Kobo moved slowly through the aisles of the local minimart. It was a day before Christmas, and soft carols drifted from the overhead speakers. Most shelves were almost empty, the aftermath of last-minute shoppers. But the shrinking packet sizes told another story. Sugar sold in 500-gram packets, cooking oil in 250-millilitre tubs, sausages packed in fives, and half chickens in the chillers. Even staples like coffee, tea, and flour now came all in smaller portions. Once, you could only find such portions in corner shops, never in big supply chains. People were struggling to buy in bulk.
He paid for his groceries and stepped out. His old neighbourhood had changed. When they moved in, it had been vibrant, full of colour and hope. Now it looked dull, choked, and dusty. High-rises blocked the once-sweeping view of trees, if any still stood. The tarmacked roads were now pitted with potholes, and the sidewalks, once clear, were crammed with vendors. The place buzzed with exhausted noise.
He passed the field where they used to play football as children. It was now fenced off, claimed by a politician. His steps slowed as he took in the shifting landscape. Familiar yet foreign. The old place where he rented movies had become a clothes store. Mr Karis’s Butchery was now a vegetable stall. Mama Mueni’s tailor shop had turned into a spa. When he finally took the corner towards his estate, he sighed softly.
‘Home,’ he whispered.
To his right stood the mall. The mall held compressed versions of his youth: the video game shop where he once stole his father’s twenty-shilling coin and the ice cream parlour where he took his first crush on a date. Upstairs, bars glowed at night with Congolese music and drunken arguments.
In December, the whole building used to blaze with Christmas lights. That evening it sat mostly dark.
He moved on, passing his old kindergarten, now expanded into a high school. Then he passed the neighbourhood field where he earned the nickname Kobo after constantly begging friends for koboles to replace marbles that shattered during games beneath the Nairobi sun.
When he finally reached the house, he hesitated at the gate. After campus, he had never really returned. A stranger opened the gate next door; they exchanged brief nods before retreating to their own worlds. The lock on his gate was rusted, stubborn from disuse. He wrestled with it until it gave way. Rain from recent days had done its work.
He held his breath as he stepped inside. The last time he had been here was December 2023. Nothing much had changed. Sunlight filtered through the curtains, catching on floating dust. He looked down and realised he still had his shoes on. His mother’s voice echoed in memory:
“Kobo, remove your dusty shoes from my white carpet!”
He placed his shopping on the dining table and ran a finger through the dust, leaving a trail. “Must have left a window open,” he muttered, lowering himself onto the sofa, head tilted back.
Then he saw it. The family portrait.
Christmas, 1995.
He smiled softly. His mother stood at the back, holding his little brother. His two sisters sat in front, and he stood beside them, all their faces gleaming with Vaseline and caught in the camera’s flash. He remembered that day. The shopping trip, the laughter, his sisters arguing in the fitting room while he and his brother played Nintendo. His father, new camera in hand, is capturing everything. Click.
That Christmas had felt endless. Five days earlier had been his birthday, usually a lonely date because most of his friends travelled upcountry by then. But that year, relatives filled the house, uncles grilled meat outside, and by the end of the night, Kobo had collected two hundred shillings in crumpled notes and coins. A fortune to him in 1995.
On Christmas Eve, he and his friends bought baruti, those small explosives parents hated, and rockets from the mall. He’d been the highlight of the night, lighting fireworks in front of the mall’s grand display. They’d stayed out until two a.m., calling home only when their mothers shouted from the gates.
Ah, the joys of childhood, Kobo thought. I didn’t know how good I had it until I lost it.
The next day, the smell of bacon and sausages filled the air. Kobo rushed downstairs to find Mum making sandwiches and tea. Later, they would go to the carnival, but first, church, to celebrate the birth of Jesus.
He remembered the grassy hills, melted ice cream running down their wrists to their elbows, and fish scattering beneath the boats as they threw groundnuts into the water. Even now he could recall the smell of sunburnt hair and lake water drying on their clothes.
He opened his eyes. The portrait on the wall stared back at him.
Little bro was the first to go. Kobo would never forget the scream Mum let out when the call came in at 3 a.m. A drug overdose, they said. Mum swore it couldn’t be true. Her boy didn’t even drink. But Kobo knew otherwise. Since starting university, his brother had fallen in with the wrong crowd. Kobo had tried to warn him, but his words fell on deaf ears. He carried that secret alone.
Then came Big Siz. Malaria. Dad was in denial. ‘Who dies of malaria these days?’ He’d asked, his voice trembling. He sued the hospital for negligence and lost. One year later, Dad was gone too. Organ failure, the report said. But Mum always believed it was heartbreak.
Now, only three faces remained in the photo. Mum, Kobo, and his younger sister, who by then had a daughter of her own. Mum used to say Christmas no longer felt right without everyone there. “It seems wrong and pointless,” she said once, her eyes fixed on the same photograph.
So they started spending Christmas in the village. “They have electricity and running water now,” she’d said, trying to sound cheerful. “You can charge your gadgets; no more fetching water at the river. And Uncle Maneno always slaughters a goat.”
It became tradition. To leave home every Christmas and return just before New Year. Kobo usually drove them, but that year, work held him back. December was always busy for an event planner. He promised to join them on Christmas Eve.
As he sat in the house, staring at the family portrait, he remembered when the news came. A head-on collision just a few kilometres outside town. All gone, including the occupants of the other car. Kobo had seen the wreckage photos. The pink sweater of his young niece, caught in the passenger window, haunted him.
A tear slipped down his cheek. Then another.
“No, Kobo. Keep it together.”
He stood up, searching for air. The sun was setting as he stepped into the backyard and sat on one of the inbuilt benches. The place felt smaller now. To his left had once stood a chicken coop, and to the right was Mum’s small garden, with spinach, kale and bitter fruits thriving under her green thumb.
He remembered when the coop overheated after Mum left the light on too long. All the chickens died. Mum refused to eat any of them afterwards.
“Those were my babies,” she’d said.
Kobo pulled out his phone. He’d forgotten it was on silent. Three days earlier, the funeral committee had filled his phone nonstop. His girlfriend had texted too, messages moving from worry to panic. A call came through. He declined it, slipping the phone back into his pocket. He wanted to be alone.
Leaning against the window sill, he stared at the wall lined with barbed wire and electric cords. Dad’s precaution after the December 2007 break-in. Thieves had taken everything: the TV, the radio, the DVD and VCR players. Two weeks to Christmas and no entertainment. It had crushed them.
Dad couldn’t stand their sadness. Two days before Christmas, he came home with a new TV. Kobo later learned he’d taken a loan for it.
“They’ll have their Christmas,” Dad had said.
He even took another loan for the feast.
Kobo smiled faintly at the memory, then looked over the wall. The old basketball hoop was still there. Bent and faded, the white lines are barely visible. He wondered if the block parties still happened, the ones with booming speakers and hoop tournaments by day, mingling by night. He and Lil Bro used to go for the girls.
He sat back down. The air grew cold, and sometime later, he must have dozed off. When he woke, it was 9 p.m. For the first time, he was spending Christmas alone. He glanced at his phone. Maybe it was time to help with the funeral arrangements.
Maybe it was also time to sell the house.
About The Author
Yvonne Aore is a multi-genre writer from Kenya whose work spans literary fiction, speculative writing, children’s literature, and poetry. Her storytelling explores themes of memory, identity, and transformation, often drawing on African cosmology and lived experience. Her works have appeared in Brittle Paper, Kalahari Review, Lolwe, and Writers Space Africa.
Feature Image by InTheMakingStudio on Unsplash