Growing up in the village, Christmas was always the highlight of the year for all the kids. From getting new shoes and dresses to making beautiful hair, the harmattan breeze would always come to compliment with unwanted white powder, which would turned shining faces and hair to a dusty color.
No day passed without my cousin and I doing a countdown until the 25th, the anticipation of how we will rock our new clothes, places to go, and houses we will insist they celebrate Christmas for us with money.
It was 2006; I was nine years old, and excitement filled the air as my aunt had just arrived home with Joy, my cousin. The next day, Joy's mum went to the market and bought us our Christmas dresses. While Joy was trying to put on her beautiful, shiny red gown, I was admiring my royal blue gown. It was the best gift I ever received that year. I admired it for long, thanking my aunt, like it's my first time ever owning a dress.
In the same spirit of Christmas, my grandmother complimented our beautiful dresses with a pair of low-wedged shoes. On Christmas Eve, Joy wore her red gown and her shoes and began her show-off cat walking.
Within a twinkle of an eye, it was Christmas morning; we started our cooking as early as 6 am. While grandpa butchered the Christmas fowl, grandma was boiling the rice, my aunt was making the stew, and my cousin and I were running the borehole nonstop to make sure we wouldn't have to visit the borehole till the next day.
The aroma coming from the meat stock to the stew and rice competed against which will dominate the air the most. We all anticipated the food as we salivated while stylishly begging my aunt to give us chicken in every drop of water. "Don't carry any meat from that basket again oh, do you two want to finish the full chicken before the food gets ready?" My aunt questioned us with a stern face, her eyes fixed on my cousin and me.
Finally, the food was ready. We ate just a plate, and we rushed to attend Mass. After which we got back and prepared for our Christmas ritual. There is never a year we don't walk from home to home doing what the kids called "happy Christmas," and the house you visit would ask, "Happy rice or happy money?"
A phrase I can never forget, this is just every home's jovial way of welcoming the kids in. After asking if you are okay with rice or if you are "no rice gang" and strictly money-minded. Some will celebrate Christmas with any amount they have and still dish out a good portion of food with chicken for any kid that cares for food.
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We waited till 12 noon, we took our bath again, and we wore our beautiful dress, our faces glowing with excitement. My cousin and I looked beautiful in our Christmas outfits. The village road was a busy one as kids flaunted the road like busy bees.
We moved from house to house, avoiding groups so we wouldn’t have to share any money given to us. We both held our Christmas money separately like a treasure.
We both had planned the houses to visit that would leave us with plenty of money. One after the other, we began going to the houses, receiving all the naira notes from 5 naira to 500 naira.
Mama Ngozi's rice and stew last year was an unforgettable one, and my cousin had been singing her house like a song. Immediately we got there, she sighted us and left a long-lasting smile, "My children, una welcome oo, food dey fire oo!" She said untying her wrapper and slid 100 naira into each of our hands. We chorused, "Thank you, Mama Ngozi." We were sad because we couldn't have a taste of her delicious food, but the money was enough to cover the sadness.
After lots of visits from one house to another. We promised ourselves the last house would be "uncle the Lover." This is a family man known for his generosity every Christmas. From giving out food items to those who come to extend their greetings to him and his family to giving kids 500 naira above to kids who visit his house to just say "Merry Christmas."
To arrive early, we took the shortest route. We were just a few minutes away from Uncle Lover's house when we heard a loud whistle echoing nonstop. The shouting that followed confirmed our worst fears; it was the Oracle procession.
Chaos erupted as women and girls ran desperately to hide their faces from seeing the Oracle. Tradition demands that females must never set eyes on the Oracle; to do so is believed to be a sacrilege and can lead to eternal bad luck. A belief that has been accepted from the time of my ancestors and can't be questioned.
My cousin and I held each other’s hands, our beautiful dresses now forgotten as we ran inside the closest bush. The drums grew louder, signaling the Oracle’s approach. "Maryanne," my cousin whispered in panic, "the Oracle is going to Uncle Lover’s house!"
My heart sank. "If only we had gone there first," I replied in a terrified voice. "Your money is already 900 naira, and I have only managed 600," I lamented.
We stayed there until they passed, watching helplessly as the Oracle entered Uncle Lover’s compound. Our chance to receive the best gift that would leave us feeling like we won lottery was gone.
Though our last plan to visit Uncle Lover’s house failed, I still had the time of my life, from the aroma of Christmas rice to slaying and showing off my new dress on Christmas Day with my cousin and collecting Christmas money. Every Christmas season reminds me of childhood happiness and its unforgettable memories.
