-spoken, stunning woman with caramel skin and curious eyes that drank in the lively Orjiakor household with both fascination and terror.

"Amira! Come and sit with me, let me teach you how to wrap small chops properly," Aunty Amara called, laughing.

Amira obliged shyly, squeezing in beside the women who were gossiping and folding spring rolls.

The house was noisy, colorful, alive.

Everyone seemed to have found a way to press forward. To laugh despite the ache. To celebrate despite the absence.

Everyone except Obinna.

Upstairs, in the furthest room down the long corridor — his old room, with the wide windows facing the gardens — Obinna sat curled at the edge of his bed, head bent low.

The muffled sounds of joy downstairs seemed to mock the emptiness inside him.

His hands were loosely clasped together, elbows resting on his knees, and his phone lay forgotten on the bed beside him.
Every so often, he’d glance at it, almost willing it to buzz with a message from her.

Kaima.

Even just her name was a wound.

He hated what he had become.
He hated the lies he had told — not just to her, but to himself.

"A pass time."
The words he had thrown so carelessly at her that evening came back now, loud and venomous in his ears.
He hadn’t meant it. God, he hadn’t meant any of it.

He loved her.
More than he thought he could ever love anyone.
But fear — that damn, gut-wrenching fear — had pushed him into the arms of his past.
Hadiza had been familiar, easy to manipulate. Kaima... Kaima was terrifying because she made him feel. Because with her, there was no armor to hide behind.

And now she was gone.

Maybe forever.

He buried his face in his hands, a broken exhale escaping his lips.

Downstairs, someone turned on the stereo and Christmas carols filled the air, a stark contrast to the war raging inside him.
He could hear Collins' boisterous laughter as he argued with Adaugo over the last bottle of malt. He could hear Uncle Adolfus calling for more nkwobi. He could hear life moving on around him, without him.

The world had not stopped for his heartbreak.
It never did.

The only thing that stopped... was him.

Obinna tilted his head back, staring blankly at the ceiling, trying to drown out the guilt, the longing, the bitter regret.
It was Christmas Eve, and while the Orjiakor mansion throbbed with celebration below, upstairs, in one lonely room, a boy who had broken his own heart sat and wished he could go back in time and simply —

choose her.

\----

Christmas at the Ifedi household was everything it had always promised to be — laughter, love, and loudness.

This year, it was even more special.

The Ifedi family home, nestled in the quiet green suburbs of Enugu, was packed to the brim with life again, every corner buzzing with voices, every room smelling of jollof rice, fried chicken, and the familiar hint of burning candles placed around the living room in festive spirit.
It was the kind of Christmas that warmed the bones, the heart, and the spirit.

Adaora — the second child and the family’s very own Dr. Adaora Ifedi — had returned home from Lagos, her smile brighter than the morning sun.
And she hadn’t come alone.

She came with Dare, her boyfriend, a charming, soft-spoken man who immediately from their first visit had won the hearts of everyone.
The moment Dare stepped through the front door, Kaima’s mother, Mama Ifedi, had clutched him in a hug so tight it had made everyone burst into laughter.

"Finally! My son in law is home. Someone that has agreed to marry this stubborn Adaora!" Mama Ifedi had exclaimed, her voice thick with joy.

"Ah, mummy, they just came to visit o!" Kaima teased from behind, grinning widely.

"You think I'm joking? My eyes have seen my children's children already!" Mama Ifedi said, waving her hand dramatically as everyone chuckled.

Ifenna — the eldest — had also returned home, all six-foot-three of him, as sturdy and dependable as ever.
The family’s pride and joy, Engineer Ifenna Ifedi, with his calm wisdom and playful teasing, had brought home the third child too — Ikenna — a bright-eyed final-year Psychology student, who never missed a chance to psychoanalyze every small argument in the house.

Kaima, the fourth child, and of course, the radiant baby of the family, Tochukwu — still in secondary school — completed the cheerful, chaotic picture.

The house was filled with shouts, running feet, and clinking cutlery.
Dare helped Papa Ifedi fix a broken chair in the dining room, while Mama Ifedi called everyone to help wrap meat pies in the kitchen.
Ifenna tried to orchestrate a family group photo but spent more time laughing at their antics than getting them to stay still.

"Adaora, your hand is blocking Kaima’s head!" he groaned, adjusting the phone’s timer.

"She’s short! It’s not my fault!" Adaora shot back, grinning.

"Ah! See insult!" Kaima gasped dramatically, tossing a throw pillow at her sister.

"Leave them, leave them," Dare laughed, slinging an arm over Adaora’s shoulder. "Short people always have the loudest mouths."

The entire family howled with laughter at that, and even Ikenna, who had been pretending to be serious, was giggling uncontrollably.

Christmas music played from an old speaker Papa Ifedi refused to replace — “Boney M Christmas Medley” — and the rich voice of the lead singer blended with the sizzling sounds from the kitchen and the noise of a dozen conversations happening at once.

Kaima stood for a moment by the doorway, watching it all.

Her heart felt full.
In a way it hadn't in a long, long time.

It wasn’t that she had forgotten the hurt, the heartbreak.
No.
Obinna’s betrayal still lingered in the corners of her mind like a stubborn shadow.
But here, surrounded by the people who loved her fiercely and unconditionally, the pain didn’t own her.
Here, she could breathe again.

Kaima smiled to herself, hugging her arms around her waist as she took it all in — the blur of colorful Christmas wrappers strewn across the floor, the rich smell of goat meat pepper soup simmering, the sparkle of tinsel on the staircase, the excited voices planning a Christmas Day family picnic.

She had made it.
Through the worst heartbreak.
Through the ugly nights of doubt and loneliness.
Through the tears she hadn’t told anyone about.

And now, there was only light.

She jumped as someone tugged her wrist.

"Kaima! Come and join us!" Tochukwu was beaming, pulling her into the center of the living room where everyone was attempting to dance to the blaring music.

Kaima laughed — full-bodied, eyes-crinkling, soul-deep laughter — and allowed herself to be pulled in, swinging her hips with exaggerated movements that made everyone cheer and clap.

"Ah! Wife material!" Papa Ifedi called from his recliner, laughter dancing in his voice.

"Chai, see as my daughter fine!" Mama Ifedi added proudly, clapping along.

Kaima threw her head back, laughing harder, feeling — for the first time in months — like herself again.
Whole. Unburdened. Bright.

She danced among her family, her cheeks flushed from laughter, her soul draped in gratitude.

Outside, the Harmattan wind blew gently, carrying the scent of dry leaves and the promise of new beginnings.

Inside, the Ifedi house pulsed with life, hope, and love.

And Kaima —
Kaima knew, deep in her healing heart —

She was exactly where she needed to be.