This short story forms part of our Tales of Christmas series. Learn about the authors and find more exclusive fiction here.

In our little bungalow in Port Harcourt, the festive atmosphere lasted the whole first week and into the second: the gathering of the neighbours, the gulping down of bottles of soft drinks, gourds and jerrycans of palm wine. There was all the usual gift giving, the well-wishing from family and friends. Mama and Chibundu’s mother had come and had been waiting for me at the flat when I arrived from the hospital, all of them eager to welcome baby Chidinma home.

The first sign of trouble was when Chibundu refused to purchase a goat. Without the goat there would be no butchering, no digging of the hole, no letting of its blood into the earth. The roasting of the goat would have been the hallmark of the celebration, serving it for all to enjoy.

But Chibundu refused. Instead, he walked around moping, barely greeting the visitors.

Mama could not help but notice. She had taken the child and had been carrying her around the flat when she crossed paths with Chibundu. She returned to me immediately. “Whatever is the matter between you two,” she said in a low voice, “you must find a way to work it out. Do you hear me?”

I was in Chidinma’s bedroom – the nursery – sitting on a recliner. I took the baby from her. “I hear you,” I said. “The only thing is that I actually don’t know what the matter is.”

“He is your husband,” she said. “Something is wrong, and you are telling me you don’t know what it is?”

I examined my baby, no longer listening to Mama’s questioning. Here was my child, my flesh and my blood. Tiny hands and feet. Nails as thin as paper. Eyes hardly more than slits. Her skin was smooth and soft, and her scent was sweet and pure, a little like the aroma of fresh coconut oil. Through her, this perfect representation of me and of Chibundu, God had indeed been good.

Nostalgia: an original short story by Chinelo Okparanta