By Olukorede Yishau
I am sure you are wondering what is going on. This is certainly not how we celebrate you. Despite the fact that we live in a country with over 100 million people in abject poverty, of high maternal mortality, of one of the world’s worst out-of-school-children statistics, and of millions whose tomorrow are bleak just on account of their birthplace, we had never celebrated you this way.
On your day, we used to be out in our best wears and shoes and pieces of jewellery. We also used to wear our best cologne and storm cinemas, clubs, bars, parks, and malls.
In those days, many of us will be in Paris, London, New York, Durban, and Nairobi to celebrate the season. We usually planned ahead to have the best of your season. Who would ever have predicted that the Murtala Mohammed International Airport and other hubs around the world would at one point become scanty? Money sure does not answer all things.
Those of us who are Ndigbo looked forward to returning home from different parts of Nigeria and elsewhere to savour fresh air, palm wine, and bush meat and enjoy companies only available at home.
No thanks to COVID-19, your season is a far cry from what we used to know all over the world. Hearts have stopped beating and, as I write, many are stopping and, tomorrow, more will stop. COVID-19 is no respecter of person. In your season, we are afraid to shake or hug friends; and breathing where there is a crowd now come with apprehension.
With the state of the world in this season of yours, it is glaring that life has no beginning or end. Reza, a character in Abubakar Adam Ibrahim’s award-winning novel, ‘Season of Crimson Blossoms’, captured life beautifully when he observed: “We are like clothes… We get rumpled, and creased and torn, sometimes irreparably. Some of us are stitched up, patched up, others are discarded. Some clothes are fortunate. Others are not. They are born into misfortune and ink spills and whatnots…”
We all just stroll by, some lucky to spend more time than the others on this unpredictable journey called life. Even for those who are lucky to have a longer stroll, the things they see do not gladden hearts: Some lose kids, some battle illness and some face calamities upon calamities.
COVID-19 has torn apart some kids after the death of their mother or father or both. Some widows or widowers may never recover from the deadly kicks from COVID-19 induced deaths.
Empires have crumbled because of pandemic-related deaths. Many with garages beaming with Rolls Royce, Cadillac, Limousine, Bentley Continental GT, Mercedes-Benz Maybach 62, and a lavish fleet of armoured Range Rovers are gone and can’t bask in your season because the pandemic has tied them down. The hundreds of pairs of shoes and designer wears in their wardrobes are wasting away.
As we reflect on your season, it is glaring to the discerning that this life is not worth the attention we give to it. What is the worth of rooms with cobwebs in many mansions in different cities of the world? Why do we squander on homes money enough to give us hospitals of world-class standard and universities that can rival Harvard? Why can’t we see sense in the saying ‘there is enough for everyone’s need but not for everyone’s greed’? Some people have left this world and their properties have become someone else’s, and not necessarily their children and spouses.
Life is not worth taking too seriously to the extent of solely keeping the wealth that can turn around the lives of millions. If this lesson has not soaked in at the moment, nothing will ever sink it in.
We used to take you for granted. A brilliant mind, Robert Breault, once said: “Enjoy the little things in life, for one day you may look back and realise they were the big things”. The significance of these words is one of the lessons of this unpleasant time. The things we considered small and somewhat inconsequential are now longed for. Where is our Christmas? This certainly is not as we know you.
Before the virus reared its ugly head, I could sneeze anywhere and expect “bless you” from those around me. I could cough and expect sympathy or even empathy. It never occurred to me that a man would shout at his daughter and order her to avoid me all because I sneezed in a supermarket. “That guy just sneezed,” he screamed at the daughter to get her to refrain from entering the supermarket. As I passed by the daughter, I laughed. But the message in retrospect is: Never take anything for granted.
In your season, my heart is with men and women who have lost their jobs, not for incompetence, but just because the pandemic has made it impossible for their employers to continue to pay them.
As far as I am concerned, you are not taking place this year. Like Hajj and Umrah, COVID-19 has crippled you. If I have the power, I will banish Coronavirus to the evil forest, that dreaded place where our forebears reserved for those perceived as bad for society.
On a final note: The pandemic has been a sobering factor; it has shown us that we are at the Creator’s mercy and He does as He wills with us and we have absolutely no power over His decisions. Even our dear Christmas has been taken away from us.
And clearly, the casualties are not only those who are dead or in the hospital. All of us are; even you, our darling Christmas. We look forward to seeing you in a better state next year.
* Yishau is a columnist and author.