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.
***
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.
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