###The Holiday Arrival
Sometimes a place welcomes you before you even understand why.
The rain had followed them for nearly an hour before it finally tired of the chase and drifted away, leaving the world clean and glistening.
Tobe had started to worry somewhere around the forty-minute mark. The road ahead stretched endlessly, a straight path through what felt like an ocean of elephant grass and towering trees. For nearly two hours, there had been no houses, no markets, not a single soul in sight, just the forest flowing past like a river without end, dark and dense and full of secrets.
Uncle CJ didn't seem troubled. He remained focused on the road, humming softly to music from the 90s that played low on the radio, a half-smile on his face as if he were heading home after a long journey rather than beginning one.
Tobe turned to the forest, watching it blur past, and tried not to think about how far they were from everything familiar.
"Don't worry," Uncle CJ said suddenly, as if reading his thoughts. "We're almost there."
And then, as if his words had summoned it, the forest began to change.
The trees grew taller but less dense. Lights appeared in the distance, first one, then several, then dozens, glowing like earthbound stars. The elephant grass gave way to cultivated gardens, and suddenly they were no longer in wilderness but approaching something that hummed with life.
Palm Town wasn't the kind of place that hid its heartbeat.
Streetlights glowed against tall royal palm trees that lined the roads like sentinels. Flower fences burst with color even in the evening dimness. Illuminated signs blinked in quiet competition with the moon: Palmcourt Hotel, KellyHouse of Fashion, Unity Plaza, Springbank, Berries Restaurant, Mainline Electronics, Sunrise Mart. There were barbershops and makeup salons on what seemed like every corner, their windows still bright with activity despite the hour.
It was spectacular. Not a sleepy village at all, but a town that breathed with its own rhythm, different from Awka's chaos, more musical somehow, like a song played at half-speed so you could hear every note.
Car horns faded into the soft hiss of evening rain on leaves. Tobe pressed his forehead to the window as Uncle CJ's SUV rolled past painted balconies and tiny gardens overflowing with scents he couldn't name. A town, yes, but every corner breathed like a forest after harmattan, carrying the green smell of growing things.
"Almost home," Uncle CJ said, his voice low and certain, hands steady on the wheel. "You'll like 16th Lane. It listens."
Tobe didn't know what that meant, but something in the way Uncle CJ said it, so matter-of-fact as if streets listening was the most natural thing in the world, made him not want to ask. Not yet.
The lane curved between flamboyant trees heavy with orange blossoms, their petals littering the wet asphalt like small flames. Buildings rose on both sides, mostly single-story structures with shops on the ground level and living spaces above, balconies adorned with laundry and potted plants. There were trees everywhere, more than Tobe had ever seen on a city street: orange trees, mango trees, the towering royal palms that gave the town its name.
The massive two story stood where the lane opened into a small square, surrounded by a neat fence and a black gate that Uncle CJ opened with a remote. As Tobe stepped down from the car, a sweep of fresh, cool wind embraced him, carrying the scent of wet grass and orange blossoms so sweet it almost made him dizzy.
The house itself seemed to glow in the evening light.
Cream walls, green shutters, a veranda wide enough for long evenings and longer conversations. Hibiscus hedges burned red even under the streetlamps, their blooms so vivid they looked almost unreal. From somewhere nearby came the clean sound of a flute, soft and unhurried, weaving through the air like a silver thread.
A brown dog with white-tipped ears trotted through the still-open gate to greet them.
"Fendy," Uncle CJ said, crouching to scratch behind the dog's head with obvious affection. "Neighborhood security and professional greeter."
Fendy was small and fuzzy, the kind of dog that seemed to be half Poodle, half mystery, with intelligent eyes and a wagging tail that moved his entire body. He sniffed Tobe's shoes with great seriousness, gave one sharp bark as if making an official declaration, then wagged harder as if to say: Approved.
Tobe flinched at the bark, which made Uncle CJ chuckle softly. "He's more noise than bite. Come, let's get you inside."
The house was even more remarkable within.
Warm bulb light filtered through lace curtains, spilling across bookshelves that climbed the walls like wooden vines. Woven mats in rich earth tones covered the floors. A low wooden table in the parlor, its surface polished smooth with years of use, was surrounded by chairs wearing cushions in bright Ankara prints, their colors as lively as a market morning.
But it was the walls that truly captured Tobe's attention.
Paintings hung throughout the room, the stairs and the passage way, each one spaced thoughtfully along the cream-colored walls. Not photographs of people or family portraits, but landscapes that seemed almost alive. One showed a wide savannah under a honey-colored sunset, the grass bent as if stirred by an invisible wind. Another captured a misty forest where silver light slipped through ancient trees, and something, perhaps a figure, perhaps only a trick of shadow, waited at the edge of sight.
There was a mountain lake that mirrored the heavens so perfectly Tobe couldn't tell where water ended and sky began. A golden desert where a single trail of footprints vanished into an impossible horizon. A twilight garden where flowers bloomed in colors that had no names.
Each frame was old but lovingly polished, the wood dark with age and care. And if Tobe looked closely enough, moving from painting to painting with his mouth slightly open, the scenes inside seemed to shimmer softly, like reflections disturbed by breath or heartbeat.
He stared longest at one near the doorway: a lantern hanging in darkness, its light soft and golden. For just a second, less than a second really, barely a blink, he thought he saw the flame inside it flicker.
"They're beautiful, aren't they?" Uncle CJ's voice cut gently through Tobe's trance. "I collected them from my different travels. Each one a gift, each one a memory."
Tobe blinked hard and turned around, landing back in reality. Uncle CJ stood beside him, gazing at the paintings with an expression that was fond and distant at once, as if seeing not just the images but the moments when he'd first encountered them.
"They're…" Tobe searched for the word. "Alive."
Uncle CJ smiled at that. "Good art should feel that way. As if it's watching you watch it."
Tobe noticed something else then. There were no photographs anywhere, no pictures of people, no family portraits, no faces smiling from frames. Just these painted landscapes, these impossible beautiful places, and the feeling that each one held a secret.
The house felt larger than it looked from outside. Tobe glimpsed doorways leading to rooms he couldn't quite see into, a hallway that seemed to stretch farther than it should, stairs leading somewhere he hadn't noticed from the outside.
And it was quiet. Not the uncomfortable silence of an empty place, but the living quiet of somewhere that was simply waiting. Waiting for voices, for laughter, for the sound of footsteps breaking the stillness.
Uncle CJ brought the bags inside while Tobe stood in the living room, still taking it all in. There was a large LED television mounted on one wall, the only concession to modernity in a space that otherwise felt timeless. The air smelled faintly of ginger and rain and something else, something that reminded Tobe of his grandmother's old trunk: cedar wood and time.
"Let's ring your parents," Uncle CJ said, handing Tobe his phone before he'd even thought to ask. "They'll be worrying."
"Daddy!" Tobe said when the line clicked, relief making his voice bright. "We reached safely. The town is big. And green. Like a city that didn't forget trees."
His mother's laugh came through clear and quick, that familiar sound that meant home even when home was three hours away. "Good. Remember to eat before you sleep. And greet Uncle CJ properly. And help with chores."
Tobe passed the phone to Uncle CJ, who spoke with them in that same calm way he seemed to drive: few words, steady tone, each sentence measured and meant. When he finished, he slipped the phone back into his pocket and showed Tobe to his room.
It was simple but comfortable: a bed with a thick mattress and clean sheets, a wooden desk by the window, a wardrobe that smelled faintly of cedar. The window looked out over the square, where a few people still walked despite the hour, their voices carrying softly through the night.
"Bathroom's down the hall," Uncle CJ said. "Take your time. Get settled. When you're ready, we'll have some tea."
Tobe took a warm bath, the water pressure surprisingly good, and changed into his grey Batman pajamas. When he emerged, feeling cleaner and slightly more human, Uncle CJ was waiting on the veranda with two ceramic cups and a pot of tea that steamed gently in the cool night air.
The square below hummed with quiet life. A few shops were still open, their lights golden against the darkness. Someone played a saxophone in the distance, notes weaving lazily through the evening like smoke.
It was around seven-thirty, not late by Awka standards, but here it felt later somehow, as if time moved at its own pace.
Uncle CJ poured tea that smelled of ginger and something sweet, honey maybe, or cinnamon. He passed one cup to Tobe, half-filled so it wouldn't be too hot.
"First night in Palm Town," Uncle CJ said, settling into his chair with a contentment that suggested he'd been away too long and was happy to be back. "Let it tell you what it wants. Places have a way of teaching if you listen."
Tobe nodded, not quite sure what that meant, and sipped carefully. The tea was strong and warming, heat and spice meeting the cool night air in a way that felt both comforting and strange. He was quiet, his mind still back in Awka, in his room with his comics, with his mother calling him for dinner and his father reading the paper.
Uncle CJ seemed to sense it. He didn't push conversation, didn't try to fill the silence with empty words. He simply sat, drinking his own tea, humming softly, letting the night speak for itself.
Somewhere a nightjar called, a single low note that seemed to fold the whole street into deeper quiet.
Tobe thought of the city's lights and the tall trees that guarded each one, of the paintings that seemed to breathe, of the way Uncle CJ's eyes had glowed, or had they? Maybe it was just the light. Maybe he was tired.
It was unfamiliar and beautiful and nothing like home.
But as the tea warmed him from the inside and the saxophone played its lonely, lovely song, and Uncle CJ hummed along under his breath, Tobe felt something shift in his chest. Not happiness exactly. Not yet.
Just the beginning of possibility.
"I'm going to get our dinner," Uncle CJ said finally, rising with that same unhurried grace. "Rest here. Listen to the town. It has things to tell you."
He disappeared into the house, leaving Tobe alone on the veranda with his tea, the night, and a town that apparently listened.
And for the first time since leaving Awka, Tobe thought that maybe, just maybe, this wouldn't be the worst holiday after all.