‘Agoo! Agoo! Make way!’ Mum’s voice cut through the crowded market, sharp and commanding. Her hands waved wildly, her eyes daring anyone to block her path. I was seven, clutching my little sister’s hand, weaving between stalls. Her wide eyes mirrored my own—a mixture of awe and fear.
‘Big sis, why is Mum shouting?’ she whispered.
‘Because she’s Mum,’ I whispered back. ‘It’s Christmas. Everything’s chaos.’
Mum darted from stall to stall, bargaining loudly, leaving no one standing in her way. Fish, tomatoes, spices, nothing escaped her relentless negotiation. Every year, the market felt like a battlefield and Mum was the undefeated general. I watched her, learning early that Christmas in Ghana was never gentle. It was alive and loud.
Fast forward to now: I’m twenty-six, and Christmas hasn’t changed. No matter where I am, I make sure to travel home. Some traditions resist time. We cook together, laugh too loudly, argue briefly and make up just as quickly. Our favourite? Fried rice. Mum has a way of making it that no one can replicate. I’m still trying, still hoping that one day, I’ll crack the code.
By the time I reach Aburi, the cold greets me like a polite slap. Accra is very hot and toxic. Here, the breeze is gentle, Mum waits to greet me properly, and I’m silently impressed—how do mothers always know the exact moment to make you feel both welcomed and mildly interrogated? My sister, now twenty-three but still a whirlwind of mischief, spins in the doorway.
‘Finally! You’re here,’ she says. ‘I was about to eat all the fried rice myself.’
‘Not on my watch,’ I say, dodging her dramatic swoop for the bowl. Dad hums somewhere in the background, off-key, holding a wooden spoon and stirring…nothing at all.
Mum shakes her head, still moving as if she owns the kitchen.
‘Big sis, careful with that pepper!’ she calls.
‘I’m careful!’ I snap, stirring too fast, sending a few grains of rice tumbling to the floor.
‘Pick it up!’ Mum yells, but her eyes twinkle with mischief. I pause.
‘Ei ma, why the shout? I’m twenty-six! Do I really need a lecture for picking up rice?’ She shakes her head, clearly enjoying her power to boss me around.
And just like always, laughter smooths over everything. Christmas in our house doesn’t allow grudges—only stories, dreams and love.
After prayer, heads bowed and hands clasped, we dish up and gather around the table. Mum slices the fried rice. I taste the years of her love in each grain.
‘Can I have more?’ my sister asks, eyes wide.
‘Eii sister nie!’ I exclaim, laughing.
Outside, streets shimmer with lights and laughter. Children run with drums, fireworks pop, and carolers sing off-key. Inside, we are alive with each other. For these hours, our family of four is the whole world I need.
After eating, we move to the living room to watch a movie. My sister sprawls on the floor, Dad leans back with a satisfied grin, Mum finally sits, and I collapse beside her on the couch.
By midnight, we are tired, full, and happy. My sister is asleep, Dad snores quietly, Mum and I sit in companionable silence, listening to the city hum outside. Christmas in Ghana is loud, busy and just perfect, and you wouldn’t want to miss the experience.
Kafui Mawunyo is a Ghanaian writer who puts feelings on the page so they stop pacing her mind. She writes with a touch of humour. Her work spans poetry and short prose, often exploring memory, identity and the small human moments we rarely name. When she isn’t writing, Kafui is likely overthinking a feeling or romanticizing everyday life. She shares her work as Literary Lens on Instagram and Substack, where thoughts, feelings and beautifully unfinished ideas find a home.
Instagram: the_literary_lens_
Instagram: kafui_mawunyo
Substack: Soft ramblings by Kafui