Nnaemeka my brother, whose every thought seemed to be focused on money, was particularly upset with me.  He considered me spoilt and always sought an opportunity to tell me so.  He worked in a bank, and although he hated his job that consisted of marketing and finding new customers for the bank, he stayed in it for the money.  I think he secretly envied my freedom of thought, but I never said that to him.

“Madam do-good, let me see how you will cope when you get married and have a home, a husband, children and a busy career,” my sister concluded, sounding more than a little put out. 

She and I had not been friends ever since I visited her after she gave birth to her second baby girl.  She was upset that it was not a boy and said as much to me.  My response to her was to count herself lucky that she had children at all. So many were looking for children and could not have them.   I also criticized how she always spoke English to Nneoma her first daughter, ensuring that she would probably not speak Igbo, our native language, a trend that seemed to be taking over in many Igbo families.  She responded rather nastily, telling me to go get married, have my own children and bring them up as I saw fit.   I was upset with her, but it occurred to me after I left her home that I could have been more tactful in the way I put it.   After all, many people in Nigeria might agree with her that having two girls when you wanted no more than three children was a hardship, having them struggle with English, an even worse hardship.

“Enough of that,” my father ordered.

He had sat quietly listening to us.  He was not too upset that I had come back and I knew that this was mostly because he felt that I stood a better chance of getting married in Nigeria.  My mother did not agree with him.  She, I think, had hoped that I would meet a man abroad, living in the United States preferably; Canada was way too cold and whoever talked about Canada anyway?    It was certainly not one of the “in” places. It was a bit like living in Russia or Bulgaria, out of the way places. The US was perfect.  Then she could come for omugwo when I had my first child and spend months with us, after which she would come back and tell her friends how well her daughter and her husband were doing abroad.  This was a fantasy she had when I was growing up, and she did not take my decision to come back very well at all.

I knew that I had not really lived up to the expectations of any member of my family, with the possible exception of my father, who simply considered me, the last of his children, his pet.  In the loneliness of my time in Canada, I had had time to think things over carefully and to decide that I wanted to live a life that did not answer to other people’s expectations.  I saw pictures of starving African children on television, and the charities asking for money and partnership in fighting hunger and poverty in Africa.  And I asked myself how it was that I never saw that when I was living in “Africa.”  How it was that I thought it normal for hawkers, including children, to chase after cars in traffic jams, holding onto my money till they came up with the change.

 “Meet Ngozi.  She is from Africa,” people in Canada would say.  I always found myself explaining to people that I found it strange that people thought I came from Africa.  I had always thought I came from Nigeria.  I had never even been to Ghana, close as it was to Nigeria.  I got tired of saying that Africa is a whole continent with many countries that I would possibly never visit in my life. 

I loved the friendliness so typical of Canadians.  I loved the predictability of life, the constant power and water supply, and predictable timed bus transport.  However, though I loved a lot of things about Canada, I knew that I did not want to live permanently in another country, looking for all the tricky ways I could find to extend my visa and to stay until I became a permanent resident or a citizen, or ways to buy used cars or mobile phones or clothes on sale to send back home, hating my life all through the winter, the bare trees, the bitter cold winds and the early dark evenings, then loving the green, green leaves and the warm long hours of sunshine in the summer. To my surprise, I had missed the bustle of Nigeria, the noisiness of people speaking at the tops of their voices even when they were speaking to people right next to them, the food, the hot sun, the gusto with which life was lived and enjoyed like goatmeat peppersoup. 

Perhaps I was spoilt.  After all, I came from a fairly comfortable background and had no seriously needy parent or sibling who would die off from lack of Western Union payments.  I told myself I wanted to “make a difference.” What a cliché that was.   I knew that I was naïve in many ways.  What stopped me from working to become rich like Bill Gates or Warren Buffet and then spreading my largess to the poor? 

Nevertheless, that was how I felt.  I was determined not to be scared of tomorrow.  My sojourn in oyibo land, as my brother called it, had opened my eyes to living a life of possibility, of life not boxed in by the bare necessities of survival, to a life of extravagance in giving of myself.     My job working with homeless children in Lagos gave me a measure of peace, although I sometimes despaired at the bottomless need that no organization could hope to fill.   It did not matter that I had no car, had very little money in the bank and currently lived with my aunty, although I hoped the latter situation would change in the coming year.

And it was just good to be warm all the time, and to come home for Christmas, no longer a child, but still able to come home to some of the old comforts of childhood.

“What are you wearing to Ada’s traditional wedding on the second?” my sister asked, partly to change the subject.

“I did not bring anything suitable.  Mummy just told me about it when I came back.”

“But, you knew you were coming back for Christmas and that many events are scheduled for this period,” my mother said.  “Anyway, you can wear one of my bubas.  I have a blue one that would look nice on you.”

“Thank ma,” I responded happily.  I knew I could always count on my mother to get me out of these sticky situations.

“Are you coming for the New Year’s Eve service with us?” my brother asked me.  I said I would.  What kind of Christmas would it be without going for the New Year’s with all the loud fireworks, the boys and girls making lots of noise and the parents walking ahead more sedately, and getting to the church to hear the priest admonishing that no fireworks were allowed inside the church?

“We are walking down to the church.  Are you sure you will not be afraid of the bangers and knockouts as you used to be?” Nnaemeka asked me, rather mischievously.

I smiled at him.  I was sure I would be ‘scared’ and I would have them protecting me all the way. 

“Who wants some cake?” my mother asked.  She always baked cake for the Christmas holidays.  My brothers jumped up noisily as they used to do when we were kids.

Yes, this was Christmas.

                                                            *********

“Are we walking to the ceremony?” I asked.  

It was the second of January and we were getting ready to go for my cousin Ada’s igbankwu, her traditional wedding ceremony.   Although the venue was not far off from the house, I wanted to know if we would be walking because the masquerades were going to be parading the streets of the village, as they did during the New Year festivities, and I did not want to get flogged. 

“No, we won’t,” Amaechi replied.  “I know you are still afraid of masquerades,” he teased.

Before I could respond to that, my mother called me. “Come and dress up,” she said.  “You know it takes you forever.”

“She gets that from you,” my father told her.  “The boys and I will leave if you women don’t dress up in a hurry.  I want to be there before our in-laws arrive.”

We dressed up and we were soon at the ceremony.  My father presented some kolanuts and a bottle of whisky to Ada’s father.  My mother sought out Ada’s mother to congratulate her.  I greeted her mother, who told me that it would soon be my turn to get married and assured us that there was little we needed to do since they had it all well in hand, I settled down in one of the canopies to enjoy the proceedings. The in-laws arrived shortly after we did and the ceremonies began.  Ada came out to welcome her husband and his people in a beautiful lace outfit accompanied by her lady friends who had worn aso-ebi for her.