Christmas Bamboo

Christmas Bamboo

By Nightengale Ben-Onyeukwu

 

Dressed in a blue and white striped school uniform, with two long plaits adorning my hair, I gazed out of the window as the gentle harmattan wind blew from the udara tree outside, delicately caressing my face. The tree stood tall, thriving with both ripe and unripe udara fruits, just as it did every December.

The udara, also known as African Star Apple, possessed an edible gummy skin and dark brown seeds covered with creamy pulp, a treat that was eagerly consumed. Its presence served as a radiant signal that both the harmattan season and the month of December had gracefully arrived.

The arrival of December brought with it a distinct dusty scent, carried by the winds of the harmattan season. The fragrance permeated my classroom, and the gentle breeze rustled through the pages of my books and those of my classmates.

Seated in the second row next to the window, I leaned against the wall, shifting my gaze from outside to the History teacher who diligently wrote on the blackboard. Observing her slim figure, dressed in a vibrant red outfit, I couldn’t help but feel impatient. I wished she would hasten her lesson and leave the classroom, allowing me to venture out and pluck some udara before heading straight to the market to purchase Christmas goodies.

Was Christmas approaching once again? That meant I would have the pleasure of partaking in our cherished bamboo tea family tradition with my loved ones in the village. In the corner of the blackboard, the words “25 days to Christmas” stood as a countdown, meticulously written by our Class Prefect. This countdown served as a heartwarming reminder for me and my classmates. We already had a comprehensive list of items to buy for Christmas, and the money in our piggy bank would certainly enable us to acquire numerous things. After all, everyone desired to look their best on Christmas day.

Fortunately, we had already entered the second week of December 2022, and by the fourth week, we would conclude our mock exams, signalling my joyous journey back to the village. The thought of returning home for Christmas filled me with happiness and excitement. Beyond the celebrations and traditions with my immediate family, I eagerly anticipated reuniting with my extended relatives, whom I hadn’t seen in nearly a year.

Shifting my gaze from the classroom to the udara tree once more, I noticed some students standing beneath its branches, gleefully tossing stones and sticks at the fruits. It was a beautiful sight to behold. I had asked a boy to share one of the plucked fruits with me, but before I could receive it, my History teacher abruptly interrupted, pelting my forehead with a small piece of chalk.

‘Eva…’ a girl whispered from behind, but my mind was elsewhere, lost in thoughts of the impending Christmas. Oblivious to the fact that the History teacher had grown frustrated with my lack of focus, I continued staring outside, only to be jolted back to reality when a girl across the aisle nudged me. It was too late, though, as my forehead had already become the target of my teacher’s small piece of chalk.

In that moment, I couldn’t help but feel like I resembled a cat or a giant panda. While I had never seen a panda before, I imagined my History teacher had turned my face into a striking resemblance of either.

‘The teacher is calling you,’ another girl reminded me.

‘Yes?’ I turned my head to meet the piercing gaze of Madam Agnes, our strict and respected form teacher who also taught History. Behind her black-rimmed glasses, anger emanated from her.

‘Looking outside the classroom while I am teaching? Stand at the back,’ she commanded, then turned to the window and shouted, ‘Quickly, return to your classes!’ The students scattered for a moment before regrouping to resume their quest for the delicious udara fruits.

With a soft sigh, I made my way to the back of the classroom, keeping my gaze lowered, fixed on the cement floor until I reached the designated spot. As I stood there, I silently chuckled at the cheer that erupted outside when an udara fruit fell, followed by the ensuing squabble over who had the first shot. Listening to their quarrels and cheers, I realised I would miss such moments once I graduated from the school next year.

‘How could you act so childishly when your mock exams start tomorrow?’ My History teacher scolded as all eyes in the classroom turned to me. ‘You’re eighteen now, no longer a child!’

‘I apologise,’ I said meekly.

Yes, I was eighteen, a senior in high school, preparing to sit for my West African Senior School Certificate Examination the following year. But that didn’t mean I couldn’t occasionally indulge in childish desires, right? I longed for the succulent udara fruits, and I couldn’t help but daydream about the special day, December 25th, when my family celebrated our unique traditions. Memories of childhood are what bring us joy in later years. If I couldn’t act like a child now, what would I reminisce about when I grew old?

‘Senior year is about studying, not begging for udara! Your exams should take precedence over everything else,’ my History teacher scolded, her glare unwavering. ‘Since you weren’t paying attention, why don’t you share with the class what you were thinking about?’

‘I was thinking about the sweet udara fruits and our Bamboo tea family tradition... Every Christmas, my family celebrates our special traditions,’ the words slipped from my mouth without much thought, causing the entire class to erupt in laughter.

The History teacher’s face darkened, and she snapped angrily, ‘So, you’re daydreaming about udara and family traditions simultaneously? Do you have worms crawling in your brain?’

The students burst into laughter once again at her remark.

‘Eva, I never expected your family traditions to distract you like this. However, I’ll let it slide today because of your photographic memory and your consistent record of straight A’s,’ she conceded, her tone slightly softened.

I smiled in response to the History teacher’s remarks. Was that the privilege of being a genius? It was true that I had gained a reputation among my classmates for my exceptional memory. I had the uncanny ability to absorb the contents of any textbook within seconds, allowing me to effortlessly transcribe the information onto my answer sheets during exams. While this made me confident about my upcoming tests, my mind was already drifting towards the end of the term when I could join my parents and younger sister on the bus ride to our village. However, Madam Agnes’ words still didn’t sit well with me. Despite my intellectual abilities, I never wanted others to feel inferior, as my father had always emphasised that everyone possessed their own unique skills and talents.

‘Go back to your seat and focus,’ the teacher instructed, adjusting her glasses.

‘Thank you, Madam Agnes,’ I replied politely, making my way back to my seat. I could feel the weight of everyone’s gaze upon me, but this time, I directed my attention towards the History lesson, silently praying for the classes to come to an end.

‘Everyone, please turn to page 31 of your History textbook!’ the teacher announced.

Immediately, the students flipped their textbooks to the specified page, and a hush fell over the previously noisy classroom. The students outside had returned to their classes, leaving only the gentle rustling of the wind to break the silence.

When the final school bell rang, signalling the end of the day, I grabbed my backpack and prepared to leave the classroom. Just as I was about to exit, my best friend, Chioma, approached me.

‘Eva, what was going on with you today?’ Chioma asked, her smile brightening the room.

I looked up at my petite and pretty friend and chuckled. ‘I couldn’t help it. I just wanted to eat some udara...’ I shrugged.

‘What was that about the bamboo tea family tradition?’ Chioma enquired, her curiosity piqued.

‘If you’re curious to learn about my family tradition, you should come to my house on December 25th,’ I said, laughing. ‘Do you enjoy drinking tea?’

Chioma shook her head. ‘I hate drinking tea. Who drinks tea for Christmas celebrations?’ She pouted her lips.

‘That’s why it’s special to my family. You should come and taste it,’ I said sweetly. ‘Are you still planning to buy fireworks?’ I asked as Chioma started making her way towards the door.

Chioma turned back, smiling, and replied, ‘Yes... Fireworks bring the magic of Christmas. For you, your family’s bamboo tea tradition makes Christmas worth celebrating.’

I swung my beige backpack over my shoulder and happily walked out of the classroom with Chioma. Together, we headed toward the udara tree. After plucking two udara fruits, we left the school compound and hailed a taxi to the bustling Owerri market.

‘It seems like I have to prepare myself for the Christmas Bamboo event at your place on the 25th of December,’ Chioma giggled, savouring the delicious udara fruit as we alighted from the taxi and made our way towards the lively market.

‘Christmas Bamboo?’ I repeated, glancing over at Chioma. ‘You know what? I actually kind of like that name,’ I chuckled. ‘Christmas Bamboo,’ I mused to myself, letting the words roll off my tongue.

Chioma flashed a dazzling smile. ‘Feel free to use it if you want.’

Yes, I thought to myself, “Christmas Bamboo” was the perfect name for our family’s bamboo tea tradition. Even though I anticipated that some people might find the name amusing or ridiculous, it truly encapsulated the essence of our unique Christmas celebration. The idea of writing a book about our Christmas tradition and gifting it with the title “Christmas Bamboo” brought a smile to my face—a silly thought that sparked excitement within me.

The gentle harmattan breeze brushed against my face as we navigated through the bustling crowd. Chioma led the way, and I followed closely behind, quickening my pace to avoid losing sight of her amidst the clamour and noise.

As we continued walking, I noticed the joyous expressions on people’s faces in the market. Christmas was approaching, and the festive spirit was palpable. Similar to cities worldwide, Owerri was adorned with enchanting Christmas decorations. The main streets and boulevards were beautifully embellished, radiating with the sparkle of Christmas lights. Many homes had erected Christmas trees, their windows adorned with golden ornaments and strings of lights.

However, in my village, we had a different Christmas ambiance that might seem simple to city dwellers but held a unique charm for us villagers. While Christmas trees were absent, our village streets were adorned with decorated CDs, exuding an atmosphere of excitement and togetherness that made Christmas special. To my family, our bamboo tea tradition, born out of hardship, was a source of happiness and joy that we celebrated during this festive season.

Here, in the vibrant Owerri market, I was thrilled to observe the bustling activity around me. Customers eagerly competed to secure items at discounted prices, aware that prices would skyrocket during the final week before Christmas. I also watched as hawkers vied for attention, hoping to make some extra money to facilitate their journeys back home. Parents busily purchased fireworks and firecrackers for their children, adding to the festive atmosphere.

The market reverberated with the melodies of Christmas songs playing in the background, blending with the lively chatter of the crowd. Some children joyfully danced to the music, adding to the merriment in the air.

The small yellowish-brown udara fruits, known for their numerous health benefits, were sold on almost every street corner, roadside, and even in shopping malls. By January, there would be an abundance of udara in the market. However, the thought of these delicious fruits going to waste when bruised or rotten saddened me. In that moment, I pondered the possibility of establishing a winery in the future, ensuring that no udara fruit would be wasted.

‘In the future, I am going to make udara wine and sell it,’ I declared confidently. ‘Every family in my village has an udara tree planted in their homes, including ours in our backyard. Instead of letting the fruits go to waste, setting up a winery would be the best course of action.’

Chioma looked at me, intrigued. ‘That sounds like a promising business to start. It’s a shame to see the fruits being wasted here. Since we have both sour and sweet udara varieties, you’ll need to package them differently. Hiring wine-making experts to guide you and a talented designer to create captivating wine bottle designs would be essential. Additionally, you can explore other possibilities, like making chewing gum from the fruit. When the time comes, you’ll know exactly what to do. I have full confidence in your high IQ,’ she said with a relaxed smile.

‘You’re a genius,’ I replied, smiling at Chioma. ‘When the time comes, I’ll definitely need you to work with me.’

‘Really? Thank you,’ Chioma responded excitedly.

Chioma remained fascinated by the market and its offerings. After observing the bustling scene and purchasing the fireworks that had brought her there, she expressed her ambition to own her own mall in the future while also supporting me in my wine-making venture. Initially unsure about which fireworks to choose, Chioma wanted something captivating and attention-grabbing. After careful consideration, she settled on a box of fireworks that the shop owner explained would create a dazzling display when ignited. With the purchase complete, Chioma paid the shop owner, and we left the market.

Meanwhile, I was pleased with all the clothes I had bought. For my trip to the village on the 24th, I had chosen a thin baby pink sweater that looked exceptionally adorable, a pair of blue jeans, and white sneakers. Concerned that the harmattan dust might turn my white sneakers into dusty brown ones, I hesitated momentarily. However, my fondness for pink and white prevailed, and I decided to embrace the harmattan season and enjoy the weather despite the potential consequences.

‘Chioma, how do I look?’ I enquired after changing into the outfit, seeking her opinion on whether it suited me well.

‘Eva, you look absolutely charming,’ Chioma complimented. ‘You’re beautiful... I believe that a good-looking person can rock anything.’ She gazed at me with admiration.

While Christmas was a time to showcase our best outfits, it wasn’t just about wearing anything, no matter how charming one appeared.

Upon returning home from the market, where I had purchased an array of items, I took a short nap before diving into studying for my upcoming mock exams.

***

 

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The following day, I woke up earlier than usual and arrived at school with my backpack. Taking my seat at my assigned desk, I retrieved practice papers and began working on them. Although the questions seemed easy, I knew the importance of studying diligently to excel in my mock exams, which were scheduled to begin at eight o’clock that morning. Underestimating the power of exams was never a wise choice; I had adopted the habit of preparing meticulously for every test that came my way.

Then, precisely at eight o’clock, the mock exams officially commenced. A teacher distributed the exam scripts, and I smiled confidently as I received mine. The English essay question was one that I had discussed with my mother the previous night, and the remaining questions appeared straightforward.

With a contented sigh, I bent my head and began answering the questions. Chioma, who was seated in front of me, struggled a bit more than I did. However, I felt compelled to assist her with some of the answers. It was the Christmas season, and I believed in the spirit of helping one another during exams so that we could celebrate the holidays with our loved ones without worry.

We successfully completed the mock exams, which spanned nearly two weeks. On the last day, December 23rd, we celebrated by igniting knock-outs and joyfully listening to their explosive sounds.

To enhance the festive atmosphere, our Class Prefect played Christmas songs through the loudspeaker he had brought to school that day. The music filled the school compound, lifting our spirits and making us wish that Christmas had arrived already, rather than being just a day or two away. It was a delightful moment for the SS3 students as we happily dispersed from the schoolyard after the small gathering, heading to our respective homes to prepare for Christmas.

***

In the morning, I woke up with excitement, eager to see my relatives today. Peering through my bedroom window, I observed the hazy light of dawn. We had already packed our luggage the previous night, but I still went around the house to double-check that nothing had been forgotten for our trip. I let out a soft sigh of relief when I confirmed that everything we needed was ready and waiting for us. So, after enjoying a breakfast of akamu and akara, we would set off for our village.

Following our satisfying meal, we boarded a bus and embarked on our journey to the village. As the bus slowly traversed the busy road, I gazed out of the window, counting the rows of cars lining the way. The traffic was heavy due to the multitude of people leaving Owerri to reunite with their families and enjoy quality time together during Christmas. Despite the complaints about increased transport fares and the congestion on the road, the importance of being with our loved ones outweighed any inconvenience. For the sake of our cherished family members, we were willing to endure any hardship.

At that very moment, the familiar landscape of my village flashed by, filling my heart with joy. The baby pink sweater I wore perfectly complemented my smooth, brown skin, adding vibrancy to my appearance. I let my long, dark hair cascade down my back in curly waves, and my younger sister Ella looked adorable in her black jeans and white sweater adorned with a cute cartoon dog. While Ella was undeniably sweet, people often remarked that I possessed a certain beauty surpassing hers.

The anticipation of seeing my beloved grandmother, who doted on me, filled me with uncontainable excitement as we neared home. Along the roadside, various shops proudly displayed Christmas dolls, trees, and ornaments, creating a festive ambiance. The night sky sparkled with fireworks, painting it in a breathtaking array of colours. Children gleefully played with firecrackers, and I delighted in the joyous sounds they produced.

Soon, we approached a police checkpoint. Old tires and sandbags lined the road, leaving a narrow passage. A dark-skinned policeman signalled our bus to halt as we approached. Our driver wore an expression of discontent upon seeing the policeman stopping him. However, without uttering a word, he retrieved a hundred-naira note from his pocket and handed it to the policeman through the window. The policeman smiled and waved us through.

It saddened me to witness how the police officers were solely interested in collecting bribes from drivers, without bothering to check vehicle documents or conduct searches. I couldn’t help but ponder the morality of bribing them or the option of fighting against this corruption. However, nobody seemed willing to protest, as the overwhelming desire was to reach home, including myself.

When the bus stopped at the junction leading to my village, we disembarked amidst the bustling crowd and hopped onto motorcycles, known as okada, heading towards our compound. Along the way, we passed a young man who playfully hoisted his daughter onto his shoulders, allowing her to grasp at a mango leaf above before gently setting her down. Excitement filled the air as children played, some singing Christmas songs, while others threw sticks at udara trees.

The harmattan season brought scorching afternoons and chilly nights. It was understandable for anyone in Igbo land to resent this season due to its harsh weather, abundant dust, and the affliction of chapped lips. However, paradoxically, it seemed to be our favourite weather because it signalled the arrival of Christmas. The dusty streets were teeming with lively children, and newly opened stalls catered to the festive season, aiming to make extra profits. Many customers occupied most of the food stalls, relishing palm wine, suya, nkwobi, and pepper soup.

Those returning home for Christmas balanced their luggage on their heads or in their hands, while others travelled in fully-packed cars. Some happily led the goats they had purchased, while others carried yams, chickens, and other Christmas supplies. Children clutched small bags or held their little ones’ hands. Truly, people were flocking home to celebrate Christmas with their loved ones. The scent in the air was unmistakably that of Christmas!

As we rode towards our local market, I exchanged smiles with the hawkers who engagingly beckoned passersby to buy their wares. The motorcyclists or rather okada riders called out to attract customers, and the marketplace resonated with shouts and sounds from loudspeakers, creating an incredibly lively atmosphere. It was a delightful spectacle to observe our bustling local market. The okada man carrying me slowed down near potholes scattered along the road, skillfully navigating around them. As we passed the market, we continued along the narrow road, which showed signs of erosion on its edges.

As I glanced back at the erosion and motioned to my parents’ and sister’s okada riders to slow down, the thought crossed my mind that Climate Change may have played a role in its formation. These days, conversations about Climate Change and the urgent need for climate action to preserve our planet are everywhere. Observing the erosion, I felt a strong desire to be part of the solution. I hoped to initiate change by reducing my carbon footprint, planting trees, and eliminating plastic litter.

While taking out the trash and being a good neighbour were important, I believed there was more I could do to improve my community. We needed more trees and vibrant green spaces. In this moment, I recalled the words of my Agriculture teacher, who had emphasised the importance of collective action in creating a green and clean environment. He encouraged us to come together and plant trees, flowers, and colourful perennial borders along our sidewalks and streets, as well as establish a community garden. To achieve such a significant transformation, we needed to collaborate. Although our monthly clean-up initiative, held on the last Saturday of each month, was a good starting point for a cleaner environment, I felt it was insufficient.

A green environment was what we truly needed. By filling our streets with plants and flowers, perhaps we could help reduce erosion in our community. I made a mental note to meet with my Agriculture teacher, confident that she would guide me further in my quest for a greener environment. As I turned my head and observed the deepening erosion, I muttered to myself, determined to take action.

Upon reaching my compound, a crowd had gathered to welcome us. Village children flocked around, and my mother kindly distributed biscuits and fruit candy to them. Some women stood nearby, engaged in hushed conversations with folded arms, while others asked us questions about the city. We reside in Owerri, the capital of Imo State, and we had returned to our humble village to celebrate Christmas with our loved ones.

That night, my grandmother treated us to a delightful meal of ofe ugu, akpu, and delicious palm wine. After dinner, I slipped on a pink knitted cardigan over my white nightgown and donned a pair of pink slippers. Together with my younger sister Ella, who looked elegant in her olive t-shirt and jeans, we ventured into the front yard.

Our front yard served as a pathway for strollers, and we exchanged greetings with everyone passing by, taking in the happenings within our neighbourhood.

Sitting beneath the ancient orange tree, my long hair swayed in the gentle breeze as we watched the flurry of activities around us. The tree’s branches were adorned with green leaves and juicy oranges. My sister stood up, plucked some oranges, and skillfully peeled them with our kitchen knife. We savoured the delicious fruit, my excitement growing as I observed children chattering joyously, people gathering around a crackling bonfire, some heading to the church for the night vigil, and groups of girls engrossed in a game of oga. I couldn’t help but notice a bunch of gleeful children playfully kicking up white harmattan dust as they darted about, some amusing themselves with old car tires, and the unmistakable sound of knock-outs filling the air.

Knock-outs, our colloquial term for firecrackers and bangers, filled the air with their explosive presence. Mischievous children seized the opportunity to play pranks, unexpectedly launching their firecrackers amidst unsuspecting passersby. The startled screams mingled with the bursting noise, intensifying the thrill of the moment. Everywhere, conversations filled the air, and it was evident that everyone eagerly awaited the stroke of midnight to extend their Christmas greetings to loved ones and strangers alike.

‘Eva, I’ll visit you tomorrow for my Christmas rice,’ a young woman cheerfully exclaimed as she paused to greet me.

‘We’ll offer you Christmas tea instead. You can come in the evening for your Christmas rice,’ I chuckled in response.

‘I wouldn’t mind eating akpu or abacha, but tea alone won’t satisfy me,’ she replied with a laugh. ‘I can’t fill my stomach with just water!’

I let out a soft, contented sigh. While it was customary to serve rice to guests during Christmas visits, our cherished family tradition was to begin with a warm cup of tea. It was a tradition we would continue to embrace throughout our lives.

In this magical moment, I glanced at my watch, realising there were only about ten minutes left until midnight, heralding the arrival of both a new day and Christmas. As the clock struck twelve, enchanting sounds of fireworks and firecrackers filled the air, accompanied by the heartfelt exchange of joyful Christmas wishes. My father also ignited the fireworks he had brought to the village. I giggled with delight as they soared skyward, illuminating the night with their brilliant colours. Excitedly, I retrieved my phone and called Chioma, and together we exchanged heartfelt Christmas and New Year wishes.

After ending the call with Chioma, a WhatsApp notification caught my attention. With a smile on my oval face, I read the message;

‘Happy Christmas to my beautiful classmates. Wishing you all a Happy, Berry, Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year in advance…’

The message was from my classmate, Peter Obinna, the Class Prefect, who had sent it to our WhatsApp group chat.

I joyfully read the comments in the group chat before retiring inside to sleep. Although I wasn’t particularly tired, I eagerly anticipated the morning, I forced myself to rest, determined not to greet Christmas Day with dark circles under my eyes.

***

Despite the chilly and dusty harmattan weather, Christmas in my home had always been a cherished and unforgettable time. It wasn’t solely due to the delectable delicacies but rather the treasured tradition of Christmas tea, which had endured through the ages, bringing laughter to our lips as we celebrated this special occasion in our village.

The day was filled with beauty as my younger sister, brimming with excitement, washed the teacups. Just as she finished, our grandmother entered the kitchen, adorned in her blue wrapper and white blouse, humming a cheerful Christmas song. She grabbed some firewood from the stack beside the kitchen, which she had gathered from the nearby bush. Despite my uncle purchasing a stove for her, my grandmother insisted on using firewood, claiming that food cooked with it was sweeter. While I couldn’t verify the truth of her statement, I found it enjoyable to cook with firewood on occasion. After all, we were preparing our family’s traditional tea, so it was only fitting to do everything in a traditional manner.

‘Ella, please hurry up,’ my grandmother, who had been humming, abruptly ceased her humming and urged my younger sister to expedite her current task. Directing her focus towards me, she questioned, ‘Why didn’t you inform me that you were inviting your friend over?’

Instead of responding immediately, I placed the freshly washed teacups on the large tray. ‘Grandma, Chioma was curious about our family tradition, so I invited her over,’ I explained, smiling.

‘Well, Eva, it took you quite a while to answer. You looked as if you had seen a ghost,’ my grandmother teased playfully.

‘I wasn’t sure if you would agree to have Chioma here. I know how much our Christmas Afternoon tea means to us. It’s special and exciting. I was afraid you wouldn’t want a stranger present at this moment,’ I replied, giggling.

My grandmother scooped a handful of bamboo leaves into a pot and filled it with water. She placed a metal rack over the fire and patiently waited for the tea to boil. ‘There’s nothing wrong with sharing our family tradition with others who are curious about it,’ she remarked.

Ella chuckled and said, ‘Oh, grandma, I thought you would scold my sister. But I guess I was mistaken...’

Smiling, I arranged the serving tray and replied, ‘Every family has its own traditions, its own peculiar customs that make sense only to them. There’s nothing wrong with sharing our tradition with others. As they say, love is about sharing...’

‘There’s no time for silly talk,’ my grandmother interjected, grabbing the teapot. I followed her into the living room as she placed the teapot on the grand dining table, reserved for this special ritual. ‘What about your friend?’ my grandmother enquired once everyone had taken their seats.

‘She had to leave when she received a call from her family,’ my mother answered, pulling a chair close to my father’s side and leaning back.

‘It seems more like a family tradition,’ my grandmother mused, her voice resonating with the melodic joy that our Christmas tea tradition brought her.

‘Could it be that grandma only wanted her family to be here and didn’t want any strangers?’ I asked curiously.

My grandmother gazed at me, a smile adorning her face. ‘I initially wanted to celebrate this moment with my family alone. But when I heard about your friend’s desire to join us, I didn’t object. I was willing to share this special occasion with her as well. Now that she has left before we began, I have no choice but to find happiness in our togetherness, right?’ She lovingly extended her hand and gently patted my head.

With my dark, long hair cascading over my shoulder and the vibrant red-patterned dress I wore, I exuded liveliness and beauty on this festive day. In fact, I smiled sweetly, resembling a radiant celebrity.

My father turned to his mother and urged, ‘Mother, please serve the tea before it gets cold.’

‘No worries, son. It won’t be cold,’ my grandmother reassured with her warmest smile as she poured tea for everyone. ‘Would you like milk or sugar?’ She turned to my father and asked.

‘According to our tradition, everyone should have a little of each,’ my father replied, chuckling. ‘Half a spoon of sugar and a splash of milk.’

Laughter erupted at my father’s response. My grandmother gazed at the happy faces of her children and grandchildren, feeling grateful for everything. What began as a simple meal due to a lack of Christmas provisions had transformed into a joyous family tradition.

In the background, Bruce Springsteen’s Santa Claus is Coming to Town played from the music player, filling the air with a soothing melody.

‘Beatrice, help me with the biscuits,’ my grandmother beckoned to my mother. Overwhelmed with joy, my grandmother’s wrinkled face radiated bliss.

‘Of course, mother-in-law,’ my mother responded, rising from her seat. She assisted in serving the biscuits while my grandmother poured tea for everyone. My mother looked stunning in her beautiful blue dress, her hair flowing freely.

Everyone was dressed in new clothes. My grandmother wore our traditional Igbo attire, looking simple yet elegant. My father, too, donned Igbo traditional attire, exuding magnificence akin to that of a dignified king.

‘Tea is ready,’ my grandmother exclaimed excitedly, finishing the pouring of tea. Taking her seat, she faced me. With closed eyes, we all bowed our heads, embracing a moment of silence. Then, my grandmother said the grace, and in unison, we all said ‘Amen’ before indulging in our tea and biscuits.

As I lifted the tea to my thin pink lips, I glanced around, recalling the story my grandmother had shared with my sister and me about the origins of our Christmas tea tradition. This was my village, the place where we all celebrated Christmas together. It was the very house that birthed our first Christmas tradition. It was where my grandmother, grandfather, parents, siblings, uncles, and aunts gathered to celebrate Christmas. Even those family members who couldn’t make it to the village for Christmas due to circumstances beyond their control upheld their own Christmas tea tradition, wherever they were.

The tradition of drinking bamboo tea with biscuits had persisted for ages: afternoon tea promptly at 12 o’clock. Before venturing off to our respective destinations, we would come together as a family to share bamboo tea.

This tradition began long before I was even born. My grandmother had recounted that during one Christmas, which served as the catalyst for this beautiful tradition, there was no money to buy food for the traditional Christmas dishes. The aroma of other families’ cooking permeated the air, while her own kitchen remained devoid of any signs that today was Christmas.

My grandfather felt helpless, unable to meet the expectations of his children who, like their peers, eagerly anticipated the festive delicacies, decorations, and toys. He had exhausted all efforts as the head of the household to secure funds for his family’s Christmas celebration, but all his attempts had been in vain. It was as if he were a drowning man in a pool, desperately awaiting rescue that never came.

My grandmother witnessed her children excitedly discussing how they would savour their plates of rice and stew, and boast about it to their friends. They appeared hungry, and the sight tugged at my grandmother’s heart. Their growling stomachs echoed in her ears. No mother could find happiness in seeing her children go hungry.

‘Mum, where’s the Christmas chicken? You haven’t bought it yet,’ my father innocently enquired, addressing his mother, who is now my grandmother. ‘I’ve already sharpened the knife to cut its head off.’

‘And what about the rice? I can smell the aroma of chicken stew coming from our neighbour’s kitchen…but I can’t smell anything from ours,’ my aunt added.

‘Mother, should I accompany you to the market? I want to see how lively the Christmas market will be,’ my uncle said hopefully.

My grandmother smiled at her children, taking a moment to gather her thoughts. ‘Today, we won’t be cooking rice and chicken stew,’ she paused, trying to muster the strength to tell her children what they would have for Christmas. ‘Instead, we’re going to have tea and biscuits,’ she revealed, her eyes brimming with unshed tears.

‘No way!’ my father objected. ‘What would my friends say if I told them we’re having tea and biscuits for Christmas? It sounds embarrassing!’

‘It sounds special,’ my grandmother gently corrected her children. ‘It’s special because we’re going to have a special kind of tea.’

Curious, my father asked, ‘What kind of tea, Mother?’

‘Bamboo tea,’ my grandmother whispered, unsure if making tea for her family was the right decision. She contemplated asking her friends for rice, but she couldn’t bear the thought of gossip spreading in the neighbourhood. Protecting her family’s image, especially her husband’s pride and dignity, was paramount. So, she decided to make tea and hope for dinner.

Nonetheless, she held onto hope that they would have a meal for dinner. In the small village of Alaenyi Ogwa, whenever there was a festive event like a wedding, thanksgiving, or even a burial, everyone would spontaneously come together to help. That day, my grandmother felt a glimmer of happiness because a young lady was having her traditional wedding in the evening. As someone in charge of cooking for such events, my grandmother was confident she would bring food for her husband and children. However, she would have been happier to provide her children with a proper Christmas dinner instead of relying on free food.

‘I’m sure all of you will enjoy this tea,’ she said with a forced joy, yearning to give her children a real Christmas feast. ‘And if your friends ask about our meal today, just tell them that our family wanted a change from the usual rice and chicken stew. We wanted to have bamboo tea and biscuits.’ My grandmother reached out to touch my father’s arm. ‘I would like you to help me gather the leaves.’

‘Yes, Mother,’ my father eagerly agreed.

Children are indeed easily pleased, my grandmother thought, a grin forming on her face as she whispered to herself.

My beautiful grandmother had a knack for finding joy and bringing smiles to people’s faces. She knew how to make the best of any situation. As a princess, she was accustomed to drinking tea in her home, but not on special occasions like Christmas, when tea was served as a dessert rather than the main course. However, my grandmother was known as the forgotten princess. If she hadn’t been forgotten and cast aside from the palace, her husband and children wouldn’t have had to endure such hardships. But since she was the crown princess, next in line to her father’s throne, she was dismissed by her jealous stepbrothers and stepsisters.

Following my grandmother to the nearby bushes to gather bamboo leaves, my father looked at his siblings and smiled. That day marked the beginning of our family’s tradition of bamboo tea and biscuits.

To set the mood that day, my grandfather played Bruce Springsteen’s Santa Claus is Coming to Town for his children. The lively tune permeated the air, as it did every Christmas in our family. The playlist comprised approximately forty beloved classic Christmas songs, with each melody contributing to the festive ambiance of the day.

Every year, all members of our family travelled home for this special day. Witnessing the joy and laughter that filled our hearts each Christmas warmed my grandmother’s heart. I could only imagine how happy my grandfather would have been if he were still with us.

Even though our table was adorned with a variety of sumptuous dishes, we always performed our Christmas tea tradition before indulging in the food. The aroma of the tea was unforgettable, and each sip reminded me of the love with which it was prepared.

***

For dinner, we enjoyed a delicious meal of rice and chicken stew. The enticing aroma permeated the house even before my mother and aunt finished cooking. It smelled truly heavenly. After the satisfying dinner, I sat on the sofa in our small, cosy living room, next to Ella, watching television. However, the power abruptly went out after just five minutes. Undeterred, we ventured out to the veranda and joined my grandmother, who regaled us with exciting stories as we savoured roasted chicken accompanied by palm wine. In one corner, my grandmother had built a warm fire, providing us with comfort instead of the chilling night air.

With all of my grandmother’s children and grandchildren gathered to celebrate, the room was filled to the brim. When it came time to sleep, the sofas in the living room were pushed aside to make space for the grandchildren.

The warmth of having your family together for Christmas is an experience that everyone should cherish, and I have always wished for everyone to enjoy their Christmas to the fullest. Our worth is not measured by how much we spend during Christmas but by the love we give and receive.

As the New Year approached rapidly, a wave of anticipation washed over me. I closed my eyes, envisioning a cascade of happiness gracing the faces of everyone I held dear. With hopeful thoughts swirling in my mind, I drifted off to sleep, eagerly awaiting the joy and possibilities that the upcoming year would bring.