BY MELODY THAILA KUKU
It just doesn’t feel like December here. Even the harmattan breeze is silent: it rustles no one’s hair and dries no lips. Our skins are still smooth and oily, there is no whiteness to speak of dying hygiene or classy ones. No one sings the carols and the streets are as dull as ever. Few years ago, it wasn’t so. There were fire crackers heralding Christmas. There was the hustle and bustle of people in the markets; desperate traders grabbing arms and pointing them to stalls that hung fanciful clothes. Few years ago, I could feel the excitements in the air as neighbours wished the other a “Merry Christmas”. The aroma of Christmas was sweet smelling; wild vanilla with love flavour. Now, no one greets the other with special words and I wonder. Do they know that we are in December? But I do not wonder for long because now I know that they’ve long ceased to feel it. Money for other items of survival is more important than fanciful clothes, chicken and fire crackers. The poor are poorer; Christmas is for the rich who can import trees, organise international carol nights and spend millions on insignificant gifts. Besides, what does the poor have to celebrate? A looming civil war or a broken economy where scraps become golden? A Merry Christmas indeed!