Not Feeling Very Meery.

I'm lying in bed, thinking of what to write. I don't have a topic just yet, but I know I must write. I told myself, or rather challenged myself, to write something, anything, before the year runs out, and in the small room I share with my friend, where I can feel the stickiness of my sweat clinging to my bare skin on our bedspread, I pounded on all the possible topics I could explore.

Since the year is about to end, I thought, why not make an appreciation post? It will be cute, filled with all the lessons I learned, all the people that shaped my year, and all the things I am grateful for. It would end with something profound and thought-provoking. A bit cringe but still cute, and at the end I would look at my essay, nod my head, and say to myself, "Yes, Esther, you did it again." Drop mic.

Or I could talk about my hopes and dreams for 2026. My resolutions (even though I don't have any yet) I could make them up on the spot as I write and gaslight myself into believing that I would actually follow through. Or I could write about something completely random like all the life lessons and experience I have had thus far (trust me, they are a lot) and maybe throw in a small piece of advice in the end because your big auntie has seen and gone through a lot this year.

But nothing felt right. None of these topics made me actually want to sit down and devote my time to them. Not because they weren't interesting, but I personally wasn't resonating with them. So I decided to do what I would normally do when faced with situations like this. I decided to sleep. Maybe I would find inspiration in my dreams.

As I close my eyes, I hear the offbeat drumming of a nearby church; I can hear them singing to Flex Nevide. Immediately I am overcome by this piercing feeling of sadness. The only thing sadder than the drumming is the physical ache I can feel in my chest. Like a cord is pulling at my heartstrings, reminding me that my family members are miles and miles away. Inasmuch as I would like to pretend to be a hard guy and act as though I am unfazed by the fact I wouldn't be spending my Christmas with them. (Which is so weird for me because this is the first time it's happening.) I feel something. Something I have refused to confront for quite some time now.

I am homesick.

I think about all the carrots that need slicing and all the chicken that needs frying. My auntie asking us to bring the biggest pot out from where it's kept so we can set a fire outside in preparation for all the food that is going to be made. As I type, I can feel myself salivating at the thought of fried onions. The way the oil will sizzle dramatically when we throw in the first piece of chicken.

By this time I would be in church. Seated somewhere at the back pew. A scarf on my head, a blank expression on my face, reciting the hymns I have come to know by heart, like Joy to the World. While my siblings are seated around me. When the mass ends, the revered father will encourage us to wish at least 5 people merry Christmas on our way out. I would intentionally want to embarrass my siblings by being too loud and going out of my way to actually hug and greet total strangers. My sister will hold my hand and say, "Esther, abeg, let's just go home."

Upon arriving home, we would be greeted with the sight of my auntie. The soft glow of Christmas cheer radiating on her face. I would rush to hug and kiss her, wishing her a merry Christmas while inhaling the scent of chicken spices clinging to her body. Now I have to call her. Force a smile into my voice and say, "Auntie, Merry Christmas." While she says, "Esther, you don't want to come back again," sounding more like an accusation than a question. How I miss that woman, even with all her wahala.

We would gather in the living room. Calling all our family members, both far and near, bantering, basking in the soft fluorescent lights of the Christmas tree. The next morning the whole house will wake up early, with palpable excitement. The kind of excitement that defies age. The kind of excitement that can only be found in Christmas rice.

Some of us will go to Christmas mass (not me though); some of us will be in the kitchen assisting my auntie (na, there you go find me). Some of us will be outside selling puff puff and egg rolls to the merry men and women of Our Lady of Fatima. All through the day there will be an influx of neighbors, of parishioners, of friends, and sometimes of people that we don't even know. All of them claiming that they can smell my auntie's cooking from down the street, and then we would be sent to the kitchen to bring takeaway after takeaway of food. All nicely wrapped in a small black Leon bag with chicken or beef resting comfortably inside, depending on the economy and how much we rate the person we are giving the food to.

During the afternoon, we have all already eaten ourselves to a state of unconsciousness, and a handful of us have fallen into a deep sleep after devouring rounds upon rounds of rice and swallow. I will hear the laughter of my uncle in the living room, hosting one or two of his friends like he always does every year. With bottles of Heineken and Gulder laid before them. Forced to go and greet the visitor (an exercise we all hate with great passion), sleep still written all over my face as I murmur a chorus of "good afternoon sir" and "merry Christmas,". While my auntie brings a tray of food.

the evening (my favorite part) we will all gather in the living room for our yearly Christmas carol. An activity that I love to hate. Where we all sing, dance, and make complete fools of ourselves in the most beautiful and wholesome way possible. With my brother as the MC repeating jokes from the year before, we all laughing wholeheartedly. Every year we say we are too old for it, yet every year we find ourselves doing it. I must always have fresh bundles of naira notes ready to spray my junior siblings while they perform dance routines and sing carols with their horrible voices. It always ends with my uncle giving a speech and we all stating the lessons we have learned and what we are most thankful for.

Moments like those are the moments I live for. The moments I look forward to every year. Now the only thing I have to look forward to are new episodes of Stranger Things. It's already 12:36. It's already Christmas Day. But for obvious reasons I don't feel very merry.

Christmas has never been my favorite time of the year. What made Christmas Christmas for me is the food and the feeling of all my family members all in the same room. The feeling of love that cannot be bought or sold. The feeling of new memories being made and old ones being honored every year. A reminder that no matter how tough the year is, you can also come home to faces that will love you and welcome you, no matter what, no questions asked.

So I didn’t end up writing an appreciation post or a list of lessons or hopes for the new year. I wrote this instead. Maybe I don’t need to feel merry tonight. Maybe it is enough to just feel. Enough to remember. Enough to know that somewhere, the people I love are laughing, eating, and saving a place for me for when I return.

If you’re still here, thank you for keeping me company. Merry Christmas. May your rice be plenty and your people be close.❤️