I AM HOME

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Growing up, my favourite period of the year was Christmas. I know you've heard that a million times; who doesn't love the atmosphere of love and joy, the exchange of food, the green lustre of Christmas trees and the music, the lights, the presents, the memorable events and shows that stretch that brief period into a kind of infiniteness. But I loved Christmas for a different reason.

My mother had a job as a teller in bank. The job was hectic and telling. Mother would wake by 5:00am and hurry to beat the clock. She had to cook, wash and get I and my sister ready for school. She'd always leave the house in haste, bawling instructions, worrying about the gruesome traffic that had given her queries on two separate occasions. According to mother, a third query would mean she would be fired.

Though I was very young, I disliked it all. I disliked seeing so little of my precious mother. Sometimes, I would only have her at night for a brief period, as she would strain to listen to my babblings about school. I knew she was tired, that she needed to sleep, but I needed her too, her warmth and touch, her smile and her solicitude. She would patiently listen to me, trying so hard to not fall asleep. In the end she would give in to the stress and leave me, looking at her, wishing she didn't have to do all these.

I remember one day, mother came back early, and, just before I would jump for joy, she skedaddled quickly to her room withou uttering a single word, a mysterious heaviness in her eyes. I ran to the room but she'd locked it. I applied my ears on the door and heard her sobbing softly and calling my father's name. Father had died at least two years ago.

Mother's bank had no respect for any kinds of holidays. Mother worked even on Saturdays, and was too busy on Sundays thinking about how her and her children would fare during the week. But against Christmas, even the bank was powerless. Mother would come home on the 23rd day of December, smiling, and walking, for the first time in a long time without haste, without looking to beat a running clock.

This was why I loved Christmas and looked forward to it; the simple fact that I got to have my mother to myself, free from all the worries of the world with which I shared her. It was during Christmas that mother's smile came cleanest and fine, like my sister's. Mother's smile would be full of colour and warmth. The delicacies she prepared too would have such life in them that eating them, each morsel had me relishing, not just their taste, but the essence of mother's life inside them. The house too, besides looking even more colourful would seem to breathe; sighs of relief, breaths of gratitude.

One day, I watched mother at work in the kitchen, chopping purple globes of onion, humming her favourite tune, a song in our native tongue, and suddenly felt so overcome by emotions. I loved and hated at the same time; loved that she was there, cooking, for me, loving me as best as she could. But I hated that she would soon have to go; that she would soon become that woman again who flew on her toes with the world on her shoulders. I went off to her room and cried. My sister, Anne, came over to ask what the problem was and I told her to leave me alone. I didn't want her to leave me alone. I just didn't know what I would tell her. My sister reported to mother and mother came sidling into the room, the smell of onions clinging to her fingers assiduously. She called my name: "Akan", softly, tenderly, and I hated that I couldn't resist raising my head up in acknowledgement of an authority far greater than even my life force. She took one look at me and understood, for in her eyes too, I saw the glimmer of a wet glaze of tears. She comforted me, hugging me and repeatedly telling me not to worry, that she was there. And I wanted to push her away and say" No!! You'll leave me like you always do!! " but I had lost the power to do that the moment my ears registered the sound of my name as it slid effortlessly from her lips.

Mother would sometimes entertain visitors and some of them would bring with them, gifts for her and her children. I liked watching mother talk to her guests. She was playful at such times and laughed a lot. I loved the sound of mother's laugh.

I tried very hard not to count the days before she would return to the bank, and all of her bloom would disappear with her, reverting me to the state I was before her bloom, bloodless, colourless, disliking the world. For a consolation, I had my sister. We talked and played and mimicked mother's voice when she laughed, or yelled at someone, or how she sang and danced when she was happy. But even she missed mother, their long talks into the night after I'd slept, their arcane glances.

So each year, my whole life geared towards every Christmas. I didn't go to any parties. Sometimes, we would not even have enough in the house. I would not mind. It didn't seem to matter to me in the least. This was all I waited for: the slow, steady crossing of mother's legs as she walked into the house on the 23rd day, wearing her broad smile that could make me give up all of the world; her smile that said:

"Sweet child, I am home"...

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