Buchi Emecheta: What Christmas Carol Singers are Missing

I admit, I haven't really been in a Christmas mood for the last few years – by all means, let's celebrate the solstice, the birth of Jesus and New Year! But, this is not (yet) the time of the year that I need a break to settle down and succumb to festive stodge, hibernation and SAD. I need that break later in winter, well into the new year. If you're based in the northern hemisphere you probably know when I am talking about – that time in February/March when cold days of sunshine, crisp air and snowfall give way to grey clouds of ice-cold rain; when formerly white snow has turned into wet-grey mush without any hope for another white shower re-freshening the scenery; when snow and ice melt but the ground is still frozen turning the upper layers into no less grey mud; when melting snow and ice reveal grey dead grass without the fresh green tips of new spring growth emerging yet and when the lights and greens of spring still are but a distant hope. – That's when I'd need lights all over the place, cheesy-soothing songs, stories of hope (religious and otherwise), time in the kitchen fiddling with the receipes of Christmas cookies and pies and a lazy break with friends; and family and heaps of the last of good winter stodge to look forward to (Thank God, I'm not alone in that!) - rather than carnival season (Where do people get the energy THAT time of the year?!).

But, hey, let's celebrate those holidays as they come! And, in that spirit, let me share with you a rather lovely article about Christmas by Buchi Emecheta I stumbled on in West Africa magazine. - What Christmas Carol Singers are Missing: Buchi Emecheta Recalls the Christmas of her Nigerian Childhood. (This is one of a series of articles Emecheta's published in the magazine. Did I share the one where she writes about her expectation to see cowboys? - Oh, yes, I did!)

'I was busy debating with myself and a few friends the other day, when my door bell rang. I went reluctantly towards the front door because I was well aware I was not expecting anyone, but since one can't tell with one's relatives from home in Nigeria, one had to have an open mind and a ready smile for any unannounced visitor. One's relatives and home friends are wont to spring such pleasant surprises by announcing cheerfully, "I want to surprise you with a visit. I left Lagos six hours ago." But this time, I was lucky. For as I opened my door, a group of young people burst into "Adeste Fidelis". I stood there smiling from ear to ear, enjoying my first listen to this year's carols.

[…]

As I looked at [the carol singers'] run chubby read faces, and their mischievous eyes my mind went back to the village carol I sang in my parents home town in Ibusa, a long time ago. The carols were sun in the real African style. We collected empty bottles, on which we hit tin spoons; we had empty cigarette tins and used their covers to make rattling musical sounds. There was an old man – Okonkwo was his name, I think – who my mother told me was a retired dock man. This man had a mouth organ which he played only on Christmas Eve. With the old man as our leader, followed by the vicar, and many young members of the church, we would set out, after an elaborate prayer, from our mud church with thatched roof visiting all the important members of the church and the rich people in town. We usually sang classic carols, or tried to sing them, but with so many unorthodox embellishments that usually come out, was a kind of Africanised classical version.

Any listener could tell from the words that we were singing the carols, but it was hopeless trying to guess what we were on about from the tune. You see, our kind of carol was not the type one hears where the Salvation Army sing their carols to near rigid military beat; our kind was not churchy type in which people sing to order. Our kind was our kind of carol, Ibo-Ibusa type. You could pull the chorus the way you felt like, you could invent your own second part, or your Alto or Bass or even Soprano. Strongly enough they usually went down well, so much so, that I used to remember my mother saying that she could  not stand the rigid church carol singing we had in Lagos. She preferred the village type where it was the norm to sing to one's heart content.

We did not sing for money, but gifts and little eats were plentiful. The older men were given "esimesi" (our local gin). It was not surprising then, that by midnight a great proportion of the townspeople would be dancing to the carols as the esimesi grew. I remember that the last year I was there, old Okonkwo lost his mouth organ. He made do with his cupped hands, and only just managed to get back to his hut, but was still able to come to the church the following morning.

As I gave a few coins to the white children singing by door, I said to myself, "Oh poor kids, you don't know what you're missing."'

(West Africa, 24/31 December 1979, 2385-86)

Merry Christmas!