~ SEVENTY-SIX ~

~ SEVENTY-SIX ~
The morning of Christmas Day dawned cool and golden, the air carrying that special crispness that only December in Nigeria knew how to offer — a blend of Harmattan dryness and faint, smoky scents from distant firewood cooking.

By 10 a.m., the Ifedi household was buzzing with excitement.

Mama Ifedi barked cheerful orders from the veranda, overseeing the packing of cooler boxes loaded with jollof rice, fried plantains, grilled fish, peppered chicken, zobo drink, and homemade chin-chin.
Adaora and Dare packed the mats and picnic baskets into the back of Ifenna’s SUV, while Tochukwu darted back and forth between the house and the car, carrying forgotten water bottles, extra plates, and a portable Bluetooth speaker.

"Tochukwu, careful with that!" Ikenna yelled as he almost dropped a full bowl of coleslaw.

"Brother please! Allow me na!" Tochukwu laughed, his skinny legs moving as fast as his excitement.

Kaima stood leaning against the car, watching the chaos with a smile stretching lazily across her face.
She wore a simple red sundress, her braids tied back in a low ponytail, gold sandals glinting in the morning sun.
The warmth in her chest felt tangible, almost like she could bottle it and drink from it whenever sadness threatened again.

"Everything packed?" Papa Ifedi asked, stepping out in his white senator outfit, paired with a red cap tilted slightly to the side.
The man looked regal, his pride in his family practically radiating off him.

"Yes, sir!" Adaora saluted playfully, making everyone chuckle.

"Then, oya, let’s move!" he commanded, his deep voice full of humor.

The convoy of cars — two SUVs and Mama Ifedi’s trusted Toyota — snaked its way to Millennium Park, one of Enugu’s most beloved relaxation spots.
By the time they arrived, the park was already lively with other families setting up tents and spreading mats under the massive cashew trees that dotted the landscape.

The Ifedis chose a large spot under a sprawling mango tree, where the grass was soft and the shade perfect.

In no time, the picnic mats were spread out, food containers laid open, music playing softly from Tochukwu’s speaker.
Children ran past them squealing with joy, colorful balloons floating in the bright blue sky.

Ifenna wrestled open the largest cooler box, grinning at the sight of the steaming jollof rice.
"Who needs heaven when you have food like this?" he said dramatically, causing another round of laughter.

Kaima handed out plates, joining Ifeoma and Adaora in dishing out food.

As everyone settled down to eat, conversations sprang up easily, like lazy rivers flowing into one another.

"I swear, Enugu has the best pepper soup in the world," Dare declared, licking his fingers.

"You’ve only been here two days," Kaima teased, nudging him with her elbow.

"Two days is enough to know quality when you taste it," he argued, raising his brow in mock offense.

Mama Ifedi laughed heartily, her wrapper rustling as she shifted.
"This one is already talking like one of us. Adaora, when is he coming to pay bride price?"

"Mummy!" Adaora gasped, her cheeks coloring.

"Ah, mummy please, let me save up first na," Dare joked, raising his hands in surrender, and the whole group burst into another fit of laughter.

Nearby, Tochukwu and Ikenna started a mini dance-off competition with some other kids at the park.
Kaima watched them, her heart swelling.
Even Papa Ifedi, usually so stern, had let down his walls, joking and throwing sly barbs at Ifenna, who took them all with good humor.

As the sun rose higher, cooling drinks were passed around, and the food slowly disappeared, conversations turned softer, deeper.

Ifenna was recounting a story from his engineering site when Kaima’s phone buzzed in her hand.
Adaora leaned over her shoulder to peek.
"It’s Dare’s family," Kaima whispered.

Dare stood immediately, brushing crumbs from his jeans.

"Perfect timing," he said, smiling widely.
"They’re almost here."

True to his words, a few minutes later, another SUV pulled into the lot near where they sat.
From it stepped Mama Ugo Okonkwo, a tall, graceful woman dressed in a tasteful Ankara gown, her headwrap tied with effortless elegance.
Behind her came Ugonna Okonkwo, Dare’s elder brother, a man with the same boyish smile but sharper features and a quieter, more composed aura.

"Mummy!" Dare called out warmly, rushing forward to hug his mother.

"My son!" Mama Ugo exclaimed, pulling him into a fierce embrace before releasing him to clasp Adaora’s hands warmly.

"You’re welcome, ma," Adaora said shyly, offering a small bow.

"Ah, my daughter! God bless you, eh? God bless you," Mama Ugo said, her voice thick with affection.

Introductions were made quickly, filled with easy jokes and bright laughter.
Papa Ifedi and Mama Ugo found common ground almost instantly, discussing village politics, and old-time traditions.
Ugonna, quieter but attentive, settled beside Kaima and Ikenna, offering polite smiles and joining their teasing conversations.

"You’re quiet," Ikenna teased him after a while.

Ugonna chuckled.
"I learned to listen first. Dare is the family parrot."

Kaima laughed at that, the sound warm and free.

The afternoon rolled into evening lazily, the sun dipping lower in the sky, casting the park in hues of gold and deep orange.
Someone suggested a card game, and soon enough, they were playing Whot!, shouting over each other, groaning when Dare or Kaima threw a wicked "Pick Two."

Through it all, Kaima felt an overwhelming sense of belonging, of peace.

This was what life was about.
Not the heartbreak, not the betrayal, not the loneliness.
It was here — in the laughter, in the stolen smiles, in the easy teasing, in the way Mama Ifedi clasped Mama Ugo’s hand like an old friend, in the way Papa Ifedi and Ugonna sat discussing sports with quiet intensity, in the way Adaora leaned her head against Dare’s shoulder without hesitation.

As they packed up to leave, full and tired and sun-kissed, Kaima stole a final glance around the park.

She smiled to herself, the warmth in her chest expanding.

She was loved.
She was home.
She was healing.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, she wasn't just surviving — she was living again.

\----

The Ifedi household returned home that night tired but happy.

Laughter still echoed as they spilled out of the cars, carrying leftover coolers, empty water bottles, and picnic mats.
The evening breeze had picked up, carrying with it the soft scent of hibiscus flowers and dust — a scent that Kaima had always associated with December nights.

After a quick freshening up, they all gathered on the wide veranda, just like old times.
Papa Ifedi sat in his favorite rattan chair, a wrapper tied around his waist, humming an old highlife tune under his breath.
Mama Ifedi set a tray of groundnuts and garden eggs on the center table.
Adaora curled into Dare’s side, her laughter soft and frequent.
Ifenna and Ikenna argued good-naturedly over a movie choice, while Tochukwu leaned against Mama’s knees, sleep threatening to claim him.

Kaima sat a little apart from the rest, on the low stone fence that bordered the house, hugging her knees to her chest.
The night sky stretched wide above them, black velvet studded with a million winking stars.

She listened quietly, letting their voices wrap around her like a warm blanket.
Her heart was full — yet a small, persistent ache remained tucked somewhere deep inside.

Obinna.

The name floated into her mind before she could stop it.

It had been weeks since she last saw him.
Weeks since that ugly scene that had left her broken, raw, and bleeding in places she didn't even know existed.
Since then, she hadn't called. She hadn’t texted.
Neither had he.

And maybe that hurt the most — that he hadn’t even tried.

At first, she had told herself it was for the best. That distance was necessary.
That love — if you could even call what he had offered love — shouldn’t have to be begged for.

But even now, sitting there in the gentle buzz of her family’s joy, she couldn’t deny that a small part of her still missed him.

Not the boy who had lied.
Not the boy who had thrown her heart to the ground like it was worthless.
No.
She missed the boy who had made her laugh till her ribs hurt.
The boy who had listened to her ramblings about her dreams and fears.
The boy who, for a fleeting moment in time, had made her believe she was special.

Kaima hugged her knees tighter.

She hadn’t reached out because pride and pain had woven walls around her heart.
And honestly, she didn’t want to reopen wounds that had finally begun to scab over.

But Christmas was about forgiveness.
About new beginnings.
About love — not just for others, but for oneself too.

She pulled out her phone, staring at the screen for a long moment.

Her thumb hovered over his contact.

Obinna Orjiakor.

Still saved.

Still there, like a closed door she didn’t know if she was brave enough to knock on again.

She hesitated, her heart thudding heavily against her ribs.
But then she remembered the easy laughter of the day, the feeling of being whole again, the quiet understanding that she didn't need him to be happy — that she was already doing just fine.

She didn’t owe him anything.

But maybe... maybe she owed herself a little peace.

Kaima inhaled deeply, feeling the Harmattan air dry her throat, and typed:

> Merry Christmas, Obi.
I hope you're well.
Wishing you happiness and peace this season.
— Kaima.

Simple.
No bitterness.
No accusations.
Just a soft, clean ending.

She hit "Send" before she could overthink it.

The message disappeared into cyberspace, and with it, she felt a small weight lift off her chest.

She slipped her phone back into her lap and tilted her head back to look at the stars again.

Maybe he would reply.
Maybe he wouldn't.

It didn’t really matter.

Tonight, under this sprawling Nigerian sky, surrounded by the laughter and love of her family, Kaima knew one thing for sure:

She was healing.
She was growing.
And she was no longer defined by who stayed or who left.

She was enough.

Always had been.

Always would be.