‘Oh Fuck!’
Black Nike slides.
‘Wɔgboi! We are dead!’
Pink charle wote.
‘Mɛni esa akɛ wɔfee?! What should we do?!’
Barefoot.
The kitchen is semi-cloaked in a breathtaking smoky fog of over-roasted meaty flesh; the smoke alarm is whining like the child whose balloon popped without notice.
‘How did you even manage to burn this, Nuŋtsɔ Lord?’
‘I thought it was going to beep, so I took a nap. Misusu akɛ Mateo yɛ biɛ! I thought Matthew was here!’
‘Mi? Me? I was taking a shit! Mibɔ bo amaniɛ! I informed you!’
‘For 45 minutes anyɛmi brother, seriously?!’
‘Yesu, mitsui Jesus, my heart.’
Jɔɔmɔ Blessed places a hand on her chest and massages the aching area.
Her eyes are shining with disbelief as she lifts her arms and rests them atop her head. Her short legs carry her towards the open mouth of the charred oven, and she folds herself into a kneel.
Grabbing the tray without mittens–confirming she’s indeed a witch–her lips draw into a mournful pout as she caresses the 2-day brined, seasoned, and buttered corpse. Then, without warning:
How are you, my friend?
How do you do, my friend?
I know sometimes e be like say
Nobody send you, that one na lie
I dey for you my friend
How are you, my friend?
‘Ani jeee lɛ ji mɔ ni gbe lɛ? Was she not the one who killed it?’ Mateo half-covers his mouth.
‘Broke its neck in one swift and brutal snap, yes,’ mimicking his action.
How do you do, my friend?
I know sometimes e be like say
Nobody send you
That one na lie
I dey for you my friend
‘You sacrificed yourself so we could have a wonderful Christmas dinner, and they ruined your last wish,’ owls her head to shoot both her brothers a Diane Johnson ‘sleep with both eyes open’ glare.
Nuŋtsɔ and Mateo’s bodies subconsciously attach themselves as their legs kangaroo back with a squeak escaping Mateo’s lips. They gulp simultaneously.
‘Kɛ amɛhe eshai ake amɛ Forgive them,’ sniffling.
‘What are we going to tell Ma and Daa?’
Pi Pi Piiiiiiiii
Their parents' 2010 Toyota Camry has carried them back home after their second market run and one of them has to get the gate.
‘Namɔ baagbele shinaa lɛ? Who is going to open the gate?’
Nuŋtsɔ chews his bottom lip and shakes his head in the negative.
Jɔɔmɔ turns to Mateo.
‘Uh-uh. I’ve burnt the chicken for the last two years, and Mum has still not forgiven me. I’m not scoring a hat trick this year,’ lifting both hands in the air in mock surrender.
‘Guys, burning chicken every Christmas is starting to look like a ritual in this house o. Mɛɛ naagba nɛ? What kind of problem is this?’
‘Ani alomɔ wɔ? Are we cursed?’
Pi Pi Piiiiiiiii
All three siblings jump back in fright.
Jɔɔmɔ’s phone lights up on the kitchen counter before Mariah Carey shows off her high notes:
It’s timeeeeeeee
‘It’s time for us to die for sure. Thanks, Mariah.’
Welcome to a very Mensah Christmas morning.
Pi Pi Piiiiiiiii
From rejecting her talent as “a hobby that would fade” to battling the fear that “too many better writers will never let her shine,” Esther Atswei Adjetey continues to chip away, cement, and sculpt. Her work 'Your Body Found Us' found a home in Nenta Journal’s October 2025 issue. She is a puzzle: a lover of romance and comedy whose mind roams through dark tunnels and cold waters.
In navigating the fiercely competitive literary space in Ghana (inserts confetti), she has learned to be her own role model whilst being a full-time meme collector. She can sell you for Cerelac.
Social media handles:
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