‘Tis the season! 🎅❤️

​I stand up from the bed and I notice how clogged my nose is. It’s that freaking time of the year again. Whoever is playing ‘Father Christmas’ this year is most definitely already preparing the fit while everyone over here, in the UK is raving about thanksgiving dinner and thanksgiving turkey. I mean, I did get invited to a few but it’s not as exciting as they make it sound,  having a white man’s turkey  when you’re used to a life of flavor.  You’d be lucky if it was even seasoned with salt. It’s bland and dry but you have to force it down your throat whilst they make racist jokes until you’ve had  enough. 

Then you stand up, ‘I’m leaving now’ and wonder if your ojukokoro was satisfied with the insults because of tasteless turkey. 

My mind is racing in different thoughts. The call I received from my mother, at the top of it all. 

‘It’s been 10 months, when are you coming home?’ Of-course I was bewildered. Mummy wanted me to come back home? To Lagos? And in this season? I’ll be one of the ‘IJGB’ - I just got back, trying to text my ‘friends’ I’ve not heard from since I change my number, asking them to link up. 

I did miss the Amala though. And Nigerian Jollof Rice can never be reciprocated in another man’s country. There’s just something about the Nigerian frustration that adds to the flavor of the food. 

‘See, we have this big owanbe that we are planning. I, Mummy Bisola and other women in the church. It is going to be grand and I want my daughter to come and represent now! You knowwww’ 

I let out a sigh. Mummy Bisola and the other women in the church, otherwise known as the ‘matchmaking aunties’. They were always quick to shove you in the direction of a man that they thought would be your spec or try to get a man’s number in your phone during Sunday Service! ​It was always wild, the pastor would be preaching and these aunties would be in the back, surveying for eligible men and women in the society to match-make them. I genuinely thought it was a madness, especially in this world of today.

You can’t judge a book by its cover, its been said. 

Same way, you can’t know a mad man by his ironed suit and carefully knotted tie. 

‘Ife mi, your mother wants to see you. Is that so hard to ask for?’ If there was anything Nigerian mothers would do, they would emotionally ,manipulate you. It was part of the packaging and came in the mix. Like once you have a child, you had to subscribe to the emotional manipulation plan. 

24/7, 365 days a year.

‘Mummy, I’ll try to make it. I’ll see if I can get a break from work and I’ll let you know.’ I replied, obviously under duress. 

‘No o, Ko le werk bayen o (It cannot work like that), you have to promise me pe(that) you’ll be around, at least for the celebration. Don’t worry I’ll turn the softest amala for you, coupled with ewedu and the sweetest gbegiri you’ve ever had.’ 

It was beginning to seem like bargaining and she knew the next step in the emotional manipulation fiasco. 

Where they stand their ground and you get nothing from the mix. The smartest move was to agree when she was offering good food, after spending 23 years a Nigerian, you’ll come to this universal fact. 

“Nigerian Mothers always win”

Before she whipped up the trusty ‘I carried you in my womb for 9 months’, I found myself agreeing. 

‘Okay okay mummy, I’ll come. You’ll see me.’ 

As a young woman of Nigerian origins, to see your African mother extremely happy, it was either you were born in this world, attained a good degree, getting a good job or getting married. 

But I shall give you the cheat code, agree to see her after spending 10 months in the diaspora is another way to see her genuinely happy. 

We chatted a bit, did a little bit of gossip and the call ended. Of-course, the regular

‘Did you meet someone over there?’

‘Hope those white boys that cannot prostrate to greet are not entering your eyes?’

And so on. 

Sigh, I guess I was going to Nigeria. 

The Amala better be worth it. 

 

 

It’s 3 days later and I’m standing in this airport with my luggage packed, wondering if I’m actually doing it. I’ve not been in Nigeria since forever and I’m curious about a lot of things. 

Did they still hawk gala on the road?

Were the roads improved, even slightly or it was all still a rickety mess?

Was there still unnecessary traffic everywhere?

Were those agberos that would bug you for 50 naira then hail you saying ‘our aunty, our aunty’ still there?

My escape from these thoughts were as abrupt as the shove on my shoulder. I shake my head and try to convince myself I’m hallucinating. 

Did this man actually just shove me? I look at where I’m  standing and I’m not even obstructing anybody’s path? 

Ahaan, I look up and he’s giving me the most distasteful look like I just stole his meat and now, I’m already pissed. I’ve learnt from months staying here that before you address an issue with werey, you first calmly ask why the person is a werey. 

‘Excuse me, explain to me the reason for the violence that just ensued?’I ask, still slightly confused, trying to convince myself the entire situation was in my head and this man didn’t actually shove me violently. 

‘How about you move along? You don’t just stand around in a busy area.’ he says and walks away. I’m confused, bewildered and raving. 

I want to say something in retort but before I can, he has already walked away from me and joined the swarming crowd. 

Ofcourse the Nigerian in me begins to curse out everything about him. His stupid voice, his annoying expression. 

Who even gave him the right? 

I’m irritated, I’m obviously irritated. I get  my luggage, pull and begin my boarding process. 

Now, one thing about being black, then Nigerian is that you’re always given a second take. It’s like they’re examining if you’re capable of fraud or if you have ulterior motives but today was not the day. Normally, I would allow them have a little assessment in their little heads, 

Do I look like I’m capable of being a yahoo boy?

Do I seem like somebody posting ‘if you don’t soak garri with me today, you’ll not eat fried rice with me tomorrow?’?

Do I?

But as previously said, today was really not the day. 

I had met the devil’s incarnate and he had soured my mood. 

The look I gave the air hostess was cold, that I acknowledge but it got us moving. There was no unnecessary questioning and the flight was smooth. 

 

The first person I see is my mother in her iro and buba. With the way she was dressed, any normal person would believe she was going for a wedding. And she was the mother of the bride but no, she was just Mummy Ireti being Mummy Ireti, taking every event as an occasion. And getting dressed to suit such occasion. 

I was not surprised but when she took me in her arms and gave me the biggest hug I’ve ever received, I knew she actually missed me and this entire thing wasn’t actually a charade. I hugged her back, with as much ferocity, if not more. 

As annoying as African mothers were, you had to love them for what they were. Wholesome concept, if you ask me.

We just finished having our amazing hugs when the comments started. 

‘Ireti, you look so thin? Sho man jeun(do you eat?)’

‘Ireti, look at your skin! Uk weather looks too good on you, omo mi!’

I stood there, slightly chuckling and smiling at each of the comments. I had missed my mother through and through. Her questions, her annoyances, everything.

She kept on talking to me about the Christmas celebration which doubled as an owanbe in my opinion because the plans were huge and I was there, listening to her speak. It was a lot of fun.

Well, until she dropped a bombshell. 

‘Ireti, ife mi, I know that you probably don’t have somebody to bring to the party so I was wondering if you can meet this my friend’s son before we leave this airport. He traveled today too and I think you guys will like each other.’

‘Mummy, what do you mean by this?’ 

In typical gen Z terms, my brain was going ‘not my mother paying matchmaker.’

‘And he’s a fine boy o, you’ll like him. Exactly your spec.’

My mother had been the biggest enemy of my dating life since I was 13. Heaven forbid I was caught talking to a boy, I would come back to the beating of my life that day. 

Then go on my knees and apologize for being a wayward child hours later. And now, she is matchmaking me with a man?

Is the universe changing? What the hell is going on?

‘Ah, look look look, he’s coming. Look at him. Smile o, he’s such a handsome boy.’

I look up to see the man my mother is rambling about and here I was, making eye contact with the violent asshole who shoved me at the airport. 

My mother was trying to match-make me with the devil’s reincarnate. 

God abegggggg.

It’s the season guys! Get comfy under that duvet and watch a billion christmas movies but never one with 2 Nigerians. I’m letting your imagination give you that experience! 

It’s an original Naija Christmas Love Story! Tell me what you think! 

Enjoy the holidaysss! 💕

Love you! 

-A.