Christmas in Biafra (1969) by Chinua Achebe

This sunken-eyed moment wobbling down the rocky steepness on broken bones slowly fearfully to hideous concourse of gathering sorrows in the valley will yet become in another year a lost Christmas irretrievable in the heights its exploding inferno transmuted by cosmic distances to the peacefulness of a cool twinkling star.... To death-cells of that moment came faraway sounds of other men's carols floating on crackling waves mocking us. With regret? Hope? Longing? None of these, strangely not even despair rather distilling pure transcendental hate ...

Beyond the hospital gate

the good nuns had set up a manger of palms to house a fine plastercast scene at Bethlehem. The Holy Family was central, serene, the Child Jesus plump wise-looking and rose-cheeked; one of the magi in keeping with legend a black Othello in sumptuous robes. Other figures of men and angels stood at well-appointed distances from the heart of the divine miracle and the usual cattle gazed on in holy wonder....

Poorer than the poor worshippers before her who had paid their homage with pitiful offering of new aluminium coins that few traders would take and a frayed five-shilling note she only crossed herself and prayed open- eyed. Her infant son flat like a dead lizard on her shoulder his arms and legs cauterized by famine was a miracle of its kind. Large sunken eyes stricken past boredom to a flat unrecognizing glueyness moped faraway motionless across her shoulder....

Now her adoration over

she turned him around and pointed at those pretty figures of God and angels and men and beasts- a spectacle to stir the heart of a child. But all he vouchsafed was one slow deadpan look of total unrecognition and he began again to swivel his enormous head away to mope as before at his empty distance....

She shrugged her shoulders, crossed herself again, and took him away.