CHRISTMAS WAHALA

​


CHRISTMAS WAHALA

Papa has done it again. I hate this annual cycle that keeps recurring for over fifteen years of my awareness. Why do we have to rush against the hustle and bustle of the town just a few hours before Christmas? Everyone is rushing to kill their chicken, grind their pepper, buy fried rice ingredients and so many other last minutes preparation. We have still not gotten drinks and that’s the major part of all this I hate the most because Papa doesn’t drink regular Maltina. We had to search the ends of the market and every other corner for Malta Guinness. And speaking from experience, I know all depots and stores we will visit will announce to us that they’ve run out and also berate us for not buying before now. They should be used to seeing our faces by then if only the attendants worked long term. 

Mama wanted to try out the new meat seller that everyone made a rave about this year. She walked briskly ahead while I grabbed the black Bagco sack in my hand, following behind her begrudgingly. There were a few people in between us but I made sure I kept my eyes on my mother’s eye-blinding orange scarf so I don’t lose sight of her. I don’t want the experience from five years ago to happen again, where I lost sight of Mama at the provision store. I cried my eyes out while everyone tried to console me and help locate my mother. The smart move that helped me was not going around looking for her. She came later, about ten minutes, her scarf gone and her face showed how scared and disoriented she had been. The Mama I know would have screamed at me and scolded me but instead, she gave me the best hug of my life. Mama doesn’t do affection displays, not even when Brother K graduated from school. She only smiled, prayed for him, sang praises to her God, and keep herself busy in the kitchen, making sure everyone was fed. Finally, we got to the meat seller’s shop, the location sat at the far end of the market. There was a long queue if it could be called a queue at all because it was very disorganized with people shouting at the top of their voices just to be attended to. I looked over at Mama and hoped she would change her mind and not let us wait in this endless madness but she was determined. And yes, we spent another 45 minutes getting pieces of meat that were in no way different from the place we used to patronize. Mama kept ranting about the meat sizes as we bought ingredients for her signature egusi soup, pepper soup, fried rice, and stew. 

The journey had almost ended but first, the drinks. We have now strayed really far from the market, and still no Malta Guinness. Underneath my feet were beginning to ache, the sun was scorching hard and hitting my newly made one-million braids, I also couldn't hide my irritation at the harsh harmattan weather. I hated harmattan with every vibe of being in me but it was Sharon’s best season and I guess that’s why she is my least favorite sibling. Let’s forget about Sharon, hers is story for another day. Mama shouted at a mad bike rider and that drew my attention back to her, finally, we had found a place to get Papa’s best drink for the festive season. The price was a bit above Mama’s budget or should I say, the amount Papa gave her. He never added extra, it was always the exact amount of the budget. I squeezed my nose in disgust as Mama reached for her purse and took from her own money to balance the money for the drinks. Knowing my family so well, she dared not ask for a refund. Mama smiled at me because she could see how pissed off I was, but I didn’t smile in return. Instead, I grabbed the pack of Malta Guinness and balanced it on my head. I reached for the Bagco bag and dragged it with my other free hand.

“Merry Christmas!” The store attendant screamed out and smiled.

I didn’t smile in return, I turned on my heels and marched towards home. I could hear Mama replying the attendant and trying to apologize for my ‘rudeness’. It didn’t matter, the attendant wouldn’t be here next Christmas, I won’t have to face her anymore. To be honest, I see no reason to be merry. I just want the hours to skip to the end of the chores and celebrations. 

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

WITH FEAR, FOR HOPE

​ WITH FEAR, FOR HOPE 1. THE BEGINNING. Fear. That was my major watchword for living life. I didn’t just wake up one day and decide to embrace it, I grew. I grew into fear and its feeble yet sturdy hands wrapped around me reassuringly. With every step that I took, it morphed gigantically and whenever I looked over my shoulders, it was my shadow. “Omokolapo!” My mother yelled. Startled, the ceramic bowl in my hands dropped to the floor and shattered into tiny pieces.  “Ah ah.” She came tumbling into the kitchen wondering what was going on. Mother was so shaken that all she needed was a single tilt to fall over her face. “What happened?” “Nothing, ma. It was the way you called me, ma.” Still heaving, she rolled her eyes, “Was that why you broke a plate? Why do you always get startled, Omokolapo? Are you sure you are okay?” I knew the question didn’t mean she truly wanted to know if I was faring well or not. The required answer was to apologize and so did I. “Sorry, Mama.” “I don’t know w
Read more

THAT CAMERA? SELL IT!

​ THAT CAMERA? SELL IT!      Sacrifices are bound to occur and each step of it is accompanied by loss. I’ve lost my life savings to investing in a future I cannot and will no longer see. The new camera that I purchased with money from countless nights of sleeping on an empty stomach was also carried away in that same tornado of loss. My instinct wants me to jump in front of that wobbly-moving  keke  but Jade’s swift hands drag me back.     “Are you mad?”     Her words smack me across the face and like cold water being dumped over me, I realize what I’d tried to do.     “I'm sorry,” I mutter, looking down to avoid the judging stares of people.     “You’re not allowed to die yet  oh , Amina. Have you forgotten that my rent is part of that money? If you die now, how will you get the money back?”     Let’s take a few steps back to the beginning of my story. I guess I should’ve led with that. In my 25 years of living, I’ve never hated myself like I currently do. That Ponzi scheme promis
Read more

TROUBLE ON WALNUT STREET(1)

​ TROUBLE ON WALNUT STREET      It  was late at night, as usual, Zen just closed her store and was on her way home. Walking briskly so she could meet Ms.  Jane, her neighbor. It was their usual Saturday night ritual, they drink wine and go over various books. She felt like sharing this magnetic pull with the book in her arms with Jane. Taking the left turn, a cold feeling made her shiver, she brushed the feeling aside and continued. Just last week they had been reading a book on ghosts. Not just normal ghosts but dead ghosts. According to the book, dead ghosts were calm, an almost non-existent form of ghosts. They only haunted people who have uncertainty under their collars. They felt cold like other ghosts but took their captives on strange journeys. The past, subconscious, the future, or what-was-meant-to-be. Each dead ghost represented a family member from one side or the other. It could be one dead before the vessel’s existence or one given birth to after the vessel’s demise. She h
Read more