I didn't understand why Papa never celebrated Christmas. He never bought me gifts nor let us cook. 

Every year, he would take me to Aunty Hauwa's house, and I'll come home after the new year to the stench of alcohol and stale food. 

I insisted on spending the Christmas with Papa this year. I didn't pack my bags two days before as I used to, I was going to ask Papa the story behind my compulsory holidays and the alcohol.

“Yi shiru kuna Godiya! When did you start asking questions in this house?” He stormed at me. The crickets still made their sound into the silence of the night and the candle was only a little stump and a yellow glow on the wooden mahogany table. 

“Za ku je gidan Hauwa first thing tomorrow morning”, he added. 

I knew better than arguing with Papa, I packed my bags all night in tears.

I arose to blurry Anuty Hauwa scratching her arm pit in front of me. “Me yasa baka sauko kasa cin abinsi ba?” She said. I didn't realize how much time had gone by, how much sleep I had had into the morning, how much childhood grief can bitter your tantrums into humiliation, and sit you at the foot of your bed wishing for death or a runaway or something in between.

I had been thinking about what Mama looked like and how Christmas would have been if she were alive. 

“Are you okay Helen? You look pale”. Aunt Hauwa said, squatting over me. “Tell me what the matter is my dear”. 

If I could paint the questions in my head, maybe they’d be blue, maybe grayish purple, or something like that. Something like the ‘How did mama die?’, the ‘Why does Papa detest Christmas?’ kind of questions but shouldn’t I decide to say nothing?

“I asked him once and...”

“Helen dear”, Anuty cut in, “Your father is mourning. I'll tell you everything”. She sat beside me and put her arms around my neck. Her armpit had the dusky smell of raffia mixed with sweat.

Your Mama died fifteen years ago in the Plateau massacre. She had a fight with your father on Christmas eve, and stormed off to church the next day to report to the Priest against your father’s wish. He found her in a pool of her own blood later that day with you trapped firmly to her back. 

“You were only a few months old, and it is a miracle that you lived”, Anuty Hauwa said, looking away, tears welling up in her eyes. “Mahaifiyarku mace ce ta gari, and a devout Christian too, I know she's resting in Heaven now”.

She said that father hid it from me, for the fear that I would hate him.

“Kada ku yi kuka Helen, God knows best.”

I cried myself to sleep that morning. I finally understood Papa. It wasn't his fault at all.

“Yi shiru kuna Godiya! - you ingrate

Za ku je gidan Hauwa - You are going to Hauwa's house

“Me yasa baka sauko kasa cin abinsi ba?” - you didn't come down for dinner

“Mahaifiyarku mace ce ta gari - your mother was a good woman

“Kada ku yi kuka - don't cry