Harmattan sounds better than Winter.

Christmas 1993.

The harmattan came every morning, harsh and fierce, sweeping sand across our compound and forming envelopes of dust in the air. The dust covered the leaves, roofs, everything.. and the streets had this dull red brown color of dust. It cracked our lips and made our skins dry. And every morning, we would wrap ourselves in sweaters and wrappers and come out to eat roast corn and pear or drink palm wine in white plastic tumblers and watch the harmattan. Or listen to our fathers talk.

Christmas 2003.

The streets had become roads. I don't know which Governor was thoughtful enough to get the roads done. But I was grateful that the roads were sleek and clean and we didn't have to bother so much about dust. The harmattan still came in the mornings, caressing the trees in the compound, shaking them fiercely until fruits rained down and the droning sound of fighting winds would ring in our ears. My father, his brothers and his brothers talked loud and long every morning. In the village, everyone is a brother. A good introduction and lengthy explanation of the family tree and ancestral roots lets you know...where you fit in, where the stranger fits in and how you are all related.

Christmas all the Time.

My Grandfather's grave is at the far end of the compound, just in front of my Uncle's house. It is surrounded by cement blocks and covered with red sand. My Grandmother's grave is covered with stubborn weeds and close to it, a mighty mango tree stands. It's thick brown branches spread across the grave as if watching over it, while it's red brown leaves decorate the grave. Our house faces the rusty red gate. My Uncles' houses stand beside ours. My cousins and I enjoyed climbing walls and thin fences, jumping into pits and combing bushes. We liked getting water from the stream and dancing in costumes. We learned new songs from our Aunties and ran from  masquerades. We loved the deafening sound of bangers. We retold stories and shared strange myths. There was a man who ate lizards for supper. There was an old woman who could see the future. Some spirits could possess naughty children. I was scared of the masquerades, I remember I often watched them dance through windows.

Going to the village was always an exciting and adventurous trip. Our house was big and empty but it was the best place to be. The echoing sound of my shrill voice was thrilling to my ears. My father had good old stories of our history; the Izuogu and Iheme story, how our village came to be, how great men were born, who the brave warriors were. Then the names of our grandfather, great grandfather, great great grandfather, names we shouldn't ever forget. The stories would end with Eric Donaldson's Land of my birth, and oh, how I love that song. It made my heart swell with pride and hope. I was born into a lineage of heroes. 

Though people say we are poor, but the progress you make  my friend, is not always how rich you are...

This is my father's land. A large land mass of sprawling communities and towns divided by palms. My mother is from here too. You have to go through a frail bridge with wooden rails to get to her place. But the bridge opens into a compound filled with fruit trees, it opens into home and laughter. Village was always this way, exciting in the mornings, quiet in the afternoons and noisy in the evenings. With unending peace and love, of acceptance and togetherness, of brothers amongst brothers. Christmas was always a time to rest, dream, play music and bask in dusty harmattan mornings...this is what I remember of Arondizuogu, where I spent my childhood Christmases.

Christmas 2013.

Texas. The streets look like disco gardens, every tree is lit with fascinating and colored blinking lights. This one building in Dallas had sparkling cream lights running all over it, so in my Nigerianess, I stopped to stare for a moment. The air is ice cold and soft hymns of Jingle bells float around.  People have polite exciting conversations; Happy holidays! Enjoy the holidays! What's the weather like over there! Where you going this Christmas! Wow! Wow again! It's not harmattan, it's winter. My puff puff winter jacket makes me look like a bloated balloon in the walk. It's a different Christmas for me. I spend half the day on facebook. People argue back and forth, everyone seems to know the many truths of Christmas. Home is everywhere in pictures. There is Santa everywhere, all white and red and hohoho. It is beautiful!  

Turkey, gravy, pudding and eggs. I have learned to enjoy many diets. All day I have my phone with me. Google gives me a different account of my village history. I frown. Go away google, when it happened, you weren't born yet, you weren't born. I put my phone away. We have a party in the evening. Commander says everyone around is family. I'm not so interested in how. If you are here, you are my brother, gimme a hug, I love you, he says. We dance the night away, celebrating life and brotherhood and friendship.