13 Abak Road,

Uyo, Akwa Ibom State.

25th December, 2025

Dear Praise,

Where are you? I can't seem to find you, and I'm getting frustrated. How'd our fifth birthday go? I can't remember, but I'm sure mummy took us to an eatery to stuff our faces with ice cream and meat pie.

I know that's not how a letter should start. Our English teachers taught us that formal letters should be polite and professional, while informal letters should be warm and conversational. I don't know what this is, but I hope you do.

It's another Christmas, and I really wish I had you here with me. I know you'll argue and say of course you're with me. You're in me. You've always been a smartass, after all.

But I know you're not with me. I know because it's Christmas and I don't feel anything. Not happiness, not unbridled joy, not anger because I didn't get something I wanted—not even sadness.

I've had carols playing in a loop on my Spotify (that's an app that plays music), and I've stared long and hard at the festive lights and decorations everywhere. I haven't watched a Christmas movie though. Maybe I should do that. What do you think?

I remember how it used to be with us. We loved Christmas. We didn't always get gifts (but do you remember that blue suit mummy bought that hung on us because we were so skinny? We loved that suit, regardless), but we were content with staring at the decorations, playing with them if possible.

We positioned ourselves in front of the TV and sang along with Boney M. Daddy always made sure the cassettes were ready, and the drinks were cold. We really loved Home Alone (because mummy loved it too), and that other Christmas movie where the man's father was an aging Santa Claus.

We hovered around mummy till the rice was done, and then hung around daddy till he'd handed us a bottle of ice-cold Fanta. We'd sneeze profusely afterwards, but we didn't care because it was Christmas, after all. A mere cold didn't matter in the grand scheme of things.

Our Christmases weren't grand, but they were sweet. Relatives and friends trooped in, each with their own special name for us. There was the auntie who called us “Praise baby,” the uncle who called us “P girl,” and the other ones who called us “Adiaha mummy.” Some of those aunties and uncles are gone now. Some moved abroad. Some simply disappeared. Now it's just us, grandma, and some additions.

We were five then. Who would've thought we'd finally get the little siblings we wanted, six and eleven years later—a cherubic boy and a girl that looks just like us?

This is why I'm writing to you. The girl is five, just like we once were, and I have no idea how to make this Christmas as special and as memorable for her as it was for us. I don't know what to do, but maybe you do. 

I think I've lost my wonder, but I want her to never lose hers. I want her to keep staring at the lights and sounds in awe when she's twenty, thirty, eighty. I want her to keep that mischievous smile, the same one we used to have.

I don't want her to lose her five-year-old self like I lost you. So tell me, little Praise—how do I find the magic again?

Merry Christmas, Praise. I'm still here. Somewhere between the lights and the noise.

Yours always,

Praise