“…the heady rush prevalent to the month of December in the last decade or so, seems to me an elemental conspiracy within conspiracies. That said rush seems weirdly paced in a way to make nowaday kids feel the kind of giddiness that eluded me in my own time.
The over-commercialization of the yuletide season these days is so unkind, laborious, we parents seem afflicted with the Stockholm Syndrome- we are graciously robbed to please our wards- and we are entirely oblivious to it. We are pitifully clueless to the enrichment of some entities to the detriment of our own family, and to the depletion of our meager resources, dedicated to their provision.
I was superglad…spiritually appreciative, when my mom would grudgingly acquiecse to our subtle plea and climb a stepping-stool, to gain the needed height to reach and hand over the miniature plastic-Berretta guns, diligently preserved in their original wrappers from about three Christmases ago; leveled on top of her elaborate “wardrobe”, that imposing wooden-cabinet, that perpetually reeked of Camphor and Kafura, to me and my brothers.
And our “Ready-Made” attires were kept in near-perfect conditions to “roll us over” every couple of years. My Cortina and Bally Shoes- gave me the lift no Air-Max or a classic pair of Louboutin would have presumably given me.
To us kids, it’s all about the Carols, the “long-vacation”, the bustling of the neighborhoods in their rustic elegance and their various, gregarious colors. It was about the various tastes of the steamy hot, white Rice and Chicken stew. Some years if we make her super-proud, we got the Almighty Jollof! Fried-rice was the only dish too elegant to show its face in Fiditi! It was all about the ecletic and fun TV programming- during the yuletide. Though we’d seen it many times and as many Christmases we’ve had till then, “JESUS CHRIST OF NAZARETH” was still a stupendous bargain for us- the “Fruitful Muguns of Fiditi!”
Now you can imagine my shock, the errant palpitation of my pulse and the instant perspiration forming under my bilateral armpits: when Wakilu, my son indifferently told me he wants either a Hoverboard or a Drone-Chopper for Xmas.
I wish I can get the fool a rolling-tyre or teach the damn fool how to make a Kite!” Hoverboard ko! Ajagbe-ejo ni!”
