Christmas Day smelled of jollof rice and fried chicken. It was and still is the happiest time of my life. Most of my childhood Christmases were spent in the bustling city of Benin. With my mother far away in Abuja, my father at work six days of the week and my older siblings practically ignoring me, there was ample time to mix with the area children, and soon enough I became one of them.
For my playmates and me, the festive season would begin with cultural dance performances organized by our humble selves. Dressed in white cotton cloths tied tightly around our flat chests, wrists and ankles adorned with beads which we had strung ourselves, white dots from melted white chalks placed all over our arms and legs. We would go from house to house singing and dancing to bini songs as the spectators cheered and "sprayed" us with money, which would later be spent on ulokah, knock-outs and bisco lights.
Other days were spent playing football in the streets with the boys, climbing fruits trees, playing emababa and eyeing the bright yellow mango fruits which were visible from the top of the 10-foot fence in our neighbour, Dr Osula`s house. Nobody lived in the house, the only presence we saw was that of the caretaker, an elderly man who would come to inspect it from time to time. One sunny afternoon, we finally succumbed to the temptation. The older boys led the way, and we followed them in climbing the tall wrought-iron gate at the entrance, using the spaces in between as a foot-hold. Finally, we were all in. The first thing that hit us as we moved further away from the gate was the silence, we could barely hear the sound of passing cars outside. Facing us was a huge unpainted duplex and a swimming pool with no water in it. The ground was littered with dry leaves and rotten fruits from the mango, orange, soursop, cashew and pawpaw trees which stood close to the tall fence. The air was ripe with the aroma of these sweet smelling fruits and we wasted no time descending on them. Some we ate on the spot, others we placed in black polythene bags which we had brought with us. We were finally roused out of our fruits-induced euphoria by the sound of the gates opening. We bolted wildly towards the back of the compound, quickly forgetting our bags of loot. We must have made some noise because the next thing we heard was a man`s voice shouting “A re vba?” (meaning “who goes there?") We hid behind a brown water tank with hearts racing wildly, praying for a miracle. To our utter dismay, we heard footsteps approaching. To this day, I don`t remember moving, but all of a sudden I found myself running through the wide open gates, following closely behind the others, my heart in my mouth.
However, the season would begin in earnest for us the day we were presented with beautiful dresses in our favourite colours and shiny court shoes with matching clutch bags. Other colours but our preferred were strictly unacceptable. As soon as we were done admiring them we would dash to our friends` houses to check out theirs. The only thing which could dampen one`s spirit during this period was finding out on Christmas day that one had the same dress as one or two other girls. Even worst was when they were not in one`s clique.
On Christmas Eve, on our way to church for midnight mass, we would light up our knock-outs and toss them close to people walking along the road. We would wait impatiently for midnight and the moment the Priest said “Merry Christmas”, we would dash out of the church, light up the biggest knock-out in our collections, toss it as far away as possible and wait for the deafening bang. Some kids went as far as tossing theirs inside the church. What we did the rest of the night is still a blur.
The aroma of jollof rice was what woke us in the morning. We would bathe hurriedly, put on our “Christmas clothes” and dig into steaming bowls of rice and chicken (the usual breakfast of bread and eggs was out of the question), then run to church. The rest of the day would be spent visiting as many close family & friends as possible, stuffing ourselves with all kinds of food and drinks and praying that at the end our visit that our host would "dash" us some money.
As dusk approached, marking the end our favourite day, we would head home and shoot the rest of our knock-outs late into the night, and wish for the day to begin all over again.
For my playmates and me, the festive season would begin with cultural dance performances organized by our humble selves. Dressed in white cotton cloths tied tightly around our flat chests, wrists and ankles adorned with beads which we had strung ourselves, white dots from melted white chalks placed all over our arms and legs. We would go from house to house singing and dancing to bini songs as the spectators cheered and "sprayed" us with money, which would later be spent on ulokah, knock-outs and bisco lights.
Other days were spent playing football in the streets with the boys, climbing fruits trees, playing emababa and eyeing the bright yellow mango fruits which were visible from the top of the 10-foot fence in our neighbour, Dr Osula`s house. Nobody lived in the house, the only presence we saw was that of the caretaker, an elderly man who would come to inspect it from time to time. One sunny afternoon, we finally succumbed to the temptation. The older boys led the way, and we followed them in climbing the tall wrought-iron gate at the entrance, using the spaces in between as a foot-hold. Finally, we were all in. The first thing that hit us as we moved further away from the gate was the silence, we could barely hear the sound of passing cars outside. Facing us was a huge unpainted duplex and a swimming pool with no water in it. The ground was littered with dry leaves and rotten fruits from the mango, orange, soursop, cashew and pawpaw trees which stood close to the tall fence. The air was ripe with the aroma of these sweet smelling fruits and we wasted no time descending on them. Some we ate on the spot, others we placed in black polythene bags which we had brought with us. We were finally roused out of our fruits-induced euphoria by the sound of the gates opening. We bolted wildly towards the back of the compound, quickly forgetting our bags of loot. We must have made some noise because the next thing we heard was a man`s voice shouting “A re vba?” (meaning “who goes there?") We hid behind a brown water tank with hearts racing wildly, praying for a miracle. To our utter dismay, we heard footsteps approaching. To this day, I don`t remember moving, but all of a sudden I found myself running through the wide open gates, following closely behind the others, my heart in my mouth.
However, the season would begin in earnest for us the day we were presented with beautiful dresses in our favourite colours and shiny court shoes with matching clutch bags. Other colours but our preferred were strictly unacceptable. As soon as we were done admiring them we would dash to our friends` houses to check out theirs. The only thing which could dampen one`s spirit during this period was finding out on Christmas day that one had the same dress as one or two other girls. Even worst was when they were not in one`s clique.
On Christmas Eve, on our way to church for midnight mass, we would light up our knock-outs and toss them close to people walking along the road. We would wait impatiently for midnight and the moment the Priest said “Merry Christmas”, we would dash out of the church, light up the biggest knock-out in our collections, toss it as far away as possible and wait for the deafening bang. Some kids went as far as tossing theirs inside the church. What we did the rest of the night is still a blur.
The aroma of jollof rice was what woke us in the morning. We would bathe hurriedly, put on our “Christmas clothes” and dig into steaming bowls of rice and chicken (the usual breakfast of bread and eggs was out of the question), then run to church. The rest of the day would be spent visiting as many close family & friends as possible, stuffing ourselves with all kinds of food and drinks and praying that at the end our visit that our host would "dash" us some money.
As dusk approached, marking the end our favourite day, we would head home and shoot the rest of our knock-outs late into the night, and wish for the day to begin all over again.
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