A Poem: The closing pages of Summer. Childhood in the North

One of my favourite Christmas Memories

It was that time of the year again

The air had been snatched by the ruthless dust

Of harmattan

The sky as sunny as the mixture of coal and fire

Every child had on a winter jacket

But not like ones in the movies

You would hear the scolding of moms

In the neighbour-hood

“Is your slippers on

Make sure say you wear your sweater

 before you go outside o”

“This boy when you go baff

If you no wear socks your leg go tear

Like mallam Abu own o”

And you would see the kids

Refusing to bath

The water was too cold

And even if you did boil it

These breezes and teeth wrenching 

cold couldn't be escaped

So the kids would rather play and tell jokes

What we called “yabbing”  while everyone laughed

Or we would play a popular game called “langa-langa”

Where we drew boxes on the sand 

and jumped on them one after the other.

Faces dried up by the harmattan breeze

Hairs inside the nose all white 

And there was the famous white marks at the corner

 edges of the mouth of those of us 

who hadn't brushed our teeth

I was one of them too

I wore double winter jackets too

One with a ripped off zipper too

And another inside

Harmattan season was always different in the north

the cold was two times extra

I remember this particular 

 cold harmattan morning

 started like everyone other

One but it sure wasn't going

 to end like the others

while we played and laughed

we all spoke and bragged about how beautiful our 

Christmas dresses and shoes were

but even while I told my friends how

 beautiful my Christmas shoes were

it wasn't ready yet because my parents hadn't bought mine

only my dress was ready  my mom already bought them

but somehow, because my parents always bought my shoes

I knew this season wouldn't be different

and so I bragged along with joy

later that noon

my dad took me to the market

to get my Christmas shoes

I remember his big large hands holding mine

while we went from store to store looking for the perfect shoes

with the perfect size

and we found one.

Just like reflected in this poem as one of my favourite

childhood memories of Christmas,

Christmas is a season of hope.

I believed I would get my shoes that day and I joyfully bragged

even when I hadn't seen them. 

our joy should not be cut short because of the things we do not have.

While celebrating the ones we have, we should be hopeful and keep our

faith alive believing in God for the things we don't have

so that our joy may be complete, when we eventually get that which we seek.

PS: what is one your favourite childhood memories of Christmas...share in the comments?