An Ode to the Christmases past

In the past week, the nostalgia of a commonly shared Christmas tradition among Igbo people has been HEAVY on the internet, especially on the platform formerly known as Twitter. Naturally, posts from that platform trickles to the other platforms, including Instagram.

One of the most acknowledged “regrets” was the fact that new generation Igbo people may struggle to share in our excitement of what Christmas and end of year means to the older generation of Igbo people.

We call it “going to the Village”.

Its the reason why transport providers record massive profit that time of the year, and channel most of their resources to transporting people from all over the country to the south-east part of the country. The fares are doubled/tripled/ fourpled (you get the gist), because the laws of demand and supply must be obeyed, from about the 15th of December till about the 7th of January covering to and fro routes (Unrelated: I like how the French say this – aller-retour).

So, most people begin weeks in advance to confirm their travel itinerary and secure tickets for the journey.

The reason this is a nostalgic post is, while fortunate people like me are still able to travel home without fail during this season, we can recognise how much things have changed and not for the better.

For starters, the cost of travelling in the past year has seen such an unprecedented hike, I really wished Corona year was the last time in a long time we would find ourselves using that word, unprecedented. Whether you choose to travel by road or by air (which are the only 2 options that exist), you find that the cost is insane for one person, imagine large families who would need to pay for this service. The roads are not even reportedly in great condition, so the journey is not painless. Bad roads definitely mean that security while on those roads is not guaranteed. I remember traveling by road last year and being made to come down from the vehicle and cross some distance on foot at a police security checkpoint. Yes, the checkpoints are another way that you know, without a doubt, that you have arrived the East.

The other cause of heartache is that after you cross the seven rivers and seven seas of paying the cost to travel, you may be returning to a village that is a shadow of how you remember it, ravaged by insecurity and the menace of Ungun known men. There is no assurance that you are safe when you sleep and wake that you will still be able to smile heartily. This has resulted in people vacating their hometowns for relatively safer areas. Meaning, village as most of us remember it doesn’t exist anymore.

There’s also the effect of urbanisation. Leaving for the big city. First we leave for Lagos and Abuja. On the way to the UK and Canada. This pain point is one that has totally broken me. All year round, I would usually take solace in living far away from my siblings, friends and cousins, because I know that come Christmas, the guys will touchdown and we will catch up and eat, and share bellyful of laughs and take pictures to see us through the coming capitalist year.

Alas!

I will never forget the first dust that rises into the air, as you pull the curtains aside in the village home that isn’t used enough. I remember my siblings and I preferring the village house to the one we grew up in, and constantly wishing we could transplant the houses. I remember my mother threatening to leave us if we are not ready when she was ready to leave, and to make sure we regret it, she packs every foodstuff possible (down to salt), so that you starve for your disobedience. I remember my Dad buying a Hiace bus and Sienna when we all grew up and my brother started to drive, so that we could all travel in comfort. I remember walking from house to house, greeting all the aunties and uncles and eating the rice they offer and drinking the “minerals.” Perhaps I can blame my potbelly on all the accumulated food and drink from all the years. These days, my cousins have the children, and because no one comes home as clockwork as before, I find myself looking at extended family members whom I know nothing about. Not even their names.

I write all this to say that this is one area I would love to see “the more things change, the more they remain the same” come alive.

I really love being Igbo and growing up Igbo. Losing all of this good stuff; culture/way of life, to forces beyond anyone’s control is a major pain point.

I am still going to the village, Thank God. My village is one of the fortunate safe ones (by Gods grace) and my parents are expecting me. I may spend all of it indoors, cooking and eating, doomscrolling and intermittently having conversations with my parents, and I will love it.

I just wish I could have more. More friends to share it with like I used to.

Love and Christmas lights,

Jem