I Will be Home Next Christmas
It’s been two years since the start of the war. My platoon has been asked to patrol the once-busy business district of Lagos, commanded to flush out what remained of the rebels northeast of the city, after months of heavy gun battles, with many soldiers falling along the way. Had the airforce not arrived when they did, who knew if we would have won the war at all.
The famed commercial capital was filled with chaos and bloodshed. But even I could see, even though I did not grow up here, that Lagos once was a beautiful city. What remained of abandoned buildings suggested breathtaking landscapes, endless parties, and people—lots of them. As I took in the dry air one evening after patrol, I pondered how things had changed. A few months back, it would have been a death sentence just to walk these roads—gun or no gun. The war seemed to be truly at its end, and I was on the right side of that end. We had a camp in the basement parking lot of the building that once was the City Stock Exchange. It was a massive underground with one entrance and one exit, ideal for a military camp. The building itself towered 15 stories, most of its glass façade destroyed by shells and bullets. The sun sank, the humidity dropped, and a chilly evening breeze blew as everyone readied themselves for dinner.
“Attention, platoon,” said Fr George just above the dinner din. As the spiritual commander of the platoon, it was Fr George’s duty to inform us about weekly Mass. I, like many others, kept count of the days and the weeks with his scheduled announcements. War has a way of making one lose track of time. “Tomorrow is Christmas,” he said, “and Mass will be first thing in the morning.” I am not catholic, but the presence of Fr George helped us make some sense of it all. I always wondered how he kept it together, his beads in hand, constantly counting. “A humble priest from a local village,” he liked to describe himself.
We had lost a few soldiers from our platoon, and we couldn’t even mourn them: enemies’ bullets do not respect the dead. But my platoon would never forget Steve. Fr George called him a beautiful soul. We were same age. He was 20 when he enlisted, brought down by a grenade just 18 months into the war. Steve left a mark. He always had a story to tell—about many buildings we drove past in the city, about the people who lived or worked in those buildings, about anything and everything. His face would light up when we approached a cinema or shopping mall and instantly redden when he saw what had become of the building. Lagos was different when we saw it through his eyes; there was room for hope, hope that things would go back to what they used to be. Born on December 24, his last birthday was unforgettable. So the platoon was quiet after the announcement by Fr George because Christmas Day meant Christmas Eve, and Christmas Eve was Steve.
“Good, we are in the city of his birth,” Danlami, one of our mates, shouted to bring us out of our reverie. The way Steve described Lagos during Christmas—before the war, that is—everyone went crazy from December 1. Decorations everywhere, Christmas songs on all the radio stations and barbershops’ speakers, festivities. Decorators were always fully booked throughout the season. It was like a competition of innovative designs every year. Steve interned in one during his school break. The parks and any place with greenery were up for a makeover during the period. The city came alive at night with different patterns of decorations and light displays for miles. Many shops and supermarkets had their end-of-the-year sales with discounted prices plastered all over windows. There were shows and concerts every day until the end of the year. One just had to pick from the multitude. In the days leading to Christmas Day, life eased slowly, traffic reduced gradually, and people left the city to its outskirts to have some quiet time with family. Steve told us that this was when he enjoyed Lagos the most. “There is something about Lagos without the traffic,” he said, wearing that wry smile that all but said he couldn’t wait for the war to be over. “Friends are suddenly nearer, and you can drive from the island to the mainland in minutes.” As the last child in the house, his birthday was always a headliner. When he was much younger, his family would go for Mass in the morning, followed by a thanksgiving, but as the years went by and his siblings moved to other cities, it was just him and his parents.
Christmas Mass was held in the cathedral on Holy Cross Cresent. Most of its gothic architecture was still intact but covered in dust. We cleaned up one of its altars and had our celebration. Fr. George was especially radiant as he was at his Sunday best. Although we were of different faiths, we had come to see the Mass as our way of connecting to God. Sometime during the celebration, the name of Steve was heard over Fr. George’s shaky voice, and I could feel my colleagues holding back tears. The sun was beginning to let out its first light in the sky, and we sang as many Christmas carols as our collective voices could muster. Just then, a ray of light entered the cathedral through one of its stained glasses and filled the area with bright colours as we marched out. A white dove flying towards a nest in the ceiling filled me with warmth, the assurance that the war would soon end. I will be home next Christmas.
“At ease, soldier.” The war was over. We were given medals of honour for service. The lieutenant gave me a special box containing the Silver Star, reserved for families of those who had died during the war. Knowing how close I was to Steve, I had been chosen to deliver it to the Igwes. I was given an official military vehicle. It was December 24. As I drove through the city, I could see the start of a post-war era. The city was cleaner now. Some buildings were being restored. But I couldn’t see the Christmas feel that Steve talked about.
When I got to the Igwe’s, dressed in full military regalia, my medals pinned to my chest, I walked towards the decorated house, slowing my steps as I walked past a miniature nativity scene. The figure of the baby was missing. I smiled at the fact that I had learnt the reason for the missing figure. I was welcomed by his parents, who stood by the doorway. The house was packed. I was introduced to everyone in the sitting room, where a big portrait of Steve in his full military regalia hung over us. I presented the medal to his parents, and with tears, we prayed for his repose in words I had come to know very well. The table was set, and the entire family was about to have what would have been Steve’s 23rd birthday lunch. There I was on his seat, answering questions about anything and everything. I could feel I was being watched, but it was by a familiar face. The portrait of Steve was directly facing me. We are home for Christmas.
About the Author
Wale Mariano (Olofinkua Joesph Olawale Omaseye) is a Lagos-born researcher, designer, writer, and music lover. Born in the Yaba area of Lagos, he spent most of his early years in Lagos and Benin City. He holds a master’s in Thermofield from the University of Lagos and lives and works in Lagos as a university lecturer and consultant.
Photo: Boluwatife Oguns
