Dec. 25th

By Adeyosola Adeniyi

June 2024

Thumbnail illustration by Carole Maillard

Thumbnail illustration by Carole Maillard

As my twentieth birthday approached, the excitement in my family reached a fever pitch.

The anticipation of a grand celebration was palpable, dominating our household conversations. With exactly six weeks left, plans were already in motion for what promised to be a spectacular event.

One day, as I wandered through the house, I overheard my mother engrossed in a conversation with Mama Bisi, our family tailor. Mother, with her impeccable taste, was ensuring that her outfit for the celebration would be nothing short of extraordinary.

“But you know I’ll never go for a material without sequin.. ehnnn Mama Bisi” Mother declared over the phone, her eyes fixated on the lace and Aso Ebi materials that Mama Bisi’s apprentice had delivered for the party. The young lady, clearly overwhelmed, bore the weight of Mother’s expectations. I couldn’t help but feel sympathy for her, knowing the challenges she faced in Mama Bisi’s absence.

Mother, however, was undeterred. “How will people know I made plenty money this year, ehn?” she continued. It was clear that Mama Bisi’s presence was crucial, especially to secure the right material for the outfit.

Despite the fact that the preparations were all for my celebration, I found myself perplexed by the fact that I was not included in the loop of planning. I only became aware of any new development when it came up in conversations or a vendor arrived at the house. At this point, I felt more like an onlooker than the actual celebrant.

African Mothers, what do they care? They automatically believe your opinion will ruin their excitement.

Returning home on a Saturday evening, I was taken aback by the transformation that had taken place in the house. It seemed almost unrecognizable. Walking through the pre-sitting area, taking slow strides, examining the new changes as if to confirm I’m in the right home, Mother’s voice startled me.

“Haba! These ribbon colors don’t match the walls! Where’s your sense of creativity, ehn?!” Mother exclaimed, almost reaching the point of throwing a napkin at the decorator. It felt like an atrocity to her, or at least, that was the impression I got from her reaction.

Mother had enlisted the services of a top-notch home decorator, not only to enhance the overall beauty of our home but also to usher in a significant transformation. Walls were undergoing a fresh coat of paint, paintings were being swapped, and even the floral arrangements were not spared from the makeover.

As I observed the extensive changes taking place, a fleeting thought crossed my mind – was this elaborate transformation solely for a birthday celebration or there was more to this than meet the eye.

What baffled me even more was that no one had asked me how I would like my party to be celebrated. It seemed typical of my African Mum not to consider my preferences.

Two decades ago, the mere thought of planning a birthday celebration was a distant fantasy for Mother. According to her, life held little meaning during that period, overshadowed by the absence of tangible proof of her marriage. Two years into my parents’ marriage, they embarked on the journey to parenthood, only to find that life had different plans in store for them. Mother faced the heartbreaking challenge of not conceiving, despite the involvement of experienced doctors. Every effort they undertook seemed to yield no results. Desperate for a child, they explored various methods, including IVFs and surrogacy, but the outcome remained disappointingly elusive. The struggle to start a family became a poignant chapter in their lives, marked by a series of heart-wrenching setbacks.

Until suddenly, what seemed like a miracle, Mother got pregnant. In her words, “You’re my saviour” Musa burst into the sitting room, his overly washed brown top and well-known bathroom slippers announcing his arrival. ‘Madam, Iya Alase don come,’ he exclaimed, interrupting my thoughts.

‘Where she go sitdon?’ he questioned, looking around the room. ‘Okay Ma. I go tell am say you go meet am for backyard,’ he quickly added, nervously turning around to leave.

I couldn’t contain a silent giggle. It wasn’t his response that amused me, but rather his reaction to Mother’s silence. It was evident that he already knew the answer to his own question.

At times, I found myself pondering why Ara Senior didn’t stick around for long. Perhaps she sensed the extraordinary nature of Mother and decided she wasn’t up for it and left. The pain deepened when Mother experienced the loss of her first pregnancy, the beacon of hope after three years of childlessness.

Yet, Mother’s relentless spirit prevailed. After numerous attempts, God seemed to acknowledge her tenacity and blessed her with a child after a year. This time, regardless of Mother’s penchant for being extra, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of pity and admiration for her enduring strength.

As the days counted down to my twentieth birthday, the buzz in our home only intensified, fueled by the excitement of the impending celebration and the meticulous planning that went into making it an unforgettable event.

Finally, the much-anticipated day arrived – December 25th. It brought with it a complex array of emotions. On one hand, there was an undeniable excitement as it marked my birthday, a source of fulfillment knowing that I could bring immense joy to my family. I couldn’t help but wonder about their life before my arrival. It seemed that my presence had illuminated their world with newfound hope.

However, amidst the celebrations, it appeared as though the true reason for the festivities had been overshadowed. It appeared as though they were reveling in their own celebration.

I merely got an acknowledgement and zero gifts.

The air was saturated with an abundance of food and drinks, and lively music set a cheerful tone for everyone. The palpable joy emanating from the conversations and laughter surrounded me, yet I longed for something more profound than the surface merriment.

Oddly enough, despite this, my affection for them appears unyielding.

 

You can find more of Adeyosola’s work here.