A Christmas in February
Dust blew into the room and settled itself on the floor, like a child waiting for a story before bed. And with it, came Lucy. She pulled her hair into a pony tail as she walked across to the bed and climbed in under the covers. Outside, the wind ran its fingers through the leaves on the sycamore and cooed gently. Lucy looked at the twinkling branches and sighed. Ken had still not taken down the Christmas lights.
“Kennnn!” she muttered to him through tired lips, “You promised they’d be gone by tonight”.
“Huh?”
“The lights, babe. It’s been more than two months now. It’s time for them to come down.”
“Ohhhh. There was a lot going on at the office. I just got home a few minutes back, I’ll do it tomorrow,” he mumbled groggily.
And again, Lucy sighed deeply. Why did men mature like vinegar? She burrowed deeper into the blankets, her feet searching for the fountainhead of the rage that she used to feel; the rage that had simmered long enough for only frustration to remain. And as she moved farther into the warm cloud of sleep, Lucy realized it had all started when they had moved to Somalia.
The weather, the lack of any job for her (except sweeping up all that dust) and the horrid horrid news that always played on the TV were enough to make anyone curse that dreaded transfer and the husband who had brought it home. But yet Lucy had soldiered on. She’d clean up each day, do the dishes and then set out with leaden heart for the market place. This was the worst, Lucy nodded to herself, now almost in a dream. The people stared at her, whispered behind her back, didn’t understand which vegetables she wanted and overcharged her because she didn’t know the prices. And everyday whenever the call for prayers took place, they glowered at her when she hurriedly turned away from all the bowed heads getting ready to pray. “They just don’t know you, honey. You’re different to them as they are to you, that’s all.” Ken had said. But that wasn’t all. She had tried to teach some street children to count, but their mothers’ kohl-rimmed glares had filled her with fear. When her skirt had ridden up a little because it had caught on a bush, the shopkeepers had shouted at her in hoarse, reproaching voices and clicked their tongues at her. They just didn’t like her, and worst of all — they had decided that they didn’t like her before they even knew her. Lucy turned over and let herself be taken by the hand into the oblivious realm of sleep.
Minutes later however, the doorbell and the sound of urgent footsteps woke them. Covered in a cloak of dust stood a Somalian man and his small child. The boy, bleary-eyed and about six years old, saw Lucy, and bursting into tears hugged her knees. The man, meanwhile wrung his hands and looked helplessly at the young couple. When everyone was inside and held glasses of orange juice, the man said in Somali — “His mother is very sick tonight. Nobody will help us take her to the hospital. Then Berhanu remembered about the lady in the market place who always wishes to help.” He looked hopefully at Lucy.
“Ken, you start the car, I’ll lock up.”, said Lucy, wasting no time. Then, surprised, she added — “But how did you know where I lived?”
“We didn’t. We’ve been walking in the area for an half an hour. We were just about to turn back. Then we saw your Christmas lights.”
“Ken! It was your tardy Christmas lights that told them we were here!”, Lucy turned to her husband, filled with emotion.
“Luce, it was the light in you that told them we were Christians — that we were here for them.”
The Christmas lights stayed on all year round.
