The harmattan wind hadn’t brought snow to Benin City; in fact, it hadn’t blown at all. Ivie called this "the Christmas that didn't Christmas like Christmas." Instead of the expected dry chill, rain fell in December, and the sun shone brighter than ever, as though it had a point to prove. The city was at its peak chaos. The air was a thick soup of firework smoke, car honks, and the frantic energy of people who claimed to have empty bank accounts yet were out shopping and visiting in droves. Thieves were thieving, shoppers were haggling, and everyone seemed to be looking for something and nothing all at once. It made one wonder: Was December the only month left in the year?

Ivie sat by the window of a red-and-yellow bus. A vendor hurried past, thrusting Christmas caps, neon glasses, and balloons through the window. She was tempted-they looked festive-but she pulled back; she wasn't the right age for such whimsy.

"Aunty, God go bless you. God go carry you go America," a voice piped up.

She lowered her gaze to find a boy, no older than seven, wearing a faded blue shirt torn at the shoulder. She dug through the "tie" of change the conductor had handed her and pressed a 200-naira note into his hand. Her momentary peace was shattered by the driver screaming "Your papa!" at a rival bus cutting him off. As the bus galloped along the potholed roads, Ivie closed her eyes and said a quiet prayer for peace before they reached her junction.

"Stop!" she signaled.

She alighted and began the trek from the junction into the estate. She nodded to her favorite neighbors, Mommy Bobo and the gateman whose name she had never quite bothered to learn. Soon, she reached the second floor of the teal building. The key turned in the lock with a familiar click. Dropping her market bags in the kitchen, she let out a long breath. She had officially closed work yesterday, leaving only today for this frantic, last-minute grocery run.

She began to arrange, dice, and spice. She moved through the kitchen with a rhythmic efficiency, but her heart wasn’t in the tempo. Soon, the air grew heavy with the fragrance of frying onions, ginger, garlic, and tomato puree, exactly how her mother had taught her. Both her parents were gone now; there was only her and her sister, Winifred.

Usually, by 4:00 PM on Christmas Eve, this apartment would be blaring Afrogospel. There would be awkward dance moves, tinsel hung haphazardly, and rooms filled with warm laughter. But this year, silence was a heavy guest. Winifred was thousands of miles away in Canada, trapped behind a hospital screen, working a double shift in a "winter kind of cold."

When the kitchen work was done, Ivie propped her laptop on a tray on the counter. The screen flickered to life, and Winifred appeared. She looked exhausted. Her hair was tucked under a clinical cap, and the pale, gray Canadian light bled through a window behind her.

"Hey, Sissy," Ivie smiled, though it felt fragile.

"Ivie," Winifred breathed, a weary smile tugging at her lips.

"How are you? Look at the sauce I whipped up," Ivie said, tilting the camera toward a steaming bowl.

"Hmm, I can almost taste it through the pixels. Mummy’s recipe, right?"

"Yes, but it’s better when you do it," Ivie admitted. She leaned closer to the microphone, her voice dropping below the hum of the ceiling fan. "You’ve been gone for only a year, but it feels like a lifetime. I miss you so much, Sis. It’s Christmas, and I wish you were here."

Winifred teased her gently, "Aww, you were never this sweet when I was actually there, Sissy."

"Oh, please," Ivie rolled her eyes, but the dimness in her gaze remained.

Winifred’s expression softened. She looked at her sister through the screen and spoke affectionately:

"Maybe it doesn't feel like Christmas because we're chasing nostalgia, grieving versions of Christmas that no longer exist. We miss the childhood days, the full house, the way things 'used to be.' It's human to long for what once felt safe. But Christmas was meant to be received right here and right now, not just preserved in memory. Seasons change. Distance happens. Families shift. But Christ comes in the same love, the same hope, and the same light, no matter where we are."

Ivie let out a long, slow sigh of relief.

Merry Christmas 🎄❤️