Crystal clear streams caressing fluffy green cushions on purple tinted rocks. Sugar cane fields opposite corn row heavens; my grandmother’s village was a picture for suburban jealousy. Heavy, warm rainy nights, occasional sandy storms blowing northern harmattan dust winds to middle eastern lands. The smell of wet soil, the taste of holy water from clouds, making fertile the land of my grandfather, what’s not to love and romanticise about the village?

Candy corn puppy love kisses shared behind neighbour’s fences, whether pretending to be Indiana Jones or on a quest to follow the steps of Gulliver’s travel or holding hands as we’d go sight seeing around abandoned houses made of mud and dung with thatched roofs for cover, the village was always exciting. Hallways filled with sounds of our mothers singing and dancing to eregba, I remember sitting to watch three of my aunts around a mortar each with her own favourite pestle in hand, the shape of which is moulded around her own familiar hand. Three strong backs positioned, six trained arms thrusting with determination into a single wide mortar in unison, making should food music as they would take turns to pulp the yam into thick, fluffy, cotton like balls of yam dough. The sight of toil by my aunts in our backyard tastefully complemented by the smell of edikikon sneaking its way out of Nana’s kitchen along with pitched laughter from Aunt Stella, part singing, part speaking of stories and hushed memories from their childhoods.

It was often at this time of the day, when the non scalding evening sun folded shades of orange and tinted yellows around the hills which surrounded our village, that merry neighbours would bring adée or adibésé along with kola nuts, garden eggs, live poultry, dried fish and blessings. I remember Uncle Titus, the local drunk elder would again plead for Ekarosibina’s hand in marriage, ‘if you would not do me the honour of being my 7th wife, then surely you would want to marry one of my sons. I may be a drunk but I raised my children well and my family still has the 3rd largest compound in the village’ – he’d boast. The sound of beads bouncing off proud swerving hips as another cousin would walk past kissing her teeth. That’s Osinimu, she had her ovia osese last Easter, she believes she is officially all woman and insists on reminding all within earshot. The voice of Uncle Dehinde behind her, ‘beauty and charm might get you married, but humility and wisdom will keep you in a marriage, not fancy coral beads and your penchant for compliments, don’t get old before your time’ he would warn.

There is no forgetting the constant loud reminder of diesel fuelled generators, our long serving driver and adopted family member - Uncle Musa - coming back with an empty jeri can to report “ogamadame, no fuwyell for mile fa!”. Nana assuring us we will be fine with the candles and kerosene lanterns for light, we have enough firewood to cook outside instead of using the electric cooker in the main kitchen and of course, Uncle Sunday will be here in a few days. Relieved sighs from the neighbours at the mention of Uncle Sunday; he always arrives at the village with a convoy: steel tanks of water and another for fuel. His motto: ‘fuel scarcity will not hinder celebrations in our village’, not under his watch. For now we must switch off all unnecessary appliances and divert the current to the main deep freezer with the meat. ‘There is a whole cow in there which Sule (the butcher) killed this morning and it must not spoil!’ – Nana would continue. Ebele walking out the room as the children play tag around her, ‘the last to get to the generator is a fool!’ The sound of running, giggling children, Ebele being the strongest amongst them switching off the generator and now, silence. The dim light of low current kicks in briefly and holds the non power saving bulbs on for a few seconds ‘UP NEPA!’ the neighbours yell, the shy bulb, startled, goes out again and takes with it the drinks fridge (which must now remain shut until the ice cooler arrives from Lokoja), the air conditioner , ceiling fan and standing fan. The neighbours sigh and send their version of prayers to Nepa officials worldwide. The gateman arrives with a message from Uncle Sumolu, he is in Basange and due to armed robbers, the police have installed several road blocks for the safety (read as olopa wants his Christmas bonus) of late night travellers. He will not be arriving till tomorrow afternoon he thinks. Nana hurries us all to switch off the kerosene lamps to save what little kerosene we have till uncle Bolu arrives. It’s candle galore, which to my aunts would be romantic if it wasn’t born out of necessity. In the front of the compound the children wearing mosquito repellents and pyjamas are now playing under the bright light of clear clouds and bright stars. The younger girls playing ten-ten and my-mother-told-me, the boys ever soccer happy, the teenagers up to their own version of hide and seek mischief and our aunts walking to the back yard with pails of water to attend to iru that needs drying, meat that needs marinating ready for the barbeque on thanksgiving Sunday, eyebrows that needs shaping, ready to be raised at more gossip. Me, wide and starry eyed during fireworks displays, running to join my favourite cousin on a mission to catch fresh water crabs and snails that have come out post earlier rain, clutching unto his arm, pretending not to be startled every time a knockout went bang!

We might not have had eggnogs, traditionally stuffed sage and onion turkeys and other trimmings that embody the holiday season to you, but that to me was Christmas. A time when relatives from across the world would fly and drive thousands of miles to be with loved ones, a time when partners would leave their own homes to share a roof with siblings and relatives of their loved ones within walls were their first baby steps were probably made. A roof that held more than thirty relatives who Nana forbade to stay in a hotel, a living memory of the only place in the world I have ever lived where I did not need fences or gates to safe guard myself from the extendable arms of thieves, a time when skinny dipping in the lake at 6.30 am (after the fishermen have walked through the shortcut to get to the next village and just before the farmers start to make their way to the market) was something to look forward to. A time when I was young and in love with the world, when Nana’s home for fourteen and a half days was my home too. Xmas will never be the same again.