VESSEL

The rain ushered us into Christmas. Heavy drops drummed on the rooftop, wrapping the house in a cold silence. That night, none of us stayed in our rooms, we huddled together in the parlour, blankets tangled, the faint glow of the Christmas tree painting our faces in soft gold. Six weeks had passed since Mum’s departure. Six weeks of fighting back tears, six weeks of holding on to Chinaza, six weeks of watching my friends fill our home with laughter and chatter so grief wouldn’t swallow me whole. Funke busied herself in the kitchen, the smell of jollof and fried chicken filling the air. Her parents had brought the Christmas tree, and Chinaza had been giddy decorating it. Every time her tiny hands couldn’t reach the higher branches, Alfred swooped her up with a playful groan. He carried her so often that by the end, he was practically the official tree decorator. The house felt alive again; food stacked in the kitchen, laughter bouncing off the walls, and yet, beneath it all, I still fel...