It was Christmas Eve and I'd just dropped Mama off at the Mortuary. In eight days, she'd be properly buried. I needed to put a call through to my aunts and uncles that

Mama was dead and there was no need for the usual Christmas celebration. She died that early morning. Oddly, the weather was comforting. It smelled of Christmas— that characteristic smell of harmattan and festivity that evokes the feeling of sweet nostalgia.

I felt my eyes sting as the first drop of tears fell freely down my face.

Every year the family came around to celebrate Christmas with us. I was the only child and always looked forward to this season when the house was full and lively with activities. The sound of slippers running to and fro the staircase, cries of babies, pounding of pestles against mortars, the laughter of family members and loved ones, Igbo Christian songs, and other clean secular indigenous songs playing in the background. It was usually a special time.

But now Mama was dead and there was no need for Christmas.

 I remembered just last Christmas, mama had refused to dance with me. I had walked up to her as the song, 'Sweet Mother' played on and stretched out my arm for her to take it. But she refused complaining bitterly that her legs felt heavy and achy. I knew there was more unsaid.

Mama never refused a dance with her only son. She was after all my mother. It took much prodding on my part to eventually have her vomit her mind. She was furious at me.

"Eme, when will you marry? When will I carry my grandchildren? Is it when I'm long buried or when I can no longer see?"

I sighed. "Mama don't say that. You won't die yet nor go blind just yet. More so, getting married is not beans o." I shrugged and held her hands. "At the right time, I'll get married and bear you Grandchildren"

"When?" Mama insisted.

"When God says."

She sighed again. "You are as stubborn as your father." She pulled my nose.

"And I thought it was your stubbornness I took after."

"It's a pity you didn't get to know your father that well—"

"You were only 4 years old when he died of cancer," I repeated after Mama. 

We both laughed.

"I love you, mama."

"I love you son."

I couldn't hold back the scream that lunged at my throat. I couldn't hoard the feelings that threatened to tear me apart. I flopped on the floor, grief having the best part of me.

Mama would never meet my wife. Mama would never carry my children or sing for them in her croaked voice. "No!" I screamed. This was unfair. Life was unfair. Even God was unfair. I shouldn't have listened to my inner promptings, I would have gotten married by now and had children of my own.

But who was I kidding? The inner voice came unbidden. I could recognize it like the wrinkling face of Mama. 

"Would you have married Nkechi who was cheating on you with your best friend? Or Lara who had anger issues or Adaora who lied about her past and no longer has a womb only for you to know about this from a family friend? Or—"

"That's enough," I mumbled. The voice went silent.

I heard a footstep, then, it became two, and then more. 

"This is sad news. I feel so broken." I heard Aunty Chinyere say.

I wanted to jump on my feet pretending that all was fine. I had to be a man. But, I couldn't. I just couldn't.

"Eme, don't tell me it's true." Aunty Chinyere started crying upon sighting me seated on the floor.

"It's true Aunty. Mama is dead."

Everyone started hugging me in turns. I was beyond shocked when Ngozi wrapped her arms around my waist, her head resting on my chest and her breath fanning my neck.

How in the world was Ngozi here? She was supposed to be in America enjoying a life too good to be true!

"Ngozi..."

"Emeka." She blinked away a tear.

"I'm sorry Mama is dead. Accept my condolences."

I nodded, too stunned to reply.

She nodded as if understanding my unvoiced thoughts. "I saw Uncle Chibuzor and others making entry into the building so I thought to say hi, only to hear the sad news from the Gateman."

It was my turn to nod. "She wasn't that young. She was 85 years of age."

"But she was your mother and a good mother to you and everyone."

I choked on my words. Ngozi always knows what to say and knows my thoughts too well.

"I arrived yesterday night."

"Anyị anwụọla. Enweghị olileanya maka anyị. Ewo! How can Christmas ever be a remarkable season again? Ehn? How?" Aunty Chinyere cried.

I started to cry too.

After a moment, Ngozi held my hands and pulled me away from the crowd to a safe space in the corridor.

"Hey Emeka, that's enough. This is not the season of mourning but of rejoicing. Jesus is not dead but alive and because he's alive, Mama is not dead but asleep. We will see her again on the resurrection morning. It's a custom in your family to always celebrate Christmas not because it's a festive season but because you all understand the significance of this season. Jesus was born to save us from our sins and to teach us how to live. Most importantly, Mama wouldn't want us mourning but rejoicing because she knew the Lord and lived her life for him here on earth."

Brief silence.

"In all things give thanks for this is the will of God for you in Christ Jesus," I added, a sob caught in my throat.

"We should worship God instead, for a life well lived by our Mama... Can I pray with you?" 

I nodded.

And she prayed for me and the family that God would breathe upon us and strengthen us and that the significance of the season is impressed upon our hearts the more. 

I said, 'Amen.'

Let's go console your family.

"She didn't get to see her Grandchildren... How do we ever celebrate Christmas again, joyfully?" I heard Aunty Chinyere sobbing heavily from the parlor.

Uncle Eugene looked at her like she'd grown horns and was a tard.

"What's so hard to understand Chinyere? Can you make a life not to talk of preserving this season? If you can't, then, don't talk like a foolish woman. Ngozi, please give us worship songs."

Ngozi threw a surprised look at me. Uncle Eugene had been consoling them and she could see my family had a strong belief in the God they served and so did I. Ngozi didn't have much to do. She didn't have to save the day, to save Christmas. God was behind the scenes, touching every heart and saving this very day by himself, Christmas. It was a day we often took cognizance of the significance of his birth and he ensured it remained so. 

Ngozi stood and closed her eyes, raising holy hands, and opened her lips to begin singing.

I was transported back to years before. Years when puberty just started to knock. She was my girlfriend. The first and last. She was everything I ever wanted in a girl. We became friends when we were paired to sing a duet in church. Her voice was sweeter than Celine Dion's. No capping. I must dare say I fell in love with her when I first heard her sing. I was mesmerized.

And now, I was scared for my heart. I knew once I heard her sing again, there was no going back. I couldn't help but want all of her. Not for a moment but for a lifetime...