LOST ON CHRISTMAS DAY

It is Christmas again

I hear the gong from the church

It is yet another Christmas. Why does it keep coming? I am tired. I am sick. I am fed up with Christmas. I don’t want any more Christmases.

And here it goes again. The gong, I mean. Summoning the sinners up the hill to God’s sanctuary, they say. He’s the Holy one, they say. He has power and does miracles, they say. And The Father is his representative. Why do they call him The Father, anyway, when he has no children? What do i know, eh?

I look up the hill and there it is. The church, planted like an edifice for good. Perched on the hill. Overlooking the village. A vantage point. My grandfather’s hill. His land, stretching to the foot of the village. My father’s land. My inheritance! My land! My wealth!

Does God live on that hill? In that corrugated building? No! He doesn’t, I say to myself. He lives in heaven, The Father says. The Father lives in that house. On that hill. ON MY HILL.

He lives on a hill so he can be closer to God who is in heaven, i say. He lives there so he can pee on the rest of us, Mokom says. I don’t believe him. He even says we drink The Father’s urine because his wash room and latrine are on the same side as the stream that flows to the village. I still don’t believe him. The water is clean and does not smell or taste anything like piss. I know the smell of a grown man’s piss. It smells like that of he-goat. I know this because Ni Suh does it every day and I have three he-goats. Ni Suh is always going to death celebrations and funerals and born houses even for people he doesn’t know. He will follow a vehicle carrying a corpse to any village. He will follow a corpse on a motorcycle or one on a wheelbarrow. He will even push the wheelbarrow and where the wheelbarrow will not go; Ni Suh will carry the corpse on his back. His services are not expensive. He doesn’t charge any money either. He just wants to drink. The children in the village now call him Ni Ntoh. But I call him Ni Suh. He sleeps in the room next to mine in my mother’s house. He is my father’s brother.

The gong goes again and the children emerge from their houses in their new clothes and new shoes. Some white and some brown. Yellow and red mostly for the girls. Ma Philo’s twins are carrying two white dolls with silky blond hair. I wonder if there are black dolls. What do their hair look like? A balloon pops. Laughter. Shouts. Chants of “bolo bolo burst, Ibo man gain bla bla bla (the name of whoever’s balloon it is) loss”. I can’t hear the name clearly from here. Then the expected scream. A few more laughs and they emerge from the corner. More balloons. The reds mixing with the yellows and the browns. Sule comes along with his ball. He’s Hausa. What is he doing dressed in new clothes and going up the hill? Maybe he’s just showing off his new ball and new clothes. Maybe it is the food. They all troop pass me. I few waves and a few nods. Acknowledgements from my peers. My age mates. A few of them older than me. 16. Maybe 17. But they all know me and I know them. They are not surprised to see me. Some slow their steps and lower their voices as the approach. Gently, they raise their heads. Eyes locked. One or two nods, a lifted chin from them. I return the courtesy. They walk pass. A few more paces. Voices rising. Steps quickening and off they go, back to Christmas.

The church service on Christmas day is usually longer. The women bring baskets of food, the men jugs of wine, crates of beer and bottles of whisky. The village always goes up the hill to celebrate Christmas but Ni Suh doesn’t. He doesn’t drink on Christmas day either. I can hear the choir singing noel noel noel. I listen to the words. Mumble a few of them in my mind and watch as the late goers hurry up the hill. I don’t go to church anymore. Not even on Sundays.
“i have brought you a mango”, Ni Suh says, as he sits on the stone next to me.
“Thank you”, I say as I stretch my hand and take the mango from his out stretch hand.
“I have washed it”, he says.
“Thanks”, I acknowledge but he knows I will not eat it. Not yet anyway.
Papa is in his house, sitting by the fire. He listens to the radio a lot. He is always listening to the radio these days. Today he is listening to Africa number one. I can hear it through the open window. They are talking about Zaire and Mobutu. Papa has a big picture of him over the mantelpiece, dressed in his leopard print shirt and cap. Next to him is a black and white photo of Lumumba. I know them because Papa says Mobutu killed Lumumba and took over his place. I always remember them because it is similar to the story of John and Mary, only John and Mary were brother and sister. Yet John killed Mary and took away her flowers. I wonder what it would have been like for Mobutu to kill Lumumba when they were not even brothers. What i know is that one was a good man and one was a bad man. But why will Papa have a photo of a good man and a bad man? I will remember to ask him that after Christmas. Papa says he worked with both of them doing something. I am not sure what. Then there is a photo of Papa and Gowan of Biafra. Then another with Endeley next to a photo of Nkrumah in his wrapper. He looks like a woman. My sister calls him Mrs Nkruman. There are other pictures of famous people as well on the wall. Then there is the picture of mama, one of papa, one of me and one of my sister. Then there is another picture if us four leaning against papa’s white Peugeot 404.
“What do you want to do after this?” Ni Suh asks me.
“I don’t know”, I say. We resume the silence, each one with his own thoughts. Very son Mokom will come. But he’ll be wearing his Christmas clothes. Last year he came. The year before that and the year before, he came too. Father too came last year for the first time. My sister doesn’t come because she doesn’t live with us.
The church service is over now. I can see the children have started coming back to the village. The parents and the grownups will stay on the hill to eat and drink and celebrate Christmas on consecrated land. The children will return to the not so holy realms where they will indulge in games and make merry. One of the boys will come from the hill with a special gift from The Father. It is usually a privilege that The Father will pick you out of all the children to honour you with a gift. Sometimes a lucky girl will also get a gift. Some lucky mothers too, especially the ones that sing in the choir or clean the church or cook food for The Father. The boys and the girls who also wash The Father’s clothes and clean his house will also get a special gift. If you are lucky The Father will invite you to teach you doctrine and prepare you for Holy Communion. He will teach you new games and tricks to play on your friends in school. Then he will do your home work. You will also play games with him. He always ends up with his favourite song. It makes you giggle and laugh. The Father has a strange voice when he sings. He sounds different. He will take off his reading glasses and sometimes he will switch off the light. Sometimes the lights stay on as he sings
“If I touch no fear, if I touch you anywhere no fear” then he will touch you. Then he will ask you to sing to him too. Then he will tell you where to touch him.

I sit still under my fig tree and watch them. My new clothes ripped from their packaging and strewn on the bed in my room. This fig tree is where I have spent my last four Christmases. I stretch my leg to touch the wooden cross. With the tip of my finger I trace its charred frame down to the mount of earth on which it is planted. I kneel down and whisper “I am here Mama; you don’t have to spend Christmas alone”.

The end.