Hi, my name is Muna and I dream of a black Christmas.Dreams of black kids running naked with small pants hanging around their waist, elders dressed in neatly sawn asoke, tales told under creepy old umbrella trees, dances and flutes blown to tune the beats of drums. Food prepared in Mama’s earthen three legged pot, huge tones of Local tiny rice, Isi Ewu, ofe-Onubu with okporoko and freshly tapped palm wine sitting under Papa’s thatch roof on a wait to be devoured.

A big festive celebration of well deserved year of bountiful harvest with white pounded yam and egusi, roasted yam, red oil and ukpaka all been made to rest at will before the dawn of twenty fifth. This Celebration is a family gathering of fourth cousins, nephews, nieces from all generations all housed in Uncle Ikenna’s befitting four bedroom flat built on Papa Nuku (grand dad)’s land. 

Home is calling me, in many ways more than one. There is a longing; I want to feel the warmth of the morning sun, the cool feel of my village’s Harmattan breeze, the sweet scent of clayey air, to have a taste of water from molded brown pots… to listen to the cooing of strange birds hanging on the bamboo plantation at the river banks. I miss the tale of the village Dibia, the sight of dancing masquerades and Painted men, the Hymns from newly Christian converts and the lazy voice of their catechist.….

This is one wish too early, as the society has changed. Power defiles our nation like a child screaming under an abuser. I’ve witnessed men taken down in streams of a cow’s blood And women gunned with their babies strapped at their backs

A Nigerian Christmas Where human bodies blow up like firecrackers

A Black Christmas Memory

By:Okeke .S. Ifunanya

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