Merry Christmas, no matter your cross

By Theophilus Abbah

Christmas and celebration are two sides of the same coin. At its birth on December 25, 336AD, Christmas festival had emerged from the womb of a Roman tradition of merriment associated with the symbolic renewal of life at winter. Roman Emperor Constantine had envisaged a festival of joy, jubilation, dancing, revelry, wining, dining and exchange of gifts. The Christmas decree was meant to neutralize pains, frustration, bitterness, anguish and sorrow, and to usher in a free spirit which surpassed the temporary predicaments of the people.

The received tradition of the Christian faith was that the birth of Christ opened the gate of freedom for the oppressed, those who bore the mountainous burden of sin and trouble; those weighed down by the load of frustration, bitterness and sorrow. This is why Nigerians must cast off all the yokes that come with the callous economy, to dance and jubilate this Christmas. We must shame the harsh inflation that has shot up the cost of Christmas necessities beyond our imagination. Let us merry, in spite of our tribulations.

The congregation sang and danced and laughed and jubilated and filled the auditorium with the noise of joy

I witnessed this kind of defiant celebration in my village church a few years ago. As congregants sang and danced and laughed and jubilated and filled the auditorium with the noise of joy, diverse images flashed through my mind’s eyes, like video clips. An elderly man who had lost his eyesight the previous year when his motorcycle rammed into a stationary articulated vehicle, asked a family member to lead him to the dancing floor. In his flowing white gown, now turned brown due to over-use, he danced with steps that made him the centre of attraction, and an inspiration to the rest of the congregation. Soon after, every congregant jumped to their feet to join their own joy with that of the old blind man and praised God for the gift of life and the opportunity to witness and celebrate another Christmas Day.

An artistic impression of singing and dancing in a rural church. It was generated by Meta AI

Among the dancers was a woman who had lost her only son to an attack by Boko Haram on a military formation in Borno State. The image of her late son being laid down, six feet below the earth’s surface, flashed through my mind. The imagery of the anguish, the tears, the sorrow, the emptiness which the woman suffered at the burial crossed my mind, as she danced her heart out in her worn-out Christmas wear.

Among the celebrants was a young man whom fate had thrown out the city to the village. He had lost his job at a construction firm in Abuja. After knocking at the gates of similar firms for weeks, months and years, he took his frustration to mean his cup of luck in the city had evaporated. He relocated to the village to join the army of peasant farmers whose economy was determined by the richness of our soil, the rain from the sky above, the remaining energy in his muscle, and the graciousness of God Almighty. Not minding the drop in his financial status from a monthly paycheck earner to being dependent absolutely on providence, he threw caution to the wind to dance and celebrate at that year’s Christmas.

Christmas Day has been a day of solemn and sober reflection to me

Since 2012, Christmas Day has been a day of solemn and sober reflection to me. I had travelled home to my village in Kogi State to celebrate Christmas with my father who, against all odds, had survived an attack of stroke and had begun to enjoy a gradual surge of life into his veins, left hand and left leg. That year’s Christmas held two layers of celebration for us: the anniversary of the Birth of Jesus Christ and the excitement that after almost nine months, hope was being restored for my father’s health. The journey to total recovery was going to be long and tedious. We were not oblivious of that reality. But it was not out of place to celebrate the gradual wins.

At dawn on Christmas Day in 2012, however, we sensed an ominous twist in my father’s health, as he coughed persistently; fought back hiccups; gasped for breath; and was drenched in sweat , even in the freezing harmattan weather.

No help was near. In his distress he voiced out a passionate appeal that we should do everything possible to ensure he did not die. That voice has haunted me ever since.

We sought help from medical personnel, mainly auxiliary nurses, midwives and patient medicine store entrepreneurs in the neighborhood. The Primary Healthcare Clinic had neither trained nurses nor medicines. As we panicked, prayed, and pulled all the medical strings that we could lay our hands on, my father’s breathing stabilized. It was a little relief that meant a lot to us.

At mid-morning, young men and women wore their new Christmas clothes and flocked to a church located a few meters away from our premises. On my part, I drove out in the opposite direction. Not prepared to take chances, I took off to the Cottage Hospital in Okpo, the headquarters of Olamaboro Local Government Area of Kogi State.

Meta AI generated artistic impression of a young man driving on a rural road.

Two ideas drove me on that journey. First, was to seek the help of a qualified medical doctor, persuade him to come to our house, examine my father, and give us reliable medical advice. My father was famous in our community. The story of his illness had circulated widely. He had enough goodwill, and I thought with a passionate appeal and promise of compensation, the doctor on duty would accompany me to our village, a ten minutes’ drive from Okpo, to attend to my father. The second option was to find out which hospital in the towns and villages had oxygen so that we could drive my father there for medical attention.

But I was disappointed beyond words.

The Cottage Hospital at Okpo was literally desolate. No medical doctor. No nurses. Only a tired security staff. There were, however, activities at the back of the main hospital – the morgue. Corpses were being conveyed from the surrounding villages to the mortuary. Many of the dead would be alive, if they had received medical help early enough. But it was never so. At this Cottage Hospital, only those who attended to the dead were available.

“I want to urgently talk to the doctor on duty,” I urged the security man.

“The doctor is not on duty,” he replied. “Today is Christmas. The only doctor we have here has gone to Church. But he owns a clinic; perhaps, you will meet a doctor there.”

I was speaking with a stone, not a doctor

The security man gave me the doctor’s number. “I need help; you need to see my father to help us; I have a car here to convey us to our village; I could pick you up from wherever you are right now; where can we get oxygen? We need to stabilize my father’s breathing.”

Unlucky me! I was speaking with a stone, not a doctor.

“Today is Christmas; I’m not at the hospital,” he replied.

I approached him through another route: “I understand you own a private clinic; please assign one of your doctors to accompany me to examine my father.”

The mobile phone line went dead.

The doctor’s private practice was my only hope of getting help. The security man described the location to me.

I drove at the devil’s speed. When I arrived at the place, my spirit sank. It was an unkempt room in a mindlessly completed building. The clinic was a small space. An old wooden table with information about patients in a tired, torn long notebook. The man who assisted the medical doctor was unmoved by my story and the urgency I displayed.

‘The doctor is not available,” he said dismissively.

I called the doctor again. He ignored me. I may have become a pain to his life.

With hopelessness, I drove back to my village with no answer to my father’s predicament. I stepped out of the vehicle to find a crowd surrounding him as he laid on the bed.

Again, he struggled to breathe.

Few auxiliary health workers who had been assisting us battled to trace his veins in order to pass fluid into his body. He urgently needed more energy.

He had become more and more restless. My father began to talk about seeing angels at the rooftop. He said the heavenly beings sang melodious songs. It was clear, he had begun to scale up in the heavenly realm.

My aunt turned around, stone-faced and drove me out of the room.

Shortly, it happened. Everyone began to wail. My father was gone.

That was 12 years ago.

My father, my father. I remember you, every Christmas Day. Today is not different.

Others engage in merriment, but I carry my cross.

So long…

My late father, Elder Emmanuel Abbah, who died on Christmas Day in 2012

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