Frozen Heart

FESTIVE LIGHT AND FADING WARMTH

Chapter 8

Festive Lights And Fading Warmth

As December approached, the Greenstone household in Port Harcourt buzzed with an unfamiliar excitement. For years, Christmas had been a modest affair—church services at the local Anglican cathedral, a feast of jollof rice and fried turkey shared with neighbors, and small gifts wrapped in newspaper under a plastic tree twinkling with fairy lights. But this year, David Greenstone had a surprise. At a family dinner in late November, he announced it dramatically, unfolding a stack of printed tickets like a magician revealing his trick.

"We're going abroad for Christmas!" he declared, eyes sparkling. "To New York City—the Big Apple! I've been saving bonuses from work, and it's time we make memories as a family." Ngozi gasped, clutching her chest. "David! Really?" The boys whooped—Chukwuma, now twenty-two and in his final university year, high-fived Emeka, eighteen and was just in his final year in secondary school (SS3) ,Amara, four and a half, clapped her hands without understanding, mimicking the joy. Ifeoma, thirteen and midway through JSS1's second term, felt a spark of hope. Abroad? Snow? Skyscrapers? Maybe this trip would thaw the family's chill, bring back the undivided love she'd once known.

Preparations turned the house into a whirlwind. It started with a "Christmas Planning Meeting," David's idea, held around the dining table with notebooks and tea. "We'll fly out on December 22nd," he outlined. "Visa applications are done—thank God for that oil company connection." Ngozi took charge of packing: suitcases dragged from storage, filled with warm coats (bought second-hand from Mile 3 Market), scarves, and gloves—items alien in Port Harcourt's humidity. "We can't freeze in that American winter," she fretted. Grandmother arrived from Aba to join, her bags stuffed with Nigerian snacks—chin-chin, groundnuts, and kilishi—"in case their food is tasteless." The boys handled decorations at home before leaving: stringing lights on the veranda, setting up the tree with handmade ornaments from Ifeoma's old school crafts. Ifeoma helped bake—stirring cake batter while Amara "assisted" by l*****g spoons, earning Ngozi's endless praises: "My little baker is so helpful!" Ifeoma smiled through gritted teeth, the favoritism a constant undercurrent.

Shopping sprees filled weekends. At Spar Mall, they stocked up on travel essentials—toothbrushes, adapters, even a portable stove for Grandmother's insistence on "proper tea." Ifeoma picked a red woolen hat, imagining snowball fights. But Amara's whims dominated: a fluffy reindeer toy, candy canes, a sparkly dress—"Because she's our holiday princess," Ngozi cooed, buying them without hesitation. David balanced it, slipping Ifeoma a new notebook: "For your stories, princess." The lead-up felt magical—carols on the radio, the scent of Ngozi's special pepper soup simmering. Yet, Ifeoma sensed the cracks: Amara's every giggle drew hugs, while her own efforts got nods.

The journey began on December 22nd. A hired van whisked them to Port Harcourt International Airport at dawn, the air thick with jet fuel and anticipation. Check-in was chaotic—Grandmother arguing with security over her herbal remedies—but they boarded the Lufthansa flight via Frankfurt. Hours in the air: Ifeoma gazed out at clouds, Amara slept on Ngozi's lap, David dozed with a book. Landing in New York at JFK was a culture shock—biting cold slapping their faces as they exited, snow flurries dancing under streetlights. A taxi to their rented Airbnb in Brooklyn—a cozy brownstone with a fireplace—completed the arrival. "This is Christmas!" Emeka exclaimed, building a tiny snowman on the stoop.

Celebrations kicked off immediately. Christmas Eve was church at a vibrant gospel service in Harlem, voices soaring in "Joy to the World." Back home, they decorated a real pine tree bought from a street vendor, hanging baubles and tinsel. Gifts were wrapped secretly: David got tools, Ngozi jewelry, the boys gadgets. Ifeoma received a camera from David—"Capture the magic"—while Amara unwrapped dolls and books, squealing with delight. Ngozi baked cookies with Amara, praising her messy dough shapes: "Perfect stars, my angel!" Ifeoma's neatly cut ones went unnoticed. Christmas morning dawned white—snow blanketing the city. They exchanged gifts around the tree, feasting on a hybrid meal: turkey with egusi soup, yams, and apple pie from a local bakery. Carols played; laughter echoed. Ifeoma snapped photos, feeling a rare warmth.

Outings filled the days. First, Times Square—neon lights dazzling, crowds surging. They posed under the giant billboards, hot chocolate warming hands. Then Central Park: skating on Wollman Rink, wobbly but fun. Ifeoma glided gracefully, helping Emeka stay upright. Grandmother bundled in layers, marveled at the horse-drawn carriages. A beach day surprised them—driving to Coney Island, where winter waves crashed on empty sands. They built sandcastles (snow-dusted), collected shells, and picnicked with thermoses of soup. "This is better than our creeks," Chukwuma joked. Amara chased seagulls, her laughter pure joy.

But favoritism shadowed the bliss. At every stop, Amara was the center: extra treats from vendors charmed by her cuteness, Ngozi's constant "Be careful, my baby!" while Ifeoma wandered freely. Grandmother's praises flowed: "Amara adapts so well—such a smart girl!" The tension peaked in Central Park on December 27th, during a family stroll through the snowy paths. They stopped at the Bethesda Terrace, fountain frozen into art. Amara wanted to play tag, darting between statues. Ifeoma joined, laughing as she chased her sister. But Amara, bossy as ever, demanded: "You have to let me win! Mummy says I'm the fastest!"

Ifeoma, tired of yielding, shook her head. "No, let's play fair—tag, you're it!" She tapped Amara lightly. Amara tripped on a icy patch (her own clumsiness), falling softly into snow but wailing dramatically. "Ifeoma pushed me! It hurts!" Tears streamed, drawing stares from passersby.

Ngozi rushed over, face thunderous. "Ifeoma! What did you do?" In her usual manner—sharp, unyielding—she confronted her publicly, voice echoing off the arches. "You're always rough with her! Can't you be gentle? This is a holiday—stop ruining it!" Tourists glanced awkwardly; a family nearby whispered. Ifeoma stammered, "But I didn't— she tripped!" No one listened. Grandmother tutted: "See, Amara's so delicate. Ifeoma, apologize." Even David, usually her ally, sighed wearily. "Princess, you know better. Say sorry—we don't want drama." The scolding piled on: Chukwuma and Emeka chimed in, "Yeah, chill out, Ife." Ifeoma felt the world shrink, labeled the bad one. Tears froze on her cheeks. "I'm sorry, Amara," she muttered, hugging her sister stiffly. Amara smirked through sniffles, victorious.

The incident cast a pall, but the holiday trudged on. They visited the Rockefeller Center tree, its lights a glittering spectacle, and watched a Broadway show—"The Lion King," Amara's choice. New Year's Eve in Times Square was magical—ball drop, confetti, cheers—but Ifeoma's heart ached, the public humiliation replaying. Family photos captured smiles, but hers were forced. Grandmother's final praises for Amara—"Our little traveler did so well!"—stung as they packed.

January 2nd, they flew back—exhausted, jet-lagged. Port Harcourt's heat enveloped them like a hug, the house welcoming with its familiar hum. School resumed January 8th for Ifeoma—Riverview's gates a return to routine. She slung her backpack, the camera from the trip tucked inside, capturing school moments instead. The holiday's glow faded, leaving deeper frost: favoritism unchecked, her apologies echoing hollow. Christmas memories mixed joy with jagged ice, the heart freezing further.