𝐂𝐡𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐦𝐚𝐬 𝐈𝐧 𝐀 𝐁𝐨𝐱 𝐕𝐨𝐥𝐮𝐦𝐞 𝐈𝐈𝐈.

8 - 𝐀 𝐁𝐫𝐨𝐤𝐞𝐧 𝐂𝐡𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐦𝐚𝐬.

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𝐶𝒉𝑟𝑖𝑠𝑡𝑚𝑎𝑠 𝑖𝑠 𝑎 𝑠𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑜𝑛 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑜𝑛𝑙𝑦 𝑜𝑓 𝑟𝑒𝑗𝑜𝑖𝑐𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝑜𝑓 𝑟𝑒𝑓𝑙𝑒𝑐𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛. – 𝑾𝒊𝒏𝒔𝒕𝒐𝒏 𝑪𝒉𝒖𝒓𝒄𝒉𝒊𝒍𝒍.

__~°~__

Every Christmas, without fail, we would pay a visit to Grandma. She lived all the way in the village, a literal three-hour drive from our house and more with traffic, but it was the highlight of my holiday. As a child, I’d literally fly out of the car immediately we got there, rushing into her arms, then running through the house in hopes of getting to the backyard where the chickens were kept, while my mother kept screaming at me to calm down and remove my slippers. This year, though, I was an adult. It made things different, but my age wasn’t the only thing that had changed through the years.

My parents still stopped at the mall to buy things that we’d need while we were away. My dad was a wine enthusiast, and when I was younger, it was thrilling to watch him sort and pick through wines and talk to little me who was way too young to understand why champagne was the best for celebrations, but we’d still need red wine because it had an awesome taste. Now that I knew he had a dreadful drinking habit, I never went with him into the wine aisle; I only followed him judgmentally with my eyes as he walked somewhat shamefully through it.

My younger sister and I tried to help my mum remember important things and add them to the cart. I sang along to “Joy to the World” as it played through the mall, while my mother and sister fought like they had done every Christmas since Eniola had become a teenager.

“But mummy, don’t you think it’d be better to have chocolates this year?” Eniola piped up cheerfully, “We can eat them, we can share them with our cousins, everyone will be happy.”

“Eniola, e ma yomi lenu jare. We don’t need them,” my mother retorted.

“But it’d be nice to change things up a bit,” Eniola said stubbornly as she picked up the Dairy Milk; my mother slapped her hand, and she abruptly dropped it. I could feel the eyes of everyone in our aisle on us.

“Ti m ba fun e nigbati!” my mother snapped at her, “It’s not me you’re going to disgrace in public with your rubbish attitude. Honestly, I don’t blame you. It’s your daddy and your sister…”

I had long learned to tune her out when she became like this. I don’t really know what happened to my mother, but it was like every Christmas, she became more irritable, sadder, and a lot older. The worry lines were etched in her face like ancient markings in wood, and she always walked with her shoulder slouched and a deeply etched frown like she was being forced to go through life. I think it started the year that my dad’s cousins started making comments about her, her cooking, her outfits, her aging, the behavior of me and Eniola. Now she was so self-conscious and uptight and it was only when we were around Grandma that we had some relief.

I wanted to pacify Eniola so she wouldn’t get herself killed, so I said, “Maybe we can bake a cake when we get to Grandma’s?”

She smiled at me, and I thought the incident was behind us. But when we finally wrapped up our shopping, and I was busy pulling a trolley full of Christmas stuff towards the car, my mother reached out and gave Eniola a loud, hot slap.

“Every time your mouth will just be moving cho, cho, cho, cho,” she said as we reached the car. “Always ungrateful, always talking without thinking. Just like that your useless father.”