CHRISTMAS IN BAMENDA

6:00 a.m.
The sun is risen as usual
But with this excitement in the air
It is impossible not to know
What day of the year it is

Speakers are turned up high
Blasting BONEY M’s “Christmas Album” to the four winds
Children are especially happy
       Awake much earlier than usual
       Smiling from ear to ear
       Restless for a reason they think is known only to them:
       Today is that fateful day
       The day they finally have access to Mama’s tasty goodies!
Mothers are especially busy
       Putting finishing touches on housekeeping or cooking,
       Barking out warnings to distracted children
       Who don’t seem to be taking seriously enough
       The importance of church on this day
       Or calling out impatiently to tardy fathers
       Who are frenziedly searching every nook and cranny of their homes
       For that bible they remember keeping
       On some shelf or pile of books
       On this same day last year

9:00 a.m.
The dusty streets are filling up
With people on their way to church
So keen on looking and staying neat
It’s hard to believe they’re going to the same churches
They’ve been going to all year:
       Hair shaved or made in different, more flamboyant styles
       Wigs in different colors and shapes—and sizes
       Shoes and clothes bought just for this day
       a.k.a “Christmas clothes”—
       From the classy, to the bad, to the downright ridiculous
All in a (purported) bid to properly welcome
The newborn King of Kings

12 o’clock
By afternoon
The King has been officially welcomed,
His guests in different venues banqueting
Clanging spoons and plates
And the occasional laugh
Audible from near and far to the interested ear
The near-silence proof that tongues sometimes
Get too busy with other things
To waste precious moments forming words

2:00 p.m.
The streets are almost deserted now
The unrepentant afternoon sun
And the Harmattan’s furious, brown winds
Mostly braved by “Christmas visitors”:
       Unabashedly rapacious children
       Who are visibly contemplating
       How much space their little stomachs have left
       And where their next stop for the day will be,
       Intent on seeking out that last chicken slice
       That will leave them as bloated as the balloons they carry

7:30 p.m.
Alas, time is a nimble thing
And darkness falls ever so quickly
Chicks must go to sleep
Early birds must now retire
And leave the town for the night owls
Whose parliament tonight
Is overflowing with fledgling members
Who’ve decided to leave the comfort of their nests
For various joints
To fully indulge in some guilty pleasures
Without fear of judgment
Where all can see and hear
At least once before the year ends