New life
The spirit of Christmas
Zenga Longmore
Whilst sitting in the launderette, I chanced to glance up at Sonia who was hurrying by with her son Brian. On seeing me, she pushed Brian into the launderette, shouting, 'Look after him for a sec, won- cha', and with a breezy 'See ya', was enveloped in the evening's blackness.
What on earth did she think she was up to? Although not exactly nonplussed, I was far from being plussed. Brian's all right as seven-year-olds go, but I was astounded to discover that he did not know one single hymn. Not even a measly 'All Things Bright And Beautiful'. Not only that, the only Christmas carols he knows are the non-religious ones, like 'Jingle Bells', and the other one which goes like this:
Something something dum de dum Something dum Something de dum Santa Claus is something to town.
I've learnt the lyrics so well because Brian was intoning them non-stop, reveal- ing, I felt, great carol-singing capacity. So why hasn't he been taught any of the proper ones? Schools today, I ask you- Pshaw.
Washing finished, there was no sign of Sonia, so I took Brian to my flat, wheeling him in the pram beside Omalara.
All the way home, I taught him everY carol I knew, and it was rather thrilling to see how the lights went out in everY house as we passed. I'm surprised carol- singers haven't died out, not only because children don't know carols any more, but also because what child dares roam the streets these days? Two hideous shocks greeted Brian and me when we reached home. The first was Sonia glowering in the hallway. How dared I leave the launderette without her! Was I trying to kidnap her son? Before I had time to reply, snatches of a familiar voice came wafting in from the living room. 'Catego- rised criteria', it blathered, and 'capitalistic mono-imperialism'. These words meant but one thing. . . Peering through a crack in the door, I beheld Olumba Sitting dutifully on the ground. Seated in mY favourite chair, full 16 stone of solid Nigerian manhood, was Olumba's Uncle Bisi. I could tell at a glance that he had launched into his favourite old chestnut about the impact of Swedish multinationals in Abeokuta, and once he starts on that one an hypnotic force instantly robs the listener of the power of speech and move- ment.
My one and only hope was gin. With incredible swiftness of mind I told Sonia that Olurnba would walk her hoMe and apologise, then I whispered to Olumba to stop off at the offy and buy something to put hairs on Uncle Bisi's chest. `But why? Drink might send dear Uncle off to sleep like it did last time.' `Sleep! My dear boy, how can we dream of entertaining an Uncle with mere tea?' Olumba, seeing my point, trudged away with the ranting Sonia and son. `Christmas', said Uncle Bisi slowly, while I fed Omalara, 'is a neo-monopolistic plot to subjugate the socio-underclass.' Well, that makes a change from the tired old 'Christmas is commercialised' You usually hear. And to think Olumba has invited him for Christmas Day • • -
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