The shout of ‘Merry X-mas, Mama Ola!’ from the neighbor’s compound reminded them of the Yuletide season. The savory smell that arose from the tiny pieces of chicken placed by the corner of the kitchen, beside a tray of ‘oyinbo’ spices, caused their mouth to water. The aroma of spicy jollof that filled the smoky open-spaced kitchen, promised them a good time.

It was Christmas morning.

With so much observable anger that was untypical of the celebratory period, their mother grabbed a half-empty sachet of the curry from the tray of ‘oyinbo’ spices, adjusted her loose wrapper, and moved to the pot of jollof where she poured in the spice and proceeded to roughly mix the contents of the pot.

Lucky enough to have experienced a level of education and subsequent exposure than her mother, Minka knew that it was her place to inform her mother that it was wrong of her to add the spice when the food was almost ready to be eaten. But one look at her mother’s face and the girl bit her tongue. Her younger brother, E.J. was stationed to chase the chickens that danced around the area watching for a moment of vulnerability before they pounced on their dead colleague in the bowl. After chasing the chickens— enthusiastically at first—, E.J. was ready to be relieved of his duty. But he knew better than to complain, not when their mother was in such a foul mood. KamKam, the quiet one-year-old whom everyone adored, had been forced to sleep—on a mat beside Minka’s stool—after their mother laid her a heavy slap on his back.

It was Christmas morning.

The main cause of their mother’s bad mood, their father, walked up to the kitchen. His shirt was hung around his neck exposing his large hairy stomach. He had a chewing stick stick in his mouth. And when he walked closer to where she sat, Minka caught distinctive whiffs of a feminine perfume on him. It wasn't his. Their father never wore perfume. And seeing as their mother mostly smelled of an eerie mix of smoke and orí, it sure was not her’s too.

Speaking of, their mother’s jaw tightened as the man’s lively presence slowly filled the kitchen, stealing the spotlight from the only objects that were allowed to make a sound; the crackling firewood that burnt steadily under the huge aluminum pot. Their mother’s jaw tightened, she slapped her feet on the floor, but she did not pay him any mind...well, not until he stretched out a hand to grab a piece of chicken from the bowl beside her. So quick it could be likened to a reflex action, she whacked him on the back of his outstretched hand...with an aluminum cooking spoon.

Their father quickly withdrew his hand—an earnest reflex action. “Mama Minka, you dey craze?”

Still sitting, she scoffed at him, “No, come and carry meat. As na you buy am. Useless man.”

“See, woman, don't speak to me like that.” Their father’s thunderous voice echoed in the small space. “Not in my house.”

Her mirthless laughter filled the air as their mother got on her feet and adjusted her wrapper. “You want respect? Do you respect yourself when you jump all around town with small small girls? Eh? Do you respect me?”

Nothing she said was untrue. The man knew it. The children knew it. Even the chickens knew it. So, he most likely would have taken her scathing words in good faith and walked away, but then, she spat on his feet. “Yeye man.”

In the split-second that it took for their mother to turn back to her pot, their father had wrapped a muscular hand around her neck, effectively cutting out any more words that she might have had coming. As the woman coughed and flailed her hand from the excessive pressure on her neck, the man used his free hand to drop heavy knocks on her head as he spat in her face. “I paid your bride price, you hear me? You cannot disrespect me in my own house.”

Earlier, when it was just insults and mild violence like hitting a spoon on the hand, the children looked away. That sort of thing was common with their parents. If they had to call for assistance whenever their parents quarreled, then their neighbors would be living with them. But now, as their mother’s eyes widened and reddened in response to their father’s hand tightening around her neck, they knew it was time to intervene.

E.J. ran to the closest neighbor’s house, screaming all the way. Minka ran to grab her father by the belt hooks of his trousers, pulling, screaming, and begging for him to let their mother go. Even though her physical force played no part in it, he finally removed his hand from around their mother’s neck, and she began to gasp like a dying fish as she asked for water.

By the time the thirteen years old girl returned with the cool water from the clay pot, E.J was entering the compound with some worried-looking neighbors, her father had a look of outrage etched on his bushy face...and her mother grabbed a bowl, fetched a generous amount of the boiling rice on fire and threw it on her father’s bare back.

His excruciating cry of pain, alongside the neighbors’ cries of horrors rang throughout their home. One woman immediately snatched the cup of water from Minka to pour on her father’s back. Little control that did for the damage. Other neighbors ran helter-skelter looking for water to ease her father’s pain.

One neighbor yelled at their mother, “Na your children papa be this o!”

There was not even a hint of remorse in her tone as she yelled back. “Na useless man. Ask him where he spent the night. Ask am o!”

With arms folded across his chest to signify his bewilderment, another neighbor asked her, “Madam, so you get mind do man this kind thing?”

Their mother put her hand on her waist. Defiant. “Man ke? Because of that useless thing between his legs? If na by that one then make dem cut am! Man wey no dey provide for him family no be man. Man wey dey spend nights outside with ashawo no be man.”

Their father seemed to have calmed down, both in anger and in pain. One elderly woman suggested that he go in and sleep. She claimed to have a natural remedy and would send her grandchild with it in a short while. The woman who grabbed the cup of water from Minka, silently walked their father into the house so that he could get some rest like the other woman suggested. Their mother, on the other hand, stood in front of the kitchen, giving her well-curated description of a real man. She yelled at the crowd. “See you! See person wey una dey call man.”

Standing beside the elderly woman, Minka let out a loud whimper, and the woman began to exclaim, “Take the children from here. Children should not see this abomination.”

So, amidst their tears, Minka and her brother were quickly rushed away from the scene.

People began to disperse to their various houses, talking about how they had never seen such a terrible thing in their lives. And so, the crowd slowly dissipated, leaving behind just one woman who usually sat with their mother in the evenings and shared gossip. Now, she sat with their mother as she continued to hurl insults at their father. She sat with her until she stopped yelling. She sat with her as ugly nerve-wracking sobs began to escape her mouth. The woman; Iya Kose, let their mother put her head on her shoulder and rubbed a comforting hand around her back while the tears continued to pour down her face.

Iya Kose spoke calmly, without any judgments. “It’s okay.”

But it was not okay.

Their mother’s eyes were wet with tears, her throat burned—from unsaid words and from stuff she should not have said—, the children were hurried away to shield their eyes from the despicable carried out in front of them, their father’s back was scalded. Their family would be the talk of the town for weeks. All the food that she had spent time cooking sat there by the fireplace, nobody had the appetite to eat anymore. She was tired. She was angry. She was sad.

Inside the kitchen, right beside the small stool his elder sister was perched on before the chaos started, baby KamKam sat wide-eyed as he took in the whole scenario.

With the whole disarray unfolding before their very eyes, nobody had remembered about him. So, he watched the whole horror, his barely developed brain absorbing and assimilating the various forms of violence.

A perfectly ruined thing.

It was Christmas morning.