Christmas Food
In my childhood years, Christmas did not come quietly; not
in the middle of an Oil Boom. There were trips to the tailors for Christmas
clothes, shoes were bought, tried and then locked away because ‘they are for Christmas’.
Items of food and drink began to show up which we gazed at
like that twinkling star that lead wise men to Bethlehem. Cartons of Star lager
stacked in the corner surrounded by crates of Coca Cola and Fanta. These were rows of bottles in wooden crates
standing in corners. No one went too
close because they were for Christmas. We harboured wicked thoughts in our
young minds about what we were going to do to those drinks. In the crates a
missing bottle was obvious but come Christmas, when the migration to the fridge
started, nobody could be accurate about Coke bottles census figures and that is
when the drinking frenzy went into over drive.
Great expectations gripped Lagos then, as white envelopes
flooded the letter boxes (well, we didn’t have a letter box. The post man put
the letters between coils of cables at the electric meter) and once opened the
cards were arranged on a string that went from one end of the room to the
other.
With time another string was needed and we ended up with a
giant X on the ceiling. Once in a while someone forgot and switched on the
ceiling fan; and the cards hit the ceiling. We just couldn’t wait for
Christmas. That was the day you wore new clothes right down to underwear and
socks. Complete with a plastic sun glasses and the swag was on fire.
The obligatory trip to Kingsway Stores to see Father
Christmas brought us plastic pistols helping to distract from the wait for the
big day. Money soon began to flood the pocket as adults grew generous as if the
Harmatan air had brought some ‘good will to all men’ with it.
We had chewing gums, Goody-goody, Trebor Refreshers and Tom Tom all day long. It was a
feasting season in December. There was spare change for night action; fireworks.
Every night it went Bang Bang Bang as mini explosions lit the night up. Rockets
flew up and exploded into numerous diamonds and there was always the smell of
festive stew in the air.
When the school finally closed for the merry holidays, a
good report card secured extra rewards. One played and ate all day.
The visitors soon began to arrive and like it was in the
seventies, you entertained them very well. White Horse Whisky, Cartons of Star
lager and crates of ‘minerals’ were how people entertained. Music blared from
the radiogram (O come all ye faithful) and a visit could soon turn into a
party. With few people owning phones you never knew who was coming and it was
not unusual to have three families arrive unannounced. The Christmas
decorations where now up. No Christmas tree showed up in our house but there
were glittering bits all over the place. We had colourful paper Bells that
opened up, bright red pictures of white Santa and many images of animals in the
snow (a bit confusing for us as there was no snow in Lagos).
Rice and stew very plenty was the norm. Christmas rice was
enchanted and the dodo divine. The moin moin came in its original leaves and
one unpeeled the botanical package with anticipation. Once delivered the moin
moin was incised through the centre to find out if Father Christmas had
ordained a boiled egg or corned beef in the centre. That -one child one piece
of meat - ordinance was thrown out of the window. The only limitation to our
eating was the size of our stomachs.
Some family friends had a carol service for the children and
we all went there to sing and then eat. The party Jollof rice made us undergo
growth spurts. The street hawkers did brisk business. Those were the days a
driver called an orange seller and she put down her tray and gave a performance
of dexterity in peeling the fruit. The question at the end of the task always
amazed me.
‘How make I cut am?’
The options were to slice it across its equator or to carve
out a cone at the North Pole. As one of the equatorial disposition, I never
could understand those who choose a North Pole cone as it meant they had to
squeeze out the juice in the South Pole right past the equator north wards to
the open cone at the summit.
The kids gathered around the driver (on minimum wage) with
begging eyes and the spirit of Christmas pulls his heart strings into buying
oranges for us all. With senior siblings on holiday there were more people to
pester when the ice cream van came along. Any hawker got called. Mangoes,
Coconut, corn, Paw paw, Agbalumo and the Guguru and epa sellers who also put up
a show as they threw up groundnuts in the air and blew away its skin.
Soon the bleating of goats and rams could be heard in the
mornings as Christmas was coming. The chicken population in the neighbourhood
rose astronomically. Like wicked Herod killed all the babies at the first
Christmas, Lagosians slaughtered all the animals on Christmas Eve.
Honourable mention must be made of one Jollof rice I ate at
new Estate Baptist church in the run up to one Christmas. It was a carol
service followed by Christmas cheer. I believe I am what I am today because of the jollof, dodo and moin moin that
tasted like Angel Gabriel had flown by with some heavenly Maggi sauce to
sprinkle over the pot (see me salivating here o!). It was truly
Joy to the world, the
Jollof has come.
Bottled drinks in crates had an aura in my childhood. You knew
they were coming because they rattled and like the dogs in Pavlov’s experiments
we salivated and lost concentration on item six as item seven on the programme
was imminent.
You swallowed spit as you sang - O little town of Bethlehem-
for that Jollof smell travels faster than the speed of light. You feel it in
your soul. If you came first; that first term of school, you told everyone for you did not know who will
‘dash you Christmas money’.
Those were heady times when you visited people with full
stomachs and still had the intestinal fortitude to squeeze in more food.
The stars of December with Jollof Rice, Moin Moin, all
Nigerian soups, stew, all meat and fish, more stew, Ukodo and Eshia with dry
fish and freshly boiled yams. And to have all these dishes being cooked
simultaneously was one of the joys of being alive then. The frying of meat was
also good as you could take a piece from the already prepared heap without
anyone noticing. Like all families we had myths of Christmas that have been
told through the years.
Like the time when mum brought home a frozen Turkey as hand
luggage from London as she was landing back in Lagos on Christmas Eve . But the biggest story was that of the Turkey
my father brought home that became part of the family. It knew us and played
with us when we fed it. It was a tragic day when it faced execution on that
Christmas Eve. Just like Ikemefuna cried to Okonkwo that faithful night when
things fell apart, so did our Turkey. ‘My Father, My father’ it screamed
looking at the family conjuring up further images of a fearful young Elisha
crying as Elijah ascended to heaven. The last words the Turkey heard before the
brutal beheading was ‘Father for what? In this Lagos?’
I was moved to my soul and lowered my young head in quiet
prayer. ‘May your flesh rest in peace on my plate of jollof rice come Christmas
day’.
Halleluyah!
My prayers were answered
