There’s a peculiar stillness that envelops the days between Christmas and New Year. It’s a time suspended, a breath held, a quiet reflection of what was and what is to come. For me, this period carries echoes of a time long past—a time when Christmas was vibrant, chaotic, and unforgettable, deep in the heart of my hometown in Nigeria.
When I was young, Christmas wasn’t just a holiday; it was an event, a pilgrimage of sorts. We would pack up and travel to my father’s hometown, where our family—large, unconventional, and wonderfully chaotic—would gather under the roof of my father’s grand mansion. Ours was a polygamous family, with over 20 siblings, yet we lived as one. The occasional bickering among our mothers never clouded the magic of the season.
In the center of the grand living room stood a magnificent Christmas tree, adorned with shimmering lights and hand-crafted decorations. My siblings and I would sit around it, mesmerized by its beauty, as my father recounted tales of his youth, his voice deep and commanding. Laughter and the occasional teasing filled the room, and the warmth of family enveloped us like a comforting blanket.
Our house was the crown jewel of the village—the only home with 24-hour electricity. At night, the floodlights would blaze across the courtyard, and children from every corner of the town would gather, their laughter echoing into the warm December night. We played without a care, our joy magnified by the twinkling lights and the knowledge that Christmas was ours to savor.
But Christmas 1988 was different. It was the year I didn’t go home. By then, my siblings and I had begun carving our own paths, and only a few of us still journeyed to the family house. My father, my towering hero, was gravely ill. Larger than life, with his sharp mind, commanding presence, and oratory brilliance, he was the glue that held us all together. Despite the nurse’s solemn words that he was slipping away, I clung to hope. He was invincible—or so I wanted to believe.
On December 30th, 1988, that illusion shattered. My father took his final breath, leaving a void that no amount of holiday cheer could fill. Having lost my mother six years prior, I thought I was prepared for grief. But the silence that followed was profound. I withdrew into myself, unable to speak, unable to process the finality of it all. Christmas lost its color, and the days leading to the New Year felt like a hollow echo of what used to be.
The years that followed were uncertain, but life found its rhythm once more. My journey led me to the UK, where I built a new life, a family, and a fresh set of Christmas traditions. Slowly, the holiday season regained its joy. My sisters and my husband’s siblings would gather at my home, and together we would celebrate, reminiscing about our childhood in Nigeria. The air would be filled with laughter, stories, and the scent of seasoned turkey roasting in the oven.
As time passed, my sisters discovered the joy of traveling during the holidays, escaping the silence that Christmas sometimes brought. I tried it a few times, but nothing compared to waking up early on Christmas morning, bustling in the kitchen, and filling my home with the aroma of love and tradition. It was my way of keeping the spirit of my father alive, of honoring the echoes of a time when Christmas was the highlight of the year.
This year, it was quieter. The children are older now, and they celebrate in their own ways. But still, the Christmas tree stood tall in my living room, its lights twinkling softly. We sat around it as a family, reminiscing about the past, enjoying the simplicity of togetherness. In the stillness, I felt the presence of my father, his voice like a whisper in my heart: “My dear daughter, enjoy Christmas with all your heart.”
No matter where we are in the world, the Christmases of my childhood remain etched in my soul. They are a reminder of love, resilience, and the beauty of family. I pray that this tradition continues, that the next generations carry the same joy in their hearts, and that, wherever they are, they remember the light and laughter of a Nigerian Christmas.
Happy holidays to all! May the season fill your heart with warmth, and may your memories bring you peace.
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