The Christmas coat of wildness apparently has become threadbare over the years, is saggy and, therefore, no longer fashionable. I didn’t see it on the streets this last Thursday. Not last year or the year before either. Here is why. Two days to this year’s Christmas Day, I sent a goodwill sms text to a former work colleague. I wrote “Merry Christmas ahead”. Very short and to the point as they say. Not long after, he called instead of sending an sms response. “Oga Tawey, why did you send me this kind of message?” he asked. “I don’t like it. What is ‘merry’ about this Christmas? They haven’t paid this month.” He meant the miserly monthly pension that the federal government pays retired public servants. Afterwards, he responded to my message: “Merry Christmas to you too ahead. No show yet oooo.” Moments later, I read a social media news flash, “Pastor prays death for man who stole his 30k Christmas meat”.
Despondency was the feeling that defined this year’s Christmas Day festivity. So pervasive was it that a man of God ignored the Creator’s instruction to love our enemies and pray for them. Matt. 5:43-48 says, “You have heard that it was said, ‘Love your neighbor[a] and hate your enemy.’ 44 But I tell you, love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, 45 that you may be children of your Father in heaven. He causes his sun to rise on the evil and the good, and sends rain on the righteous and the unrighteous. 46 If you love those who love you, what reward will you get? Are not even the tax collectors doing that? 47 And if you greet only your own people, what are you doing more than others? Do not even pagans do that? 48 Be perfect, therefore, as your heavenly Father is perfect.” I pray the pastor regains his mental balance to realize his blunder. But he wasn’t alone. The sense of emptiness caused by flat pockets gripped nearly everybody.
Unlike last year and years before, I received no Christmas greetings from family members or friends. Not even my bank that used to mail “wish you merry Christmas” sent one this year. No gifts either. Neighbours failed to exchange meals. Children didn’t flood the streets in their “Christmas best” clothes. I didn’t hear knocks on my gate. No kid bothered to ask me for “goron Krismati” because they knew they would get nothing. No, they would receive something but it would be just these words “times are hard.”
Yes, I did have visitors. My cousin and his family came calling. His wife brought kunu zaki. What did I offer them? Just a filled water jug. Husband and wife respectfully took a few sips but the children, as you would expect, looked away in embarrassed silence. They made sure the visit was as short as they could make it. I, on my own part, was glad when it ended because I was beginning to feel the heavy weight of melancholy too. Escorting them out into the street, I could feel emptiness all around. My neighbours’s houses were unusually quiet. David, my immediate neighbour’s young son, wasn’t kicking his foot ball around as usual. His mother wasn’t splashing water noisily either. The dogs in the next house had gone unusually quiet because there were no footsteps heard behind the locked iron gate. And no bones thrown their way.
No, I’m not altogether right. There were few ups this Christmas. The pastor of the church I worship at celebrated his 60th birthday on Christmas Day. Kunu and minerals were served but I got none because everything was taken before it got to my turn. Yes, my younger brother’s daughter was given out in marriage this day in Taraba. I didn’t attend the ceremony because I couldn’t. A young pastor came to open the patent medicine shop I let out to his midwifery wife. I joined him in the shop and we got talking. He stopped a young man selling roasted iced fish and bought some for himself and me. He then walked down the street and came back later with iced kunu and cracker biscuits. I had flu which had lasted over week but the cold drink was too alluring to turn down. I downed it all and the following day the catarrh came back full blown. On Saturday, a young man living close to us took a wife. My wife saw an opportunity to brighten a bleak Christmas and grabbed it with both hands. The drumming and dancing was heard in my compound and before I knew, I was on my feet shuffling this way and that.
This silver lining in the Christmas darkness was also seen by President Bola Tinubu, who unconvincingly told hurting millions of Nigerians that “Nigeria is on a promising path of restoration and progress, with every indication pointing toward a bright future. In the spirit of this season, let us renew our hope and belief in a prosperous Nigeria.” His “renewed hope” government did nothing this Christmas to make himself believable. Public servants were not paid salary to be able to make vital Christmas purchases. That failure explained my friend’s exasperation seeing my Christmas greeting. Now, Christmas is over. Blues or not, if you’re alive today, Sunday, say glory to God and look forward to a happier and “more prosperous” 2026.
