A DIFFERENT CHRISTMAS: A REFLECTION ON BIRTH AND DEATH

A DIFFERENT CHRISTMAS: A REFLECTION ON BIRTH AND DEATH

The shape of how I spent Christmas Day in recent years had been basic and pre-boiled; almost as predictable as the sunrise. I visited the same places, attended the same events, and saw the same relations, almost at the same times.

This year’s Christmas was significantly different. You will soon discover why if you stay with me for a little while. This may seem long, but it is worth telling because context is critical.

For decades, Christmas Day was never spent in Lagos, where I live with my family. We would travel on Christmas morning to visit my parents in Ibadan.

It was always a delightful drive. The Lagos–Ibadan Expressway, usually characterised by road rage and chaos, would be calm and almost vacant—like a major highway in a ghost town, or a road under curfew during a military coup. The cool early-morning breeze would caress your face as the car zipped along, unburdened by traffic. The sun would rise gently, bathing the lush green vegetation on both sides of the road in warmth, leaving you with a soothing calm that could make even an experienced therapist green with envy (no pun intended).

My first car was a fairly used red Subaru—pronounced “Subruu,” with the “a” silent—a Japanese automobile miracle. It never disappointed me on the road. It never broke down while travelling. However, it sometimes refused to start once I arrived at the gate of my three-bedroom apartment off Chemist Bus Stop in Akoka, less than a kilometre from the University of Lagos entrance.

After opening the gate and returning to the car, I would turn the key, and nothing would happen. Help usually came from one or two men from a colony of auto mechanics who operated a makeshift workshop in the open space beside our home. They would either fix the problem or help push the car into the compound.

One of them was nicknamed “Rashidi” by my brother and friend, Kehinde Lawanson, who lived in the flat directly above ours. (It was through Kehinde that we got the apartment—another story for another day.) When the mechanic once asked why Kehinde always called him “Rashidi” instead of his real name, Kehinde’s witty response caused gales of laughter. He explained that the mechanic always began his diagnosis of any car problem with

“A a ra…” in Yoruba—meaning “We shall buy…” Every car issue inevitably ended with the purchase of spare parts.

Back to our story.

As I sped along the lonely expressway, our young children would shout, “Subruu! Charge them up!”, a rallying call urging me to drive faster, fuelled by their excitement.

Our first stop was my father’s house at Agodi Gate, where we would join my siblings and their spouses to celebrate Christmas with him and my stepmother. Amala, ewedu, and gbegiri—the staple meal of Ibadan and the Oyo Yoruba—were always central to the menu, especially for the older ones, while the children preferred rice and stew.

A brief family meeting would follow, chaired by my father while he was alive, ending with thanksgiving and prayers for good health and prosperity in the coming year. He instituted this meeting as an annual tradition, a gathering point for all of us.

After visiting a few other relatives, we would head to my mother’s house about 1.5 kilometres away, in the Old Ife Road area. We usually arrived around 3:00 p.m., welcomed with yet another spread of amala delicacies, generously resourced with beef and thick cuts of cowhide (agemawo), each piece as large as a heavyweight boxer’s clenched fist. My wife fondly described them as “gando gando” meat—emphasising their impressive size.

My mother’s home was always a convergence point. Siblings, cousins, and distant relatives gathered there. After the passing of her older sisters, she became the matriarch of our extended family on my maternal side. Whether by appointment or surprise, no one ever visited her without experiencing the full weight of her hospitality.

Before our return to Lagos that same Christmas Day, neatly labelled gifts would be waiting: tubers of yam, a bag of yam flour, fried beef, a keg of palm oil, wraps of iru (locust beans), and other condiments. And we could never leave without her characteristic “prayer rain” for safety and prosperity.

Fast forward to this year.

On Christmas Eve, my wife Adora, my younger brother Femi, and I drove to Ibadan. Although the expressway has been reconstructed, getting out of Lagos was chaotic, with relief only coming at the long bridge.

We arrived at our maternal uncle’s annual carol service just after it ended, but met many relatives and friends at the gate, a joyful reunion. We have attended this service for the past six years, which is why we now travel on Christmas Eve.

Christmas Day began with service at Oritamefa Baptist Church—the church where Adora and I were joined in holy matrimony thirty-eight years ago by Rev. Morakinyo Leigh, under the guidance of my uncle-in-law and his wife, Deacon Curtis and Deaconess Bisi Ugbebor. Uncle Curtis is a retired engineer, and his wife, Black Africa’s first female PhD holder in Mathematics, retired as a professor at the University of Ibadan. Brilliant and humble, they remain among the most remarkable couples I know.

After our family meeting at my father’s house, we headed to my mother’s place. On the way, Femi called our younger sister Yinka, asking her to have amala ready, as we were running late and planned to return to Lagos shortly.

Her response was shocking and telling:
“Ko si elubo. Rice l’o wa.”
There is no yam flour. Only rice.

As I parked in her two-storey house, I noticed the absence immediately. She was not on the balcony, welcoming us with laughter and a warm “E kaabo!” No embrace. No response to my “idobale,” the floor-level prostrated greeting. Her usual chair in the living room was empty. Silence filled the house.

We went to the room where she had lain in her final years. The bed was vacant. The bedside table empty.

Iya Olubisi.
Iya Sunday.
Iya Dayo.
Iya Dada.
Iya Yinka.
Iya Seyi.
Iya Ijo—was gone.

We prayed briefly, thanking God for the gift of her life.

On the drive back to Lagos, I reflected on Christmas, the birth of Christ, whose divinely designed entry into the world transformed human history. Yet my thoughts kept returning to my mother, who shaped my life for more than sixty-six years. She passed on Thursday, November 13, 2025.

Her absence this Christmas was painful.

“Ko si elubo. Rice l’o wa.”

Yinka was gracious. She packed rice and chicken for us to go. She too was only visiting our mother’s home. Still, the idea of eating rice in Ibadan on Christmas Day, in my mother’s house, stirred emotions too deep for words.

Birth and death met quietly this Christmas.

Tunde Ojo