I was with grandma on Thursday evening last week. I had
gone to pay my usual Christmas homage. I chose Thursday, December 22, instead of
our traditional December 23, evening family get-together. I had to. December 23,
2011, had been designated as the night for the “Guinness Book”-making choir
ensemble, organized by the state government. I did not want to miss the fun and
the thrill of such nights of colour and songs.
As I made my approach, I could
not, but notice the drab ambiance of my grandmother’s residence. There was
nothing Christmas at the expansive compound. This was not grandma at Christmas.
One of the things that gave us the Christmas kick when we were growing up was
the extensive Christmas decoration that usually adorned grandma’s house at the
yuletide. The well-laid landscape every Christmas received special attention.
The lawns with their beautiful flowers were usually beauty to behold. The
Christmas lightings around the premises would loll you deeper into the gardens
as you savour the enthralling scents issuing from various flowers in the garden.
As you get deeper, you feel a sense of romantic fusion of all the senses luring
you closer to nature and beauty. The deftness grandma brings to bear in such
beautifications, was uncommon and we would marvel, as we grew older, the amount
of time and care she usually devoted to such tendering.
Tonight, the place
was not my grandma’s place. There were no beckoning lights. There were no
special carols sending some soothing soft music around the compound. The flowers
were there, but they refused to give out their sweet-smelling scents. The place
looked forlorn. I was confused. Had grandma forgotten it was Christmas? What is
the meaning of all this, I thought as I made my way into the sitting room. Here
too the story was the same. Except for a lone six-foot Christmas tree, the room
looked its normal self. The dainty setting was still apparent. But there was no
Christmas breath in the sitting room I had entered. I looked around; I could
count a mere ten cards on display on the expansive mantelpiece.
Grandma’s
music set was playing, not a Christmas carol, but Dido and Aeneas, a masterpiece
based on a tragedy by Nahum Tate, which was first performed in about 1689, and
composed by the best known English composer, Henry Purcell, famous for his
theatrical music. I knew grandma’s insatiable appetite for classical music, but
an opera, and a tragic one at that, for Christmas? It did not add up. I looked
around. She was not anywhere around. I went to the music set and removed the
playing album from the turntable. Grandma had stuck to her turntable because
that was the only way to keep playing the array of albums containing her
classical collections, a hefty treasure possession, product of years of
purchasing the best in that genre of music. I tried to get something to put me
back in the mood of Christmas from some of the flicks on the table. The only
thing I saw that came close to a carol was a Christmas Symphony by a strange
name, I was not sure I had come across before. The composer was a guy by the
name Krzysztof Penderecki, a Polish, I guessed. The music as played by the New
York Philharmonic was a one-movement work, intriguing in its striking Baroque
strong sense of dynamism.
She walked in, looked at me and smiled, apparently
at my rapt attention to the not so popular composer with such a distinct style.
She was about to go into the intricate analysis of the music when she noticed my
quizzical look. “What is the problem my son”, she asked pulling my arm, heading
to the three-seater settee. “Grandma, what is happening?” I asked as we settled
on the soft sofa. “About what she retorted”, in pretended ignorance. “I mean,
where is the Christmas in this compound?” She looked pensively at me and
startled me with a bout of long laughter that got me confused and surprised.
“Christmas has taken flight in our land”, she said matter-of-factly. “What’s
that grandma?” I asked. “I thought you are a journalist? Why are you asking such
a dumb question, when you can feel the absence of real joy around you?” all
these, she said with fire in her eyes. I kept quite. I dare not work her up in
this season. I sat there saying nothing. She began again, this time, more
subdued; “can’t you see the misery in the eyes of the people? Can’t you feel the
sadness of the average person, even government workers in their inability to
meet the basic obligation to their children in this so-called season of joy? My
son, take a better look around you and tell me how many are celebrating
Christmas. Tell me how may have the means to truly celebrate. Tell me how many
in this land were able to buy new dresses for their children. How many of them
can afford to slaughter the festival chicken. My son, the politicians have
stolen our Christmas!”
I felt a pang of pain well inside me. I began to
visualize the despondent look on the faces of the average parent I see these
days. I knew it was such a hard and bad time to celebrate. “Politicians have
stolen our Christmas”, she had said. How true! But I have to be careful not to
show I understand, let alone appreciate her concerns here. “But mother have you
considered what the government people are doing to ensure that we enjoyed the
festive season? Have you considered the carnivals going on everywhere? Have you
considered the carol by 9999 choir singing at the same time? Haba mother! They
are trying now?”
She eyed me to be sure if I was serious or simply pulling
her legs. I maintained a straight face, not betraying anything going on in my
mind. She shook her head in incredulous sadness. She remained
uncharacteristically quiet. She began softly; “you said carnival my son? I am
sure you were not serious, but let me tell you. What you see the politicians and
those who have helped themselves with our common wealth travel to Calabar and
Port Harcourt to enjoy is nothing but a sex tourist expedition, where they
merely prey on the poverty of helpless girls. Of what use is the staying under
the scotching sun to watch scantily dressed maidens to a hungry man on our
street? How does the march through the streets of a city put food on the table
of a poor man or cloth his naked children. You mentioned 9999 persons singing
carols! How cheap can we get! What is the singing of carol by a million choirs
when you have not taken a meal? How do you stay and listen to enjoy such music
when you know that as soon as you leave the venue, you are going back to your
poverty, to your misery and despondence? Don’t make me laugh my son. That choir
is one man’s concept to have a slice of the cake up for grabs. That is
Nigerian’s way of showing smartness. It does not add any value to the life of
the average citizen. If only those hungry citizens knew how much goes into the
private back pockets of people in the name of the multitude of singers, there
would be a riot! But here we…” “Grandma stop!” I shouted. What treason was she
uttering with her mouth? How could she say such a thing, for a show that has
gained us entry into the elite Guinness Book of records? What is hunger, what is
even poverty when we have booked a place in Guinness?
I took a side look at
her. Her eyes were closed, but I was sure she was far from being asleep. It was
one of her habits each time she was really angry that I thought she had
forgotten. It was a sure sign that more angry outbursts were on the way. She got
up and now paced the room, another habit that means she was trying hard to
control her anger. I allowed her.
With a mock smile dangling on her lips she
said, “My son, I don’t blame you for the way you view things. You have never
known good governance and none in your generation knows anything close to
governance. So when you fidget at critical thoughts it is understandable. In our
time we question leaders, we even had question time in parliament”, she paused
for effect. “Have you read the recent labour release in the state?” she queried,
allowing me time to respond. I maintained a determined silence. “For the first
time the boys there woke up to realities. They came with a position that even
the most hardened dictator would read and take another look at his actions”, she
stopped abruptly and dashed into her room. The music from the turntable had
finished, but I was in no further mood for music. I waited.
She walked in
with a sheet of paper and read from it, “Congress appreciates the State
Government hurry to industrialize the State as vocally demonstrated in its 2012
budget proposals where over 83% of the total budget is allocated for capital
expenditures while a paltry 17% is left for recurrent expenditures, a ratio not
obtained anywhere in the world. When compared with the internationally
acceptable ratio of 60:40 for a developing economy, the Akwa Ibom State
Government has once again broken another record.
“The budget further
confirms labour position that this government is anti-people, as a greater
proportion of the funds allocated for Capital Expenditure will find its way
outside the State through multi-national companies while the greater number of
the people remains in abject poverty.
“Congress wishes to restate its
position that good governance is not only about infrastructures, some of which
are with doubtful returns on investment, but also include the empowerment of the
people through improved wages, human capital development and deliberate policy
of wealth re-distribution”. I had closed my ears while she read. I was
determined not to be a party to all that heresy.”Mr Journalist!” she shouted
angrily at me, “Have you taken time to read the budget speech let alone
analyzing it? God! Journalism died long ago here in this miserable country. If
you had taken time to analyse it, you would have discovered, just as NLC did,
that the 17 percent of the budget allocated to recurrent expenditure was a
gambit that would fail. You would have discovered that the ministries cannot
work. Take a trip to any ministry and tell me which one is working. Tell me
which ministry is able to meet even the smallest need. You will discover that
commissioners now go as far as making private arrangements to purchase simple
stationeries. They will tell you that no ministry can give any local purchase
order worth even N20,000. If you doubt me, go and ask the commissioners. Why the
pretence? Are we surprised that things are so hard up on the people? My son
leave me alone. I want to rest”, she said rising and walking down the long
corridor to her room.
“Grandma, I have a Christmas hamper for you here”. She
ignored me. I called out again and soon she had disappeared into her room. Helen
walked briskly to me and announced that grandma did not want any hampers from me
or from any person for that matter. I was confused, but before I could say
anything Helen had disappeared again.
Posted
By David Augustie
Uyo
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