The last harmattan, maybe
Christmas Eve at D10, in the parlour this time. Papa in the room. A photograph by the mango tree with six people in it.
In the parlour this year. Not the kitchen. I want to be exact about what that means: Mama said, sit, and pointed, and the chair she pointed at was in the parlour, and Papa was in the parlour, and Papa did not leave. He did not speak to me either. But he did not leave, and Eudora looked at him the whole time in the way that keeps him in the chair, and Francis talked about Enugu very loudly to fill the room, and Charles, who is a man now, sat next to me on purpose.
Chicken again. Real. Mama up since four again. The neighbours in and out. The generator going because Papa would not have the light fail on Christmas Eve in front of people.
The photograph by the mango tree, all six, and this time I did not look at the camera too hard. I looked at Charles, who was laughing at something, and the photograph has me looking sideways at my brother, and I have decided it is the best photograph of the family that exists.
The harmattan came in on Wednesday. Grey road. Cracked lips. Jackets. It might be the last one. The bag is under the bed by the stadium and the man at the window has not yet said no. I am writing this in the parlour, at D10, Army Housing Scheme, Obinze, with my family around me and my father not speaking to me in the same room, and I want it recorded that this was, all things considered, a good Christmas.