Chapter 3: The ones who came home

Chapter Three: The Ones Who Came Home

Christmas had always been more than just a date on the calendar—it was a feeling. The laughter of children chasing each other barefoot under the mango trees. The aroma of firewood-roasted meat wafting from the backyard. The sound of old carols mixed with the chime of distant church bells. For Sandra, it was a sacred time when people laid aside grudges and distances, and simply came home.

This Christmas was different, though. The house was full, yes—but not with careless joy. It was full because they were all back for one reason: Papa’s memorial.

Everyone had returned. Olanna—still fragile, but better—came with her twin boys and her quiet husband, who barely spoke but always offered to help. Ebun, the last born, had grown into a woman with a laugh that still rang like wind chimes, and her baby daughter who clung to her side. Obinna, their cousin-turned-brother, arrived with his wife and their two rowdy sons who wasted no time turning the compound into a battleground of toy guns and chasing games.

Their mother had cooked like it was a wedding—okra soup thick with bush meat, coconut rice laced with fried plantains, chin chin, zobo, puff puff, and grilled chicken that melted in the mouth. No child left the table hungry. No adult left the kitchen without stealing meat from the pot.

Despite the celebration, there was a softness to everything—a reverence. Papa's absence sat in the air like candle smoke. His favorite chair on the veranda remained empty. And in the evenings, his favorite highlife cassette still played on the old radio, now sounding more like memory than music.

The next morning, the sun was still shy when the birds began their song. An owl hooted once, then silence fell again, save for the wind rustling the pawpaw leaves.

Sandra sat behind the hut, away from the chatter and the smell of morning pepper soup. She had drawn her wrapper tight around her body, feet bare in the sand. Her finger moved in slow circles, tracing names and thoughts into the earth. The quiet felt holy.

Then, footsteps.

It was Obinna, yawning as he came out to pee. But when he saw her hunched there in the morning mist, he paused.

“Sandra? It’s just 6:30 a.m. What are you doing here in this cold?”

She looked up, her eyes a little surprised, then softened with a smile.

“Good morning, sis,” he said, teasingly, still half-asleep.

Sandra chuckled. “Good morning, Obi.”

“You no dey sleep again?”

“I tried. But I couldn’t. I thought maybe the cold would sweep some of the heaviness off me.”

Obinna frowned, then quietly sat beside her in the sand. For a moment, neither of them spoke.

“How’s married life?” she asked, after a while. “Wait—how many years now?”

Obinna laughed. “Ah! You don forget? It’s been six years. Imagine that.”

“Wow,” Sandra smiled. “Time moves like wind.”

Obinna picked up a twig and started drawing random shapes in the sand. “It’s been good,” he said. “Not perfect. But good. My wife has grown into me, and I’m still learning how to love her in the way she deserves.”

Sandra looked at him, something gentle blooming behind her eyes. “That’s deep.”

“I’ve learned that love isn’t always butterflies. Sometimes, it’s making tea without being asked. Sometimes, it’s saying sorry even when you don’t fully understand what you did wrong.”

Sandra laughed—genuinely. It felt good.

“Michael and I… we’re still walking that road too,” she said. “There are days when I feel whole, and other days when I sit and wonder why my womb is still empty.”

Obinna turned to her, his voice low and sincere. “You’re more than that, Sandra. You’re more than a womb, more than a wife. You’ve always been... rooted. That’s why people lean on you.”

She nodded slowly, swallowing the lump in her throat.

They sat like that a while longer, the morning waking around them—children beginning to stir, a rooster crowing somewhere, the smell of burnt firewood starting to rise.

“I miss Papa,” Sandra said quietly.

“Me too,” Obinna replied. “But somehow... I think he sees all this. All of us.”

Sandra leaned her head on his shoulder. “This family... we’ve been through storms.”

He smiled. “But we’re still standing.”

She nodded. “We came home, after all.”

Behind them, the compound was coming to life. Laughter was returning. So was the smell of jollof on the fire. And soon, the children would burst out again into the garden, free and wild, not knowing the weight the adults carried.

But for now, in that soft hour between dawn and day, two siblings sat in the sand, mourning and remembering, healing and hoping.

And somehow, it was enough.