CHRISTMAS MORNING

Christmas morning arrived loud.

Not with joy—but with movement. Doors opening. Voices rising. Feet rushing back and forth like the house itself had woken up late and was trying to catch up. The air felt charged, thick with expectation.

Someone came for me early.

Earlier than usual.

Hands gripped me firmly now. No softness. No hesitation. Whatever kindness had existed yesterday stayed there, folded neatly away with the night. I was led out into the open space of the compound where everyone could see.

People gathered.

Some watched openly. Others pretended not to. Children were sent away. The music stopped.

The silence was sudden and heavy.

I tried to ground myself. Tried to remember the street. Tried to remember my brother’s presence beside me—how we used to stand shoulder to shoulder, facing whatever came next together.

But this was something I had to face alone.

I was positioned carefully. Adjusted. Someone said a short sentence that sounded like permission. Another person nodded.

I understood then that this was not anger.

It was tradition.

My heart raced, loud in my ears. My body knew before my mind fully accepted it. Instinct screamed at me to pull away, to run, to fight—but there was nowhere to go. The walls stood firm. The hands were many.

I looked around one last time, hoping—irrationally—that he would be there. That somehow the street had followed me home. That brotherhood was stronger than walls and money and plans.

But Christmas is a time for families.

And I was not family here.

I closed my eyes.

Not in surrender—but in memory.

The street. The mango tree. The rain. The laughter. Two figures moving as one.

Then the moment came.

Not loud. Not dramatic. Just final.

And as the noise returned—voices, movement, celebration—I realized something strange and bitter:

They were happy.

And somewhere, far away, my brother was alive.

That thought, more than anything else, was what I held onto as the morning continued without me.