Christmas Day

Christmas Day

Christmas had never been the holiday for me. Though it was quite fun when I was little but by 1967, all those childishness ended. No, don't get me wrong. I don't belong to the sect of Christians that don't believe in festivities. Nor those that doubt the certainty of December 25th date. No I believe in Jesus and His Birth. But ad T.S Eliot said with birth came death. And even the bible supports it when they talked of death to old self for a new rebirth.

But the people that died that Christmas weren't my old self. They were me. And the Nigerian soldiers choose only Christmas, to unless such a mayhem on us. We had just gone months into the Biafran war, and honestly we Biafrans were moraled and gingered by the capture of Ibadan. But all those excitement was in the heart, our stomach were on unspiritual fast, caused by the economic blockade imposed on us.
And all of a sudden, the Nigerian government decided yo throw a Christmas party, and invited all of us in Aba to come and collect bags of rice at one of their borders. If we Biafrans had the brains to hold a war extempore with one triple our size, then we were not to be trifled with, or deceived with such extravagant show of hospitality. But we felt in some way the white in the country's flag would have a spot not yet stained in Biafrans blood, or covered in wickedness.
So in that assumption my mum and my wife set out despite my blunt refusal (for though I was against their parleying with the enemy, I was hungry). They all  set out with the other women. While the men trailed behind with machetes and unserviced weapons. I wasn't among those men. Yes I hated the soldiers and the brainwashed Yoruba soldiers, but I was a pacifist. An Ideology I picked in London after the 2nd world war. But only used it firing the Biafran war to escape conscription. Then I settled for a civil service job, where I had the privilege to home some national budget for my family. But the irony and hypocrisy of it all is that I was in charge of purchasing weapons to issue to the men I was against their acts.
Never mind all these. My list of power could only afford me palliatives like milk, custard, and egg yolk but the real stuff like give and beans could only be gotten by trekking yo enemy lines on Christmas day to shake Santa and collect your gift. But little did they know that his "n" was out of place. He wasn't Santa, he was Satan. Though he wasn't there, he was in Lagos spelling out his name.
Go On With One Nigeria that is what Yakubu Gowon says it stood for. But he forgot what the first name meant You Are Killing Unarmed Biafrans Unhumanely. But this Santa sent his elves to bringing the bags of rice and deposit. But maybe Jack Frost enemy of Christmas advised them yo mount it as sand bags instead and start a full scale military operation on civilians.. From the few civilians that survived,and still had their mouth in tact, they said they were first made yo sing a Christmas song, chant "Nigeria would win" "fuck Biafra"- such unholy vulgarity for a sanctified day. Then they told them to come forward on their knees. One survivor told me that my wife was the last to kneel. That hot woman sure knows how to maintain her dignity. So my mum confirmed with a nod before she died well.
The soldiers started a song as the crouched Biafrans approached.

" jingle bells jingle bells
Jingle all the way
Oh what fun it is to kill
Biafrans on Christmas day"

Whether it was the frog voice or the loud AK-47s that cracked we do not know which cracked. But all we know Is that that discord was the last thing many Biafrans heard including my wife. Who was pregnant for my son, or His Excellency. The future president of Biafra as I had joked with my wife.

So that was it, I could care less for my mother. After all she called me a castrated coward on my refusal to join the army. And she said boldly that if anything should happen. She would die chanting the Anthem and as she said she ran home with fee survivors and a battered hand. Shouting for everyone to go and saved the injured. It was only when she fell that we noticed she had a shrapnel lodged in her. Those bastards brought napalms as well.

Then chanting the line in the anthem
"But if the price is death for what we hold dear
Then let us die without a shred of fear"
She gave up the ghost right before confirming that my wife refused to kneel and slapped a Fulani soldier before the M16 ripped her and His Excellency apart.

So each Christmas day, I write journals defaming the illegal killing of five million Biafrans by starvation. Ooh I forgot to add that Santa stopped by fee hours later with a sleigh. With helmet instead of Christmas cap..and in place of present down our chimneys, we got bombs destroying our makeshift huts. I was lucky to make it yo the bunker, I realized later that my luck was singular, only me survived.

This Christmas while writing a journal, I saw the Christmas card on my table. Though I ignored one for 20 years. I felt the invitee's persistence shouldn't be stretched. Moreover, my wife shows up each boxing day, scolding me for not celebrating Christmas. So yes I will make it out today into the winter air, and drop coins in the hymning children's choir pouches. And next year, be sure to experience the West African harmattan for the first time in many years. And maybe tip the masquerades. Yes let go of the past. Jesus is born. And since with birth comes death, I'll let my past die. That means apologizing to Raheem Murtala for all the tribal indults I have given him. And cutting my deal with Downstreet Magazine and stop putting hate works. Yes I was cursed on Christmas day 25 years ago, haven't I suffered enough, let me give myself this Christmas day.
"Jingle Bell jingle bell
Jingle away pain
Ooh how relieving it is to feel
Alive once again"

With that I went for the shower for the first time in 10 days