Creatives Project Ghana is pleased to share the selected pieces featured in our special Christmas series, 'Where I’m From: A Christmas in Ghana,' published on our website from 25th December to 31st.
In Order of Publication:
Christmas Chicken | Rigwell Addison Asiedu
Nobody wants to believe me at home, but some chickens can fly like eagles. I love God and tell the truth always like our Sunday school teacher advised. The fowl flew out of the cage and went away. Bra Yaw says I am lying, that he saw me go to the coop to play with the akokɔ and now it has escaped. Everyone has gathered outside, calling me akwadaa bɔne, a bad child. Mummy takes off her slippers and I run towards the gate, shouting for help. She follows me to the street for a few seconds before stopping. She says if my name is Kojo Nimo, I should come back to the house without our Christmas chicken. She is screaming that because of me, the family will not eat meat tomorrow. Now everyone is peeping out of their windows and laughing at me. All because of that stupid cock.
When Summer Stole Christmas | Lois Emma Ewuraesi Taylor
I heard the doorbell chime in its annoyingly possessive way, and I reluctantly dragged my drowsy body to the door. Who would visit anyone at this ungodly hour? I slowly unlocked the door to find Summer, the hurricane of an individual standing cheerfully behind it. If ‘the name and the personality don’t match’ were a person, it would be this lady. Summer, my friend of twelve years.
‘Are you not happy to see me?’ she asked, and I stepped aside, gesturing to her to enter. She entered with a storm of suitcases trailing her, almost destroying my poor door.
‘Why aren’t you ready? Don’t tell me you haven’t packed?!’ Summer blasted, but I have grown immune to her dramatics over the years.
Take Us Back | Craig Paakow Anderson
Afehyia pa.
Afi nkɔ bɛ to yɛ.
This echo quietly fades from lively scenes as it reaches this dark era of self-centred beings. It’s armoured in a black smock and radiates chaotic rays. Those days when our chants to the scratchy radio were unmatched.
Jingre bɛs, jingre bɛs.
But what we see now, even the soothsayer is shaken to his very roots. Our palms itch to hold presents, our tongues are poised to roll out ‘Thank you,’ but our hearts are reluctant to the old ritual of giving back.
Tradition | Naa Shika Coleman.
O come, all ye faithful, joyful and triumphant,
O come ye, O come ye to Bethlehem!
We recur the final mass hymn in our grandmother’s kitchen, straining our voices to make a choir of three. Dani hovers over the coal pot, fanning the live coal through the air vent in its side. Jacob is in the adjoining dining room, setting the table. His voice comes in through the opening in the wall through which I pass the plates, water still dripping down my arms to my elbows and the cement floor.
We are the only three grandchildren present to help Grandma prepare for Christmas lunch. She is in the hallway outside, nimble fingers rounding the beads on an old rosary, rubbing the wooden spheres from one end to the other, praying for something we do not know.
A Comedy of Errors (and Feathers) | Benjamin Cyril Arthur
PROLOGUE:
My name is Henrietta, and I am about to die. Not in the philosophical sense that we are all dying from the moment we are born. Not metaphorically, in the way people say ‘I'm dying’ when they mean ‘I'm slightly embarrassed.’
No. I mean, I am going to die. Today. December 24th, 2025. Christmas Eve. I know this because Auntie Grace just pointed at me and said, ‘That one. The fat one. She will do nicely for tomorrow's soup.’
The fat one?
Madam, I am not fat. I am cultivated. Thick in the right places. I am well-maintained. I am the result of six months of strategic corn consumption and a sedentary lifestyle. There is a difference. But I digress. The point is: I am going to be a Christmas dinner, and I have approximately eight hours to come to terms with my mortality.
Spoiler alert: I am not handling it well.
Grains Of Love: A Ghanaian Christmas Story | Kafui Mawunyo
‘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.
A Very Mensah Christmas | Esther Atswei Adjetey
‘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.
The Broken Christmas | Madeleine Koomson
The house on Christmas morning hung like a quiet grave, heavy with stillness that pressed against my chest. No shiny lights or twinkling decorations like when I was a kid. Back then, Papa transformed our living room into a wonderland. He'd string up those colorful bulbs that played soft Christmas carols, humming and twinkling like mischievous fireflies with secrets to share. As an only child, I'd snatch my baby cousin Afriyie’s chubby hands, and we'd twirl across the worn linoleum floor, giggling wildly to "Jingle Bells," our bare feet slapping in rhythm. Relatives crowded in, aunts fanning themselves with newspapers, uncles sneaking extra slices of fruitcake, all dodging Papa's strict rules—"No spilling! Feet off the furniture!"
But now, as an adult? Nothing. No lights, no music. Papa’s rules got tighter, turning the home into dead silence. He said Christmas was “a distraction,” and his voice shut doors the way locks shut gates. Relatives stayed away, sending quick WhatsApp messages like “Busy this year.” The old sofa where aunties once crowded now held only folded laundry and dust. The neighborhood was quiet too, except for far-off shouts and a faint song that never quite reached our windows.