Category: Tales of an Immigrant

Memories of Christmas

.Reading time 4 minutes.

If like me you had a typical Nigerian childhood, Christmas didn’t feature Santa. Maybe his distant cousin, Father Christmas, with that questionable outfit that scared children rather than endeared him to them. My Christmas memories were family visiting from far and near, sometimes over 20 of us packed in our small 4 bedroom home at the time. It was the excitement in the air as our aunts arrived bearing gifts, and embracing cousins we hadn’t seen all year. It was the smell of fried chin chin and meats, and of my brother and I tiptoeing to the kitchen to have our fill of Coke and fried beef after everyone had gone to bed.

Christmas wasn’t just the 25th, it was the days leading to that day and the days after that. It was the traditions built around things that now seem trivial, but meant the world to us as kids. It was getting our clothes back from the tailor and making several trips to Baba Tailor’s shop behind the house to have the clothes amended. It was the hours spent painting our nails in preparation for Christmas Service in church, as if those nails wouldn’t be chipped by all the chopping and stirring as we prepared the day’s dishes.

The week prior to Christmas was spent on my mom’s farm, and prepping for Christmas brought respite from all the farm work. I’ll write about this farm someday, Mommy’s farm that was no respecter of age or education. It didn’t matter if you had just bagged a Master’s degree, were preparing for your wedding, or just got home from your studies abroad, if you were home in December you found yourself on that farm, no questions asked. But I digress.

The week after Christmas was an anti climax of some sort. As we ushered in the new year, dancing and singing in church, we were also reminded that soon we would be saying our goodbyes. It was off to school, or back to work, or back to whatever else we occupied ourselves with all year, till another Christmas season beckoned us home.

Now that we’ve all left the nest, it’s time to make memories for our kids, and begin new Christmas traditions. I haven’t begun any in my home, it doesn’t help that my husband carries on like it’s any other day. Every year I tell myself I’ll buy and decorate a Christmas tree but I always have a good excuse not to; this year I don’t have enough storage space to put the tree when the festivities are over. Last year I was pregnant and constantly nauseous, setting up a tree was the last thing on my mind. The year before that… I can’t remember but it was a valid excuse, honestly it was.

Whatever your Christmas traditions are, I hope you’re having a good one and beyond the traditions, I pray the Love of God fills your hearts and homes.

Merry Christmas!

Lots of love,

Iember

Sleep, dear sleep!

.Reading time 2 minutes.

I love this throwback photo of myself on the bus. It reminds me of what now seems like the distant past, days when we could use public transportation without wearing masks.

Speaking of public transportation, let me tell you about the time I missed my train stop and ended up in a different city.

I take the train to work. Well, used to before covid. These days the office is anywhere with strong Wi-Fi and a picturesque background for Zoom meetings.

Anyway, it’s a fifty-four minute train ride. No, don’t picture Lagos traffic. It’s a scenic ride and serene too, if like me you choose to sit in the quiet zone on the upper level. I usually read a book halfway, and then chat with my mom if she’s online, or just catch up on the absurdity that goes on in the WhatsApp group with my friends.

On the day in question, I left the office earlier than usual because I needed to make a quick stop before getting home. I’m such a planner, and had allotted time to everything I needed to do that evening.

I read for about 30 quiet minutes, then checked to see if my mom was online. She wasn’t so I went back to my book, or so I thought. I only realized I had dozed off when I heard over the speaker ‘We have arrived at our last station, the train is no longer in service. Make sure you take all your personal belongings with you.’

I looked around me and the coach was empty. I looked through the window and the station didn’t look familiar. We were in the city after mine!

I wasn’t sure if I wanted to laugh at myself, beat myself up now that I had let sleep ruin my itinerary, or cry at the thought of having to figure out my way home from this strange city in the peak of winter. I did a bit of each.

Work Chronicles

.Reading time 3 minutes.

My colleagues take their lunch break between noon and 1pm each day. I prefer to eat after 1pm, primarily because I’m not hungry by noon, but also because I enjoy the solitude of the office kitchen when everyone is through with their lunch and I don’t have to deal with small talk. It’s exhausting trying to explain to my non-Nigerian colleagues what my lunch of Moimoi and Garri is. No, there’s no English name for Moimoi. No, it’s not Beans Pudding. Pizza is Italian (some say Latin, some say Greek) and we’ve come to accept that, but I digress.

Today’s lunch is Semolina with Okra soup, complete with stock fish, crayfish and every smell that accompanies those two guys. I’m happy when I get to the kitchen and meet just 3 people finishing up their lunches. I can reheat my food without people scrunching their noses. I also have plans to do justice to those chicken bones, and would rather do so without an audience. I’m not given to waste.

I settle down to eat and the kitchen is empty, save for one guy who just walked in. There are about 20 empty seats anyway, he would definitely choose one far from me. Nope, this dude chooses the seat right across from me. I look up to see if it’s a familiar face. Never seen this dude before. Didn’t he see the other chairs? “Oh well, I’m used to the smell of stock fish. Bros you’re the one doing yourself,” I think to myself.

We eat in silence, bros munching on his mede-mede, Iember ‘cutting’ her Okra soup with all the decorum she can muster. There’s no incident till I get to the end of my meal. I’m done eating my chicken, bone untouched just like my husband eats. I think that’s wasteful, but again I digress.

I get up to leave but the chicken bone stares at me and I look back at it, as lovingly as I look at Gboko mangoes. It feels like we have unfinished business, I can’t just up and leave. I begin with the soft cartilage, it’s a noiseless process. Bros and I keep chewing in silence. I’m done with that part, but remember I told you I’m not given to waste right? I proceed to crack the bones. Wow, I’m not prepared for the loud sounds that follow. Bros looks up from his plate and clears his throat. I clear mine too, since we’re all clearing our throats around here. “Remember I told you that you’re doing yourself when you came to seat here abi?” I think to myself as I clear my plates.

Bros-0, Iember-1