“I remember my mother’s prayers and they have always followed me. They have clung to me all my life.” — Abraham Lincoln

It is so pleasant to know that Yorubaland is not just about covetous strongmen (Bales) who take “the leg of every animal or fowl” killed in every compound. The land  is not only about predator-leaders who parade eight masqurades in a feast of four bean cakes. I am happy Yorubaland has values that even the beast among men respect as invaluable and inviolable.

Tomorrow is christmas Day. A day like this in Yorubaland is celebrated beyond the compounds of followers of Christ. To the Yoruba, every festival that meets one in life should be celebrated. And it is so celebrated in all homes, compounds and communities. And the Yoruba do not just celebrate, they take into account the interest of those who may not have the means to join in the celebration. Those who prepare feasts send bowls of food to such homes. Orphans especially get very particular attention. The living knows that at some points in life, one joins this club of the fatherless and motherless. And how should an orphan take it amidst these celebrations? I should know.

Exactly six years ago, I became an orphan. And so, while others look forward with bated breath to December 25 of every year as Christmas day, I peep with tears to behold the day, mourn my loss and offer prayers to the soul of the departed. Since 2005, the day has always presented private moments for one to do self assessment and ask questions as to whether or not one has been following those last minute instructions. There is always the memory of that helpless moment when she was slipping away and she was conscious of it and we were aware of it and neither side could do anything to stop the final exit. We watched, helplessly, the egret taking the final flight to the home of whiteness, and praying... Yoruba would say no matter how old one’s parents have grown to be, one is always desirous of keeping them for life. The only way such a wish can materialise is having their memory kept alive. Fatherless in 2002 and with December 24, 2005, completing the wickedness of the inevitability of total parental loss, the following day was one’s first christmas as an orphan. So, while friends were celebrating in their homes, one was self-denying the reality of the new status. We, most times, take our individual buttocks for granted. We know its worth whenever boils sprout from its depths, denying us the comfort of a seat.

At a festival like this when children (no matter how old) mill round their mothers, the one who has not feels the kniving jabs of bereavement. The older children cannot honour the aged with presents and receive blessings in return. The younger ones cannot take gifts from her. But even with the music stopping that day, echoes of blessings follow the kids as they paddle the boats of life. At every storming moment of anxiety and fear, that voice calms the charging waves. Once in still waters, it directs the compass. At shore, it congratulates and urges new adventures...

For over forty years, one sat at their feet and marvel at the lack of one day of open disagreement. If you needed a pin, you approached father or you asked mother to approach father for you. On the rustic canvass of our simple abode, we exuded contentment in the innocence of our rural existence. We sang and regal ourselves with tales in nights of illuminating moons. We slept and dreamt of nights with moons that never set...When rains started, we planted. We followed the rains as they nurtured and sustained what we planted. When season neared its end, we harvested whatever the sustainer of all provided as our lot. If harvest was good, we quietly rejoiced in our home; if otherwise, we accepted wholly as muslims brought up to submit totally to whatever He willed...And very significantly, at a time when education was scorned and derided by others, father and mother saw in it the road to a future without the monster of ugly poverty all around us...

One never knew the duo would one day take their exit. One consistently denied the possibility of that experience of irreversible finality. But it happened. And when it  did, one thought that moment was the very end of the world. Now, one knows that what ended then was just a phase in the journey, a bend on the road of earthly existence.

Tomorrow is Christmas. Regardless of our faiths, we celebrate. Even those without parents- both parents- are supposed to enjoy the season too. If you are like me, a privileged  orphan, please endeavour to look around you. Can you see less fortunate orphans who cannot even get across their muffled voices as I  do on this page- orphans sentenced to eternal sulking and sobbing by a system opposed to the very breathing of the lowly? Can we all jointly or severally do something to make this season smile at them? Can we talk to them, touch and feel the cake of unwiped tears on their wrinkled faces? Can you and I resolve, this moment, in the spirit of this season, to assist in putting never setting moons in their nights? Can we...?

So, on Christmas days like tomorrow, what do I do? I pray for the two great souls I had. I celebrate the two departed captains of my ship. I thank the Creator for raising me above their earthly levels. I mourn my irreplaceble losses, I look out for darkness in others, to extinguish, with my sun.

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