Almost immediately, Seven, my four-year-old niece, put up her best behaviour.
“Aunty, should I bring your shoes?”
“Aunty, should I stay quiet?”
Bright was simply a two-year-old lad — carefree, nonchalant as the word itself. It was as though it was registered in his subconscious mind that Aunty Dee would not take his sister out and leave him behind.
At the park, I watched with glee as they basked in the euphoria of fun, moving from one swing to another, dancing, jumping, and playing with other kids.
That alone brought back memories from many years ago. Christmas used to mean many things to me. Yes, I barely attended a Christmas fun fair, but other activities jingled the season so loudly I could hear it from the first day of December.
By the first week of December, my mother would have gotten our Christmas clothes. Sometimes, already-made dresses, other times, Ankara fabrics were given to tailors and our measurements would be taken. Now, I don't know between my mother and the tailor, who deserves an award for being the weirdest, for the choices of styles then were absurd.
A lot of you can relate to the long, sack-like gowns that could swallow three humans. The hats that should have no business with your head. And the big-sized shoes our mothers often believed we'd grow into.
But then, those things made Christmas fun for us, didn't they?
And there's this part of Christmas chicken that stood out for me. The rearing, the slaughtering and the frying. I used to think that Christmas chicken and rice tasted more delicious than the rice and chicken served at other times.
Christmas was never complete without my cousins or other family relatives coming over. Nor was it complete without the different scent of fried chinchin, boiled meats, fried stew, hot steaming gruel drinks (for some people).
Less I skip this part, the ever-anticipating Christmas carol. I remember a particular carol I actively participated in. I was age twelve then, the leader of the choral group.
When the ‘Great Winners’ crew was called up for their performance at that year's carol, I led the other children in a single file to the stage. Then the lights were turned off, and we brought out and lit our candles. Oh, how beautiful we looked in our white and red outfits radiating the hall with the aid of the candle lights.
Our song for that year was ‘Silent Night, Holy Night’. I began, and others joined in. The symphony. The melody. The harmony of the song. They transformed the auditorium that night.
I was transported back to reality when my four-year-old niece tapped me, panting and breathing hard.
“Aunty Delight,” she said... almost breathlessly. “I'm tired.”
Without giving a reply, I led her and Bright out of the playground to another part of the park where we ordered ice cream and cupcakes.
We settled on a spot and continued staring, watching other events unfold, as we scooped our ice cream and munched our cupcakes. While other children ran around the playground in excited screams, a huge Santa Claus walked around, shaking hands with the children and handing them gifts.
The younger children almost screamed out their lungs as they held tightly onto their parents for whatever fear they had of the sight before them. My niece, Seven, forgot about the ninety promises she made to me at home and jumped out of her seat into the arms of Santa Claus. I saw her saying something to him, which I didn't catch, and he responded by nodding his head in the negative.
Bright, however, held onto me like his next breath was dependent on how tight he held me. And for a second, I wondered if the Santa would fly from where it was to devour my boy. But he relaxed a bit when he saw his big sister playing with Santa with reckless abandon.
At the end of the day, my niblings bid their newfound friends goodbye, and we made for the exit. The background song switched to ‘Jingle Bell, Jingle Bell, Jingle All the Way’, and for the last time, I smiled broadly as another memory kissed my mind.
No matter how old I am, no matter how many decades and centuries pass by, that song will always be fresh in the ears and hearts of many.
All images are mine.
