My birthday is Christmas

My name is Obikwelu Igwebuike. I am 23 years old. I was born on 25 December 1989. My birthday is Christmas. I am a catholic. I was baptized on epiphany. My parents chose the name ‘Christopher’ for me, but I have chosen Jesus instead. I am His reincarnate.

I know that every Christmas is the celebration of our big brothers birthday. Each time it is approaching, it fills my heart with joy because of so many reasons.

First, I know that the celebration is worldwide. Second, I know that it is apex in bringing joy to the world. Third, I know that it is every child’s fantasy. Fourth, I know that I am every ideas promising platform. Fifth, I know that it will last as the legend of Christmas.

They say it is a christened pagan feast, but all I know is that father Claus will visit. He is a very nice man. With his island of baldness, roughly canopied by a lush overgrowth of walling band of tufted wooly snowy white hair, crystal silver rimmed exquisitely urbane spectacles, everything but appropriate for a merry old man, who is supposed to be demented, judging by his carriage, I can’t help but fall in love with the exaggerated but awkwardly bumpy curves on his belly, chest, thigh and cheeks. His cheeks are his nicest spot, but they are the only ones without any friends of clothing. The hands would, but for the array of gifts, be another forlorn member.

I like father Claus’ gifts. I still remember when I was 8, I had broken the handle to our door and we had to sleep in the garage for a punishment because my siblings ‘covered’ for me. The sun stabbed with its golden sword as it offended from a creak in the blind that morning, there was a blinking steel. I fell to my knees and bowed my head in resignation, the stroke was warm but blood was not spilt. Looking up, amazed at the ‘new life’ that had been granted me, my executioner had absconded. ‘To my dear Christopher,’ that was the label on the wrap, ‘From father Claus.’ I picked it up and, oh my God! It was a thing I never expected! It was a toy gun! I promise to tell you my escapades with that Uzi that blockbuster yuletide some time, in this place, but it may suffice to know that Alexander the great was peer; I conquered many lands! My eldest brother got a car and my youngest sister, a doll. The doll had a beautiful head band. Our picture that Christmas was scintillating.

As today I remember father Nicolas bouncing down the street with his rear jumping up and down in never missing rhythms, his hands, ever lost around the presents on his well circumscribed tummy, I cannot forget the brilliant impression the twinkling lights leave on my mind, because, I never really saw father Claus. Save on the screens, moving and still, I always imagined him walking down our, contrary to his white, red dust alley.

Each of my birthdays is a greeting from doctor Africa. I lie many times because I do not want to take a ‘cold bath.’ My clothes never survive one wear. I take two big bags home for my birthday, the only one celebrated amidst such pomp, because I hope to avoid laundry. Fire crackers set bushes ablaze and oft upon oft times, some masquerades. Those spirits were masked until one such spirit prove to be a little cousin.

Many masses are attended each for which I felt weaker yet to which I must, since I had to escape the kitchen, go to albeit with plan B! Trust me; my B plan always beat the worst. The cars are ever dusty, so am I away ever each morning, at a stream, watching if not walking in water; definitely I cannot hoodwink myself to be  a mini ‘Phelps,’ until 2 complete hours are utterly over at which I would have a ‘blessed assurance’ that the ‘old things have passed away.’ Occasionally though, the fleet were intact; those days, it were like ‘courting a coquette.’ More so, for each extra plate at each mealtime, my benefactor and dish must obligatorily be varied. That ensures a fresh meat. I still would get credit for a desert less course I would soon then serve my then faithful friends.

Now that I reminisce all these, I am very happy, ever more because it were my birthday. Dear Lord, this birthday of mine, a catalogue of delinquencies, leads me closer to farthest away from you. Save me lord, make my birthday yours.

         Cyprain Gozie (lifeline writer)

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