Potential.

That's everything you can be, but you're not at the moment. My mom says it's the sparkle you see in the eyes of those who're gonna do great things someday.

Mom says I'm gonna do great things.

My 14 year-old brain doesn't fully understand what that means, but I like how my mother smiles down at me when she says it. Sometimes, when I'm alone in our 14B Savage Crescent tenement, the image of Mom's proud smile is what keeps me from feeling alone.

Today is Wednesday. And not just any Wednesday for that matter: it's Christmas morning.

I wake up to the annoying grating sound of the grinding machine in our neighbour's backyard. I don't know if it's just me, but the noise seems to jar my nerves especially. Once or twice, when I'm dreaming, the sound gets into whatever pleasantness I'm enjoying and turns it into a nightmare.

I hate these kinda mornings. I hate waking up angry.
But it's Christmas morning, so I shake off the rising ire in my core and push back the covers with a resigned groan.

I turn my head to the bedside table where my phone lies idly. With a swift move, I have the Android device in my hand. I tap my index finger on the fingerprint portion of the screen and the phone comes to life.

It's 06:06AM.

I groan again. I've always been an early riser. So, 06:06AM is quite late for me, even during the holidays. I look at the notifications on the home screen to see that I've got some texts on WhatsApp and a mail on my Gmail.

They must've come in during the night, I muse wordlessly.

I debate whether to check them right away or leave that till I've said my prayers and made my bed, and ultimately choose the latter.
With another practiced move, I slide out from under the covers and stand up. A thin sliver of daylight from outside falls across my face. I stretch my weary limbs.

I do a small show of exercise, twisting my body once or twice and wiggling my toes, before moving to my desk for my quiet time.

I open the upper drawer and pull out my Bible. Its black cover shows small signs of gathering dust, thanks to the Harmattan wind and one corner is getting dog-eared. I straighten that out immediately. This Bible may have been with me for close to three years but it still felt special to me and I treated it as such.
It was my dad's last gift to me.

Exhaling, I bow my head and entwine my fingers on the desk in a gesture of supplication..

Good morning, Dad. Thank you for the opportunity to wake up to another brand new day. Thank you for keeping me through out the night and thank you for keeping my loved ones safe. Dad, I ask that if there is anyway I've hurt you with my deeds, thoughts or words, consciously or not, I ask that you please forgive me. I also ask that you forgive Mom and Annie if they've wronged you too.
Dad, it's a brand new day, I ask that your will for my life this day be done, and you be glorified in everything I do today.
Thank you for I know you hear me. And thank you for this privilege to be able to talk to you. In Jesus name, Amen.

My mom says I pray in a very mature manner. It makes me swell with pride that an adult considers me mature. Speaking of Mom, I can hear the faint sounds of a meal being prepared in the kitchen downstairs, and I wonder what breakfast would be.

Pushing aside thoughts of food, I read the three chapters from the book of Psalms that I'd assigned to myself everyday for the whole year. Psalms 91, 27 and 100.

Just as I finish, I hear my mom call out my name.
"Israel, Israel," her voice croons, "are you up?"

Yup. Israel. That's me.
My mother named me after the country of her birth. Thankfully, it's not a strange occurrence here in Nigeria so I don't stick out like a sore thumb.

"Yes, Mom. Good morning."

"Morning, honey. Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas, mom." I yell back down the stairs, beating myself for not saying it to her first.

"Something smells nice," I add, trying to make up for my perceived wrongdoing, "What's for breakfast?"

My mom chuckles hard at my compliment. Apparently, she thinks I'm really hungry.
"Come down and find out."

I get to the dinner table in a little over eight minutes: the time it took me to make my bed, brush my teeth and make my room presentable. I'm wearing a sleeveless blue shirt with a hoodie and the jean shorts I slept in.

Mom's already got two plates out on the kitchen table and I can smell spaghetti and fried eggs in the morning air.
Mom turns to face me. Her Middle-Eastern features are especially pronounced as she has her hair pulled back and tied into a ponytail. I notice the
starry eyes and pointy nose that people say I inherited from her.

There's a small plus-shaped scar on the side of her face, just beneath her left temple where a barbed wire spike pierced her face as a young child.

My mom is a really pretty woman. Many people say that often.

"Well," she said with a raised eyebrow, "I thought you were hungry, young man."

Snapping out of it, I smile sheepishly and take a seat at the table. Table for two, I chuckle to myself and then I remember that we used to be more than two and it makes me a little sad.

I look around the room. Despite returning quite late from Christmas shopping last night and with armful of groceries, Mom had magically found a way to not only get all the stuff sorted out, but had apparently gotten them into the shelves too. Her lithe frame obscures the boiling pan on the stove but my nose still catches the occasional wift of turkey stew.

I laugh inwardly.

Mom would have loved to use chicken for her meals, but she knew I had an insane affectation for turkey and she usually let me have my way, despite the financial costs.

From where I'm seated, I can see into the seating room to the corner where the Christmas tree hung. Mom and I were supposed to do the decorations together but I'd ended up doing it alone last night. I didn't mind though. Besides, Mom was deadbeat tired last night.

We begin to eat.
Usually we would say grace first. But that tradition had gradually waned out. We're having spaghetti (swathed with bits of sausage), fried eggs and turkey stew. A bunch of bananas occupies a spot at the middle of the table, so I guess that's dessert or something.

I suddenly remember the two texts I received over the night and fish out my phone from my pocket. One is from my buddy, Jide wishing me a very Merry Christmas, while the other's from Annie.

I'm smiling as I read her text and don't even realize it until Mom points it out.

"Why are you smiling?" she asks with her fork in the air.

"Uh..I received a text from my friend." I mutter clumsily.

Mom eyes me suspiciously for what seems like a long time but really was only a few seconds.

"Who's she?'

I nearly choke on the piece of turkey that I'm chewing. I debate playing dumb and trying to shrug it off as nothing. But Mom had assumed her all-too-famous irrepressible stance and I figured it would be easier coming plain about Annie.
Besides, I wasn't doing anything wrong. What I felt for her didn't feel wrong..

"C'mon. Tell me all about her. Beginning with her name.."

I lift my forkful of pasta and smiling, take a bite..

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