I tell everyone that Christmas begins in October for me. Every October, my mother's calls become persistent. very persistent. That's when she remembers to ask about my cats, calling them 'her little ones'. She's seated on the phone for all my office concerns, criticizing my bosses like she knows them personally. What is most impressive of all is how in the middle of any and every conversation in October, she magically recollects the names of my close friends and even the unusual things they've done that year that I probably told her about but forgot.

"isn't Mahila the one that threw a birthday party for her dog at the Grand Canopy place?"

"yes mum, the Grand Canyon. It was wonderful"

"Who does party for dog?"

"ok, mum."

She knows why she is here, as do I. She's here to coax me into coming home for Christmas. Every year, it is the same routine. she calls incessantly, gets on my good side and then tries to persuade me, sweetly and sometimes with a bit of emotional guilt, to come home for Christmas. Every year, it is still the same conversation. She will ask me to come home for Christmas, I will say no. Then she will ask why I hate her and I always respond that I do not and right after that, she will ask me why I hate Christmas. I do not hate Christmas but I never respond because by then I have lost all interest in playing out the rest of our phone skit.

Now you are probably thinking; it's a call, not a knock on your door, ignore it. I have tried and truth be told, simply ignoring calls from a worried mother does not deter her nor does it fix the non-stop calling. I can also assure you that time is something she has in abundance. On some days when I'm forced to hear, over and over, the ringtone I picked out to be able to tell apart her calls from the various others (and also know when to ignore them), I imagine her 60-year-old self sitting right beside her rusty but sturdy standing fan inside her shop, staring down at her Nokia phone and pressing on the re-dial button like it is a chore that comes with a reward upon completion. I imagine the sun in Maitama market, ageing the aluminium roofs in its way as it shines down to peck the cheeks of the labourers, only to turn harsh and draw liquid involuntarily from flesh as time slowly passes by. I imagine her friends in the market, all mothers like her, poking their heads into the shop every few minutes to say their greetings and exchange stories in their local dialect about their children that they have forgotten do not seem to be children any longer.

It is the last week in October and I just ordered some Christmas decorations. Everyone I know is hellbent on slaying their Halloween outfits but all I can think of is my mum's shrimp fried rice and coleslaw that she makes every Christmas. I close my laptop and go microwave dinner, wishing I had gotten some shrimp fried rice instead. It is cold in Buffalo right now but there is nothing that beats waking up during those cold and dry harmattan mornings in Lagos during Christmas. By the time I had wolfed down my entire dinner, I already had a two-way flight ticket to Lagos sitting in my email. I have been avoiding Christmas with my family because now that I am an adult, I'm full of secrets- just like every other adult. My chest is heavy and I want to lie down on my mom's lap and have her stroke my hair, not stare at her again through a computer screen while I hurriedly clean my falling tears to stop them from blurring my vision. But before this, I am going to have to lay down all my secrets on the table and hope they accept me faster than it took me to accept myself.

For now, though, my night is quiet and I cannot wait to hear the squeal of happiness in my mother's voice when I break the news to her.