The dry harmattan wind whistled a chilly tune through Lagos streets and market stalls, whispering "December don reach" Ah, Christmas. Remember those days when the smell of jollof rice would greet you at every corner, mingling with the sweet sting of burning firewood used to grill meat that dripped juices onto the red sand underfoot? 

Christmas in our house was a symphony of clanging pots, My mom’s laughter bouncing off the kitchen walls, and Dad strutting around like a rooster king with a bag of squawking, feathery loot. I remember peeping at him from behind the door, a knot of fear twisting in my stomach. Even now, the thought of killing a chicken sends shivers down my spine. I swear, those things cluck accusingly as the knife approaches like they know their destiny lies on a Christmas plate.

My mom could cook up a feast that’d make angels weep. From mountains of jollof rice that stained your fingers the color of sunshine to egusi soup thick enough to hold a spoon upright, everything tasted like love and good times. And guess who got to deliver steaming plates to our neighbors? Yours truly, armed with a shy smile and instructions to "Tell Auntie I said Merry Christmas, o." My mom believed Christmas wasn't complete unless the whole street shared in the bounty.

She always said, "Christmas no be for you alone, o. Share the blessings." So, I'd skip from door to door, delivering steaming plates to neighbors, my grin wider than the brim of my Santa hat. 

The real party was in the village, though. We'd pile into Uncle Ifeanyi's rickety Peugeot, luggage strapped precariously to the roof like a Christmas tree on stilts. The journey was an endurance test, punctuated by flat tires and singalongs to Fela Kuti and Dad’s dramatic pronouncements of "We're almost there!" (usually two hours before we actually were).

But as we rolled into the village, a chorus of "Na dem! Na dem!" would erupt, and suddenly, all the stress would be worth it.

But things don't stay the same, do they? Lagos traffic now crawls thick and slow, choked by dust and frustration. Lagos streets still have carols, but the tunes sound a bit off-key, burdened by the rising cost of everything. 

Meals are smaller these days, the ingredients marked by rising prices and anxious calculations. Many families are scattered across the continent, the village too far, and bus and flight tickets too expensive. Christmas, that once boundless symphony, feels like a broken record, skipping and repeating the same sad refrain: "Things are hard."

I wonder sometimes, will children today ever experience the magic of a village Christmas? Will they feel the sticky joy of udara dripping down their fingers, the warmth of a communal bonfire, the unbridled joy of a shared meal with loved ones?

It's easy to blame the economy, the rising cost of rice and yams, and the petrol queues that stretch like bad dreams. 

But maybe, just maybe, saving Christmas isn't about throwing more money at the fire. Not by throwing the most lavish party, but by remembering what truly matters - the magic of sharing, the warmth of togetherness, the simple joy of a smile exchanged over a bowl of steaming Jollof rice.

 We can save Christmas by dusting off the old stories, reviving the knockouts with clapping hands and echoing laughter, by sharing even when our pockets are lean.

Christmas isn't a price tag, it's a feeling.

It's the twinkle in a child's eye when they find a homemade ornament on the tree. It's the warmth of a hand held tight across a crowded table. It's the echo of carols sung, even if off-key, by voices raised in unison.

So, this Christmas, Lagos or London, Owerri or Dubai, let's remember what truly matters. Let's call our families, even if it's just a voice note, reminding them we're here, even if we're miles apart.

This Christmas, let's save the spirit. Let's share a plate, sing a carol, and tell a story. Let's open our doors and hearts, remembering that the most precious gifts are the ones that money can't buy.

Let's "save Christmas" one smile, one laugh, one shared story at a time. Because what good is a holiday if it doesn't leave a warmth in our hearts long after the decorations are packed away? Maybe, this year, instead of chasing a grand celebration, I'll cook a batch of Mom’s jollof, call my cousins in Owerri, and sing carols with the neighbor who lost her husband. Maybe that's all it takes to save Christmas, after all. Maybe the magic lives not in the size of the feast, but in the warmth of the company.