This Christmas feels hollow. It’s not just the absence of the usual decorations or the festivities that used to fill our home, it’s her absence. My mum, my closest human, my best friend, is gone.
Mum had a way of anticipating Christmas like her life depended on it. She poured herself into it with a passion I never quite understood. Christmas was her escape, her opportunity to indulge in her love for cooking and sharing food. It wasn’t just about feeding the family, it was about creating an experience for everyone who walked through our doors. There was always pounded yam, jollof rice, fried gizzard, vegetables, fruits, and, of course, a live chicken, like so many Nigerian households. She loved having guests over, and no matter how little we had, she always made sure everyone had enough to eat and drink, even if it meant we would go hungry later.
That was just who she was.
Then there was the shopping. Mum deliberately waited until the day before Christmas to hit the market, knowing it would be chaotic. She thrived in the rush, the noise, the sea of shoppers scrambling to grab last-minute items.
“It’s fun,” she’d say, her face lighting up at the thought of it. And because she couldn’t stand to leave me behind, I was always by her side. She wanted me to see the joy in the chaos, to share her excitement. But I didn’t. I hated it. The heat, the shouting, the endless bargaining—it was too much. Yet, I went because I loved her.
The food was another story. Mum cooked like a chef preparing for a feast, yet I barely ate. I wasn’t a big eater, and no matter how many delicacies she prepared, I often left my plate untouched. She didn’t mind. Whatever wasn’t eaten was given away, to guests, neighbors, church members and anyone she thought might need a little extra joy.
That was Mum: always thinking of others.
Last Christmas was painfully different. After six years of battling dementia, Mum had faded into a shadow of the vibrant woman she once was. I couldn’t bring myself to recreate the lively celebrations she loved so much. Instead, it was a quiet day, spent mostly by her side. She sat there, unable to comprehend that it was her favorite time of the year, while I tried to hold back my tears. A few friends came by, but it wasn’t the same. She didn’t recognize the significance of the day, and I spent it mourning not just her declining health but the fragility of life itself.
This year, Christmas feels even emptier. I woke up late, and as I sat in the stillness, memories of our past Christmases came flooding back. I could almost smell the aroma of her cooking, hear the laughter of guests, and see her dancing as she sang her favorite hymns. But the reality was starkly different. I glanced at myself in the mirror and realized I hadn’t even thought about a Christmas hairdo, something Mum insisted on every year. I opened the fridge and saw no chicken waiting to be cooked. Mum would’ve scolded me for that, teasing me for letting tradition slip away.
It hit me then: the era of loud, joyful Christmases is over for me. I’ve retreated into my shell, finding it easier to let the day pass quietly. As I reflect, I realize how fleeting life is. One day, the universe will celebrate Christmas without me too.
Mum, I hope you’re watching from heaven. I hope you see how much I miss you, how silent this Christmas has been without you. Since the day I buried you, I’ve lost a part of myself. I take each day as it comes, not expecting too much. Thank God for Netflix, Prime Video, and the internet, they’re my distraction. I cooked today, but it felt like any other day. I’m still grateful for the birth of Jesus Christ, whose coming into the world gave sinners like me hope. But the joy of the season is something I now watch from afar, scrolling through my phone and seeing others celebrate with the kind of excitement that once filled our home.
Merry Christmas, Mum. This was the first Christmas without you, quiet, reflective, and bittersweet. There will be more Christmases to come, but one thing will always be true: I will never forget you.
Born as Titilayo Oladimeji, I have been known by the nickname Titipetral for nearly two decades. I am a Financial Advisor at a reputable financial institution in Lagos, Nigeria, with over 10 years of experience in Financial Advisory and Credit Analysis. I am also an author and the founder of Titipetral Publishers, a duly registered publishing company.
In addition, I lead the Titipetral Empowerment and Development Network (TEDN), a duly registered philanthropic initiative dedicated to supporting underprivileged girls, boys, women, and men in the Alimosho area, Nigeria’s most populated local government, focusing on serving the underserved.
For inquiries or collaboration, you can reach me at Titilayooladimeji@titipetral.com or titipetral@gmail.com.
Mum is surely resting dear.
Thank you so much