MERRY CHRISTMAS

Just because it's such a lovely song, sometimes, I catch myself singing it; "I'm dreaming of a white Christmas. Just like the ones I used to know…" Ah! But that's how far I'll go tonight. My brother, I grew up in Lagos, spent most of my childhood Christmases in the village; so, truth be told, there is nothing 'white' about the things I remember.  So, let me respect myself, and tell it like it was…

 

I remember the harmattan haze. And waking up as the sun was rising. The crispy chill of a Christmas morning. The house would be silent, just the sound of my heart beating, with the excitement only a child can feel at thought of what that day would bring…

 

I remember the smells of Christmas cooking. The unmistakable smell of okpa freshly unwrapped. The scent of akamu just made. The sweet aroma of dodo, sizzling in a crusty pan. The sight of large women in faded wrappers, sitting on wooden stools over open fires, in a dimly lit kitchen, stirring large pots bubbling with the promise of Christmas rice…

 

I remember those Uncles and Aunties, with bell-bottom trousers and freshly cut Afros. Hair twisted with black thread into long, sinewy strands. Skin gleaming like polished copper from the generous application of Vaseline. Teeth white like chalk from those hours of scrubbing with chewing stick. All smelling of medicated soap and talcum powder; all shining like kings in their Christmas best…

 

I remember the enigmatic sound of the drums, booming out of the heart of the jungle, calling us to the market square to come and dance with the masquerades. Ah! I remember Ojoko, the ugly one, dancing with nimble feet in the golden-brown sands of home, while my cousins and I would taunt him, daring him to chase us, us the fleet-footed, dusty-skinned children of that primordial land. And when he did, we would run like the wind. But not because we were afraid…

 

I remember that bruises didn't heal quickly that time of the year, that licking your lips only made them drier, that gates and doors were always open, and grown-ups walked around with loose change in their pockets so that whenever we – little children – came up to them and said, 'Uncle, Aunty, donanu, gbara m Christmas', they would give us enough to buy a handful of sweets…

 

I remember the songs we sang at night. The simple stories that showed us what was wrong and what was right; the tales that taught us to believe that, no matter what happened, the Darkness would never triumph over the Light. I remember the face of the Storyteller, half in the shadows, barely illuminated by the flickering flame of a kerosene lamp. I remember her voice, quivering with passion as she sang, 'Orioma le le le e! Orioma!' Telling us that the world was full of danger, but those who walked with conscience clear, would never have reason to fear…

 

I remember how heavy my heart would feel when the sun began to set. But, inevitably, at some point, someone would sit us down and say: 'Remember, children; Christmas is not all about fun and games, food and drink, song and stories. No. It's the birthday of Baby Jesus. Don't you see? Whenever God looks down and sees that something is missing in the world – maybe some laughter, maybe the cure for cancer – He takes it, whatever He sees is missing in the world, and puts in a tiny, little baby.'

 

Yes. I remember those sermons. And the soft whispers my father made as he stood in the darkness praying over me; the loving presence of my mother, sitting in the darkness watching over me. I remember the nearness of brother and sister. I remember listening to the wind whistling through the Pine Trees outside our window. I remember lying awake on some of those Christmas nights, imagining it; that I too had been born with something the world was lacking…

 

 And so now, even though I am no longer a child, I still believe - in the laughter of children; in the rough and tumble of brothers playing; in the crackle of presents being unwrapped; in eating dinner around a table together. I still believe that God so loved the world that He gave it His son; that everyone is born with a reason, and Christmas is the season to remember that Love is what gives Life its meaning…

 

True. These are the things that have stayed with me; and these are the things that I want you to see, as I stand here and wish you a very merry Christmas.

 

 

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