Village Christmas itinerary

Now that I am home, I have a lovely feeling towards Christmas. I remember some years when I couldn't make it to Nigeria, and misery would descend on me as soon as the Christmas decorations hit the streets and stores in America. The lights, the trees, the spending madness and that crazy thing called a shopping list. No matter how pumped up Americans are, there was always that hollow immigrant feeling that this, is not how we do Christmas.

First of all, Christmas period is not supposed to be cold. And to hear American weathermen praying for a "White Christmas" just made me yearn for the tropics. I was never a big fan of snow; I hated it for the cold and the danger of driving on it. A White Christmas means you have to coil up by the fireside and watch a fire burn emptily. Now as an African, when a fire is burning in front of me there should be some meat, corn, plantain, groundnuts or pear roasting in that fire not some marshmallows that have no meaning to my African plate or palate.

Hey, but that is their reality, their Christmas.

The Christmas I remembered and miss when I was bombarded by America's cold and snowy version is warm, happy, friendly and family oriented. Although the childhood Christmas I know has now faded, the tradition of going to the village still exists. Sadly enough, this might be curtailed for many travellers this year, especially those going to the midwestern and eastern part of Nigeria from Lagos. The first deterrent is the horrible death trap known as Benin-Ore road.

The number two and probably the worse hazard is the dexterity of daredevil kidnappers who are on a rampage along that axis.

Many of my friends have expressed their reservations about going to the village for Christmas because of these murderous marauders.

I have thought about it long and hard enough and weighed the gains of spending Christmas in my village and I had no other choice but to take the journey for though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death; I will fear no evil: for the Lord is my Shepherd.

The beauty of a contemporary Christmas in the village cannot be over emphasised, especially if you are a Lagosian like me. So here is my village plan, so help me God.

I am dumping that prison warder called Blackberry in Lagos. It won't even work in my village, unless I probably climb the tallest palm tree in my grandfather's plantation. And to be honest with you, the only reason I would even look at a palm tree is to see if palm wine will rain from it. I do not plan on taking any bottle of wine whose name I cannot pronounce.

Merlot and Cabernet Sauvignon can stay in Lagos with their attitude. If anything is going to be frothing in the mouth deliciously it will be fresh palm wine not Moet.

There is no electricity - who cares! I repeat I am not taking my Blackberry, so I won't be frantic when I see a yellow-light that usually signifies the end of a battery's charged life. TV is out of the question.

I won't be worrying about long petrol queues. Once I get to the village, I am using my father's old white Raleigh bicycle to roam.

It will be my way of exercising, which reminds me, I have to cancel my December membership in the gym, which I never use anyway.

I am not taking any books; I do not intend to read anything other than faces of family members I have not seen in a while. You don't need a novel in the village; life is stranger than fiction there. If you need comedy, you get it for free from Ogbe the hunter. If you need endless narratives of a small event that happened about fifty years ago, uncork a bottle of Schnapps and send a small boy to call Uncle Smart for you.

I intend to watch a live canvas painted by God himself. I will sit in my father's cushioned-chair in our veranda; watch the kaleidoscope of the village Christmas parade itself before me.

Happy children with flowery clothes, oversized shoes and colourful sunglasses will march past, or stop to say "good afternoon sir uncle or good afternoon sir brother" and I would answer "bha bo khian", you are welcome. I would dip a hand into my side pocket and retrieve a fifty-naira Polymer note for them and watch them burst into immeasurable megawatts of joy.

By noon I would be on my third late-hour glass of manpower palm wine, second plate of Christmas rice while I watch plantain leaves in front of our house romance the gentle Hammatan weather.

As Ohenhen's sonorous voice dishes out Bini music from my cassette player, two Nigerian writers, EC Osondu and Ikhide Ikheloa, who will be reading this while waiting for their marshmallows to look like roasted yam by an American fireside will come to mind.