OICHE CHIUN CHORALE

While humming Enya's Oiche Chiun Chorale, you tucked your hair behind your ear once more as you tried to avoid the sun rays that sneaked into the room through the curtain.

"Why do you keep dodging the sun rays?" I asked. 
"I do not want to admit it's morning yet," you said.
"We decide when it's morning in this world of ours, not the sun." I said. 
You smiled.

This year, we decided not to prepare the conventional Christmas meal of rice and chicken for ourselves. We decided not to do anything 'normal' that year. So instead of having rice and chicken, we went for yam and egg sauce and shared rice and chicken for the children. We decided not to take any fancy trip or decorate our house. We called all the roaming children on our street and had them sit under the canopy we erected the previous day.
Initially, we were torn between going to visit the less privileged and calling the ones we saw on our streets- we opted for the later. Charity begins at home, afterall.

There were about 27 children in all to be catered for. The problem began with sharing the food and drinks- drinks most especially. Some wanted drinks that were no longer available. Some wanted to taste all. So we decided to make 'chapman' for them mixing coke, fanta and sprite. That way everyone got everything and in the same amount too. When the children were done eating and drinking, we took pictures with them and shared Christmas gifts to them.
Watching them scamper while taking pictures filled my soul with inexpressible joy. Initially, they didn't know what a camera was, but when we took the first shots and showed them, they were thrilled and wanted more.

"Nnaemeka lekwa isi gi o," one of the children shouted and they all laughed.
You see, Nnaemeka's head is annunciated and his hair cut was what we called 'gorimakpa' (skin cut) while growing. So in addition to having a big head, it reflected the sun.

"You know we weren't always wealthy," you said to me when the children had gone and we were left to clear the mess. "There were times we watched t.v. in our neighbor’s house through our window." you continued.
"Then how did you hear what they were saying?" I asked laughing
"We were content with just the video. My siblings and I provided the audio using the gesture of the actors. Most of our Christmases were spent with the children on the street. We went from house to house with a big Ragolis bottle, mixing Goldspot, Limca and Mirinda."
"That is why you decided we spend Christmas this way."
"Not really."
"Then it must be you way of praying to God to give us children."
"They'll come when they will," you said and kissed me.

Silence.

"Your mother invited you home for Christmas, right?" I asked.
"Yes.' 
"Why didn't you go home?
"You are my home. My Bethlehem. My house of bread; and with that all-knowing stare of yours, you asked "did you know Bethlehem is a Hebrew word meaning 'house of bread'."
Of course, you knew I didn't know. And I knew you knew I didn't know, but I said "yes" and we both smiled. 

My Christmas was complete with you and with Barca trashing Real Madrid two days ago. Yours would have been as complete as mine if Leicester didn't equalize with Man U. I was tempted to remind of how the first goal was scored against Man U, but I didn't want to spoil the moment. 

It was night already so we had our bath and danced to Ed Sheeran's Perfect. 

"I love you Nnamdi," I said.
"I love you more. Merry Christmas."