In the stillness of your room, you can hear a child sing- 'Mary's girl child Zikora, was born on Christmas day '- at the balcony. You can see the shadowy movements of Ekene as he leans forward and whispers in your ears,"We could do it once and never speak of it".

You look away. Unsure. You feel your nipples harden from the warmth of his breath against your neck. You wish to touch him, to kiss him. The feelings are mutual, but so are your surnames.

You have always known Christmas comes with brown harmattan dusts, with fried beef and tiny bright lights at night. That Christmas could be merry and drunk and cold. But you have never known it to be sinful. To look white, then grey, then black- the colour of bats.

"Njo. A sin", you say to him. He looks away. You cannot make out the the expression on his face because the room is a darkened space. No power, no tiny bright lights.

It is a dark Christmas in Africa.

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