How do you know it’s Christmas?
When harmattan dust
paints your black face white
and blocks your nostrils
competing with that familiar aroma
of Mama’s fried rice and chicken and
home beckons on you.
you begin to crave
for the warmth of Mama’s hug again
and the heavy weight of Papa’s presence.
your sister’s laughter rings out like soft music in your ears.
Images of home flood your mind
because the air is fresher there.
and the pressure of the outside world doesnt exist there.
and you’re free from the shackles of the world’s judgement there.
home is freedom.
home is where the succulent mango trees dance freely to the sounds of the early morning harmattan breeze
save the Christmas trees for later.
we may not have matching pyjamas
but we have memories
that stay when seasons come and go.
Happy Christmas.
