We can’t celebrate Christmas, New Year over fear of bandits- Kaduna residents cry”                            

 Daily Post Nigeria, 17th December, 2021.

December comes as a thief, creeping through months in the blink of an eye, and like a dream, rolling away with brittle gentleness; one it is not known for. The winds passing through leaves nothing tender on its path, roads adorned with fog pristine as the clouds lay in wait during the mornings, opting not to fade on some days. Everything becomes coated with dust. Cleaning becomes the perfect metaphor fit for Nigeria’s dire situation.

It meets me at a job I have grown to loathe but cannot leave as not staying in the house doesn’t give me a moment to think about how my life is going down a spiral. I am not particularly excited. Fear grips me because I turned twenty on the eight and had a gnawing feeling that constantly reminded me of how little I have done for myself and how I was capable of so much more. I count the cash in my bag with furrowed eyebrows while watching the quiet road. The cold sending shivers down my spine. I breath in and out, the sun is nowhere to be seen.

I work six to six, a temporary sacrifice. The thrills of having a job was now a carcass left to the vultures in the arid ground my head occasionally wanders through. My boss bores me with mundane details of her day, complains about being tired. I do not roll my eyes out of respect but listen as she vents until she leaves with the promise to get some sleep. She doesn’t want my opinion; I have learnt to live with people who love the sound of their voice. I know when my answers do no good, I don’t even know how to reply when she starts talking. She throws advice randomly, veers off the topic at hand and tells me goodbye.

A sigh escapes my lips before I register my fatigue. It is eight thirty am and I am exhausted. I have something to look forward to- my siblings are coming home.

I call my sister fingers drumming on the counter, out of habit as the ring becomes a click.

Her voice is low; I don’t ask why or tell her I miss her. I assume she is supposed to know because that is what siblings do.

I tell her what has been going on at home, in her absence. I ask if she’d rendezvous with my older brother coming from Benin at Abuja before taking the train home. She says yes without a promise. I tell her bye, smiling as a customer walks in.

At home my younger brothers ask me and I inform them grinning. My mum had quite a handful of children and having spent most of our childhood together, we branched out, the oldest leaving home for school and finding another home faraway but ever within our reach with a mobile phone and stable internet connection. The others left, only to come back during the holidays. We haven’t seen them in months. The festive seasons were reunions, retelling childhood tales while sharing knowing smiles. Our childhood was a thing of the past but our bond was forever even in old age and death.

The ember months are known by Nigerians to possess unfathomable evil as they herald the dawn of New Year. Prayers are made to fortify our bodies and soul against evil by my mother as she celebrates the new month, chasing evil news far from us. But evil has been running in my country for years now. It feels like a trick that I remember hearing violence from my childhood years about the land I have grown to call home.During these seasons, security agencies are on high alert for acts of violence as they are not new. Places of worship have been attacked, bombed and worshippers slaughtered like sacrificial lambs. In spite of the childlike demeanor that overtakes me like a second skin during the season and the wonderful glow that encapsulates my heart, there is fear and its torment on the side.

It is holding my breath until it is all over. Breathing is labored but my eyes dance with joy. I tell my heart to stay still. This Christmas, I tell myself to avoid social media and the news but my little bubble doesn’t last long before it bursts. After each laugh, meal and hymn, I am forced to see that wishes are not horses and we are to live despite perilous times hoping thingschange for the better, adhering to rules security agencies have put in place for the protection of lives and properties. My mother is not worried one bit, she says our lives are in the hands of God and I believe her against the doubt threatening to flood my mind.

When my siblings come home, they have look different. An alien thing has attached itself to them, I guess that is what growth does, it makes people better versions of themselves. My sister steps over the gutter letting me drag her suitcase. I close the store for a couple of minutes before rushing back. The boy sitting by the Bet9ja shop at the far end calls my name. He jokes about sharing the bread and goodies my sister brings as it is accustomed of all travelers to on their journey home. I sit on a plastic chair until the shadows disappear. 

I walk into the house meeting chaos, my mother sits precariously on the edge of the sofa in which my sister seats on. Her eyes are filled with wonder as she watches each picture with a smile. There are unopened bags of rice, beans, meat and Christmas decorations lying around. I hate the clutter but do nothing to make it go away.

My siblings have changed, my sister wipes her forehead, complains about the heat. I am genuinely happy. At least for now.

My chores are done before six. My sister walks about the compound as if the nonliving items have a secret she cannot wait to hear. The blocks under the guava trees are hardened. She asks if it is true. I shrug but cannot avoid bring myself to mutter words. 

I remember her calling multiple times each time the violence escalated in Kaduna. Everything else feels surreal. I am walking out of a dream with my eyes close. The day is uneventful. I go home only to fall asleep, before my head hits the pillow she is there, pulling me awake and asking where the container for Maggi is.

My siblings act like visitors but this house has aged into the crevices of their mind. I want to ask when they became tourists in our home but my words morph into nothingness. I stay still and do even more chores with my mouth pursed. There is abundance and visitors troop in to see my mother. I stay in the room on days I don’t go to work.

We make chin chin and listen to music playing from my brother’s speaker. His long legs occupy space; he hasn’t stopped growing. The thing with family is this; I am being stuck with them, nothing changes their position in my life no matter what. They take me places by their whims and leave me angry. Sometimes; I am powerless. I make promises not to get angry or raise my voice but before long I am a barking dog.

After a few days I convince myself I will not miss my sisters annoying ring tone and her ability to conjure errands specifically for me and my brother’s loud music I enjoy when I am fully awake and not groggy with sleep. I tell myself life is fleeting and so I live in the present. I try.

I haven’t been to church for Christmas service for years now and I have managed to not feel guilty about it. My mother dressed us up in new clothes and filled our bellies with rice on such mornings while we were still children. Now, she lets us be taking only her last child. I tell myself God works in mysterious ways and by avoiding church that day under the guise of cooking, I am avoiding the chaos that may brew and running away from uncertain danger. It is weak excuse because I enjoy church services more than I admit. This year, I am looking forward to Christmas like a child and also going for service.

On the twenty fifth of December 2011 there was a Christmas carnage in Nigeria. I was only ten and have only begun to grasp the gravity of these news as I age.

I miss the knockouts we threw on Christmas eve as my mother fries chicken by the open fire, the Christmas carols going from street to street until late at night. I want to not feel fear each time festive seasons approach.