The bombshell
840 Words
The house smelled like leftover Christmas food and cinnamon candles that had burned through the night.
Christmas Day morning always felt quieter than Christmas Eve.
The decorations were still everywhere — red ribbons hanging slightly crooked on the stair railings, gold ornaments reflecting weak morning sunlight through the tall living room windows. Outside, Harmattan dust made the air look slightly hazy, like the world had been wrapped in soft grey cotton.
I found Alex downstairs first.
He was standing in the kitchen, shirt sleeves rolled up, pouring coffee into two ceramic mugs my mother had bought years ago.
The refrigerator hummed loudly in the quiet house.
“My father is already awake?” I asked quietly.
“He went out to meet friends,” Alex said. “Business never takes holidays.”
He handed me one of the mugs.
The coffee was hot enough to warm my fingers through the ceramic.
No one else was in the kitchen.
But we both knew how quickly that could change in this house.
“You shouldn’t have stayed in my room last night,” I said.
He took a slow sip of his coffee.
“I was on the far side of the bed,” he said. “Respectable behavior.”
I almost laughed.
Almost.
Because respectable behavior was exactly what he was good at in public.
In private, he was something else entirely.
We heard voices from the living room.
Guests still moving around. Laughter. Plates clinking softly as someone arranged breakfast leftovers on the dining table.
Alex straightened immediately — posture changing, expression smoothing into the calm, respectable best friend of my father that everyone trusted.
That was the dangerous part about him.
He could switch identities like changing shirts.
“Smile when you go out there,” he said quietly.
“Act like nothing is happening between us.”
I nodded.
Because that was our reality.
Breakfast was served on the long dining table in the living room.
The television was playing Christmas movies quietly in the background.
My aunt was complaining about how much food was left over from yesterday.
My cousins were scrolling through their phones.
Normal holiday noise.
My father entered later, wearing his usual white traditional shirt, looking satisfied in that way wealthy men who had successful business mornings usually looked.
“Anastasia,” he said, sitting beside me.
“We need to talk about your future.”
My spoon stopped moving in my cereal bowl.
Not dramatically.
Just carefully.
“I spoke to Mr. Adewale last night,” he continued casually.
“He has a son who is back in Nigeria permanently now.”
I could feel Alex’s presence beside my father at the table.
Still quiet.
Still neutral expression.
But I noticed the way his fingers tightened slightly around his glass of juice.
“His son is interested in meeting you,” my father continued.
“He is serious. Educated. Ready for marriage.”
The word hung in the air like something heavy and uncomfortable.
Marriage.
Not dating.
Not courting.
Marriage.
“I want you to meet him after the holiday,” my father said.
I nodded slowly.
Like a good daughter.
Like a girl who knew how to behave in public.
But under the table, I felt Alex’s foot brush mine slowly.
Not comforting.
Not playful.
Just a quiet warning.
Later that afternoon, the house grew quieter.
Guests left to visit other relatives.
The Christmas sun was already starting to fade, turning the living room windows orange and gold.
I found Alex outside on the balcony.
He was not smoking.
Just standing there, hands resting on the railing, looking out at the street where children were playing with leftover Christmas fireworks.
“You’re thinking too loudly,” he said without turning around.
“How do you always know when I’m thinking about you?” I asked.
“Because I am always thinking about you,” he replied.
No romantic confession tone.
Just simple truth.
He turned to face me.
“This marriage plan your father has… it is not surprising,” he said.
“No,” I said. “It’s not.”
Silence stretched between us.
Cars passed slowly on the street below. Someone was playing loud music from a nearby house celebrating Christmas with extended family.
“You are not meeting that man,” Alex said suddenly.
Not angry.
Just certain.
“You can’t decide that for me,” I said.
“I can decide what risks I am willing to accept,” he replied.
That was the difference between us.
I wanted chaos.
He wanted control.
He stepped closer.
Not touching me.
Just standing very close.
“I will not share you with someone else,” he said quietly.
Not dramatic.
Not loud.
Just dangerous in its calmness.
And for the first time that Christmas holiday…
I realized that the real danger was not that my father wanted to marry me off.
It was that Alex was starting to behave like a man who was already planning how to stop it.
- Writer
